Chapter Six #2
Skye rolled her eyes. “It was just a seduction, Remi. I don’t need to seduce you anymore. You’re right where I want you. Desperate. Needy. Pathetic.”
Those words stirred something inside him. Remi’s eyes narrowed as he realized just how true it was. Today had been the perfect disaster to put him exactly where she wanted him to be. “You did this.”
She blinked innocently. “Did what?” Her hand had gone from his biceps down his chest. One of her fingers curled into the waistband of his underwear and skimmed along the top. His dick twitched.
“Everything that happened today,” he growled. He released her hair and grabbed her ass, pulling her to the edge of the desk so his hardness was grinding against her core. “All the shit I’ve been dealing with. The tour. My job. The call from my mother.”
Skye shook her head as she arched against him, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I had nothing to do with your mother calling.”
“Right,” Remi said. “And the other stuff?”
Skye pressed her lips together and shrugged one shoulder. “I just sped up the inevitable. Made you realize how much you need me to step in before things get worse. I didn’t do anything that wouldn’t have happened without my intervention.”
“Oh, right. Did your crystal ball tell you that?” He leaned back just enough to slide his hand between their bodies. His fingers ran over the lace of her panties.
“Shouldn’t you already know the answer to that question? Since you think you know me so well.” She pressed her hips forward, silently begging for more. He gave it to her, hooking his fingers around the thin, lacy fabric and pulling it to the side to expose her.
His eyes almost rolled into the back of his head as his fingers found the slick heat of her center and the throbbing little bud at the top.
“A one-year record deal with Sprites Records”—using the pad of his middle finger, he gathered her arousal to make for a smooth slide as he traced circles around her clit—“a sold-out cross-country stadium tour, and streaming numbers in the billions on at least three singles.”
She jerked her hips up into his touch.
He started slow, just nudging the edges of the little bundle of nerves. Her eyelids drooped, and Remi tapped her clit, enjoying the way she shivered. Her mouth parted in a silent gasp.
The soft cleavage of her breasts shook as she worked herself on his hand. He wanted to bury his face in her breasts. Wanted to lick and suck her nipples and hear her mewl in his ear.
“Taylor Swift gets billions of streams. That’s not happening for a rock band,” she said around a gasp. “I’ll get you fifty million on one song.”
He wanted to rip her clothes off and sheath his cock inside her, but he settled for pretending his finger was his cock and stroked her folds before pressing inside.
Remi barely suppressed a groan at how wet she was for him.
“Bullshit,” he growled. “I know you can do better than that.” He curled his finger to stimulate her g-spot and rubbed her clit with the heel of his hand.
“Fine.” Her head was tipped back, and her eyes were shifting between blood red and honey brown and back again, almost like she couldn’t control it. “I’ll guarantee three songs get at least five hundred million. That’s the best I can do.”
Finally. A negotiation.
“Fine,” Remi said.
“Fine,” she said, her legs squeezing his hips.
She shut her eyes as her pussy clenched around his fingers.
He watched, entranced, as her mouth parted and she moaned.
Her body shook as the orgasm worked through her.
She was stunning. Absolutely gorgeous. Her eyes stayed closed for a moment longer as she caught her breath.
When she opened them, only the brown of her irises greeted him.
Remi fixed her panties. He wanted to suck her juices from his fingers, but he couldn’t let her see how spellbound she made him, and he couldn’t guarantee that after having one taste he wouldn’t break down, get on his knees, and beg to make her come on his tongue.
Instead, he wiped his fingers on his jeans and smirked at her. “Thought you didn’t fuck the soulless you made bargains with?”
She leaned back and shimmied her skirt back down her hips. “I don’t consider it fucking unless all parties who want an orgasm get one.” She grabbed his hard dick outside his jeans and squeezed. He grunted and winced at the pain-pleasure. “So this doesn’t count.”
Well, he had no comeback for that. Denying he wanted her would be stupid given she had her hand all over the evidence to the contrary.
Remi hoped that he would have taken some power from her by making her orgasm, by making her vulnerable and soft, but she looked unfazed.
It was annoying.
Skye hopped off the desk and stuck out her right hand to shake. “Remington Golding, do you agree to sell your soul for a one-year record deal with Sprites Records, a sold-out cross-country stadium tour, and three singles streaming at five hundred million?”
“All of which will be completed in the next year,” he added.
Skye rolled her eyes. “All of which will be completed in the next year.”
“And West won’t go to a psych ward.”
Skye let out a frustrated growl. “And West won’t go to a psych ward.”
Remi licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth, trying to turn over anything he missed, but he was getting more than he ever thought he would. West would be okay. He and his bandmates would get to live out their wildest dreams.
This was the right thing to do. The right thing for the band.
Remi clasped her hand. “I agree.”
Instead of shaking his hand, her dainty fingers slid along his palm and gripped his wrist. She yanked him forward, tugging him off balance, and his palm wrapped around her right wrist on instinct.
He stumbled and barely caught himself as she said, “Congratulations, rock star. Hope success turns out exactly as you imagined it to be.”
The middle of his hand heated up so fast he couldn’t jerk away.
His palm burned where he was touching her wrist, and then flames engulfed him entirely.
He wanted to scream but couldn’t as excruciating pain ripped through his body.
His legs gave out, vision blackening as he collapsed to the floor, but it wasn’t the fall that had his stomach swooping with dread.
It was Skye’s wicked little laugh and her victorious blood-red irises glittering with mischief that gave him the premonition he wouldn’t need to look into a crystal ball to know: For better or worse, his life would never be the same.
“Is this Remington Golding?”
“Yeah,” Remi mumbled into his phone. He’d been too sleepy to check the caller ID before answering. The dick on the other end of the line sounded like another bill collector from the small fortune he’d spent on Emerson’s funeral. Five years later and he was still trying to pay it off.
Remi’s head pounded. He sat up on the couch. He didn’t remember what happened last night, but the empty liquor bottles all over the coffee table and his bandmates passed out on the recliner and couch beside him told him all he needed to know.
“This is Densen Javil from Sprites Records.”
The thumping in his temples almost made him see double as Remi pulled the phone screen from his face to check the number, which had a Los Angeles area code.
“Is this a joke?” he asked.