Chapter Three
Oliver
“Thought you left.” I zone in on the CEO’s sopping wet daughter, slinging open the doorway to the bus. A white T-shirt exposes her midriff, Perkins Records across the front in bright pink gems, and my cock hardens as I struggle to peel my eyes away.
The cotton sweatpants I’d chosen—when I assumed she’d gone—now stretch painfully over my erection. I may as well be nude beneath the thin gray fabric.
My teeth gnash together at my vulnerability. Exhibiting less than professional composure is not something I’m in the habit of doing.
Not on a tour.
Certainly not around Lemon Perkins, the boss’s daughter, and constant splinter beneath my skin.
I lean against the kitchenette, unable to drag my eyes away from her, this rhinestone wrinkle I can never seem to smooth out. It’s almost compulsory how I wish I could.
Of course she didn’t leave like we agreed.
She never does what she’s told, but it’s time someone taught her to do so. The crew need their focus. The band needs to practice.
And I need this tour to break records.
I could call her father.
I should.
But what good is accusing his flesh and blood of being a distraction right before he announces the promotion?
It’s down to me and his west coast tour manager now.
But I’m the one with eight years of service to the company, and more than one hint has been dropped my way these last few weeks.
It would be foolish to be anything but amenable to Miss Lemon Perkins in my current position, no matter how distracting she may be.
My jaw ticks as my eyes fix on the fabric stretching across her breasts, made transparent by the rain. She’s braless, and that’s the least surprising thing about her. Her pert nipples stand unabashed under my watch, and I find it impossible to look elsewhere.
“Up here, Mr. Nashville,” she purrs, like the interns who whisper Milf—manager I’d like to fuck— behind my back, a practice I would never engage in despite the rumors.
When you’re a single male and keep to yourself, people assume things, but I’ve been with no one since my wife passed eight years ago.
And even if the thought of filling Lemon Perkins’ incorrigible mouth until she can’t talk back has crossed my mind more than I’m comfortable admitting, I have held back every desire to spill my load across those pouted lips.
Lips she bites right now, dripping wet.
Watching me.
“Why are you here?” I snap, unable to contain my rage and my cock at the same time, and I’ll be damned if I let this wanton tease of a trust fund see me come unraveled.
No. Not when I’m this close to securing a partnership that would get me off the road, and in tenured board seat with the most influential man of the east coast music industry, her father, Emil Perkins.
This will be our ticket to normalcy. Stability for my family, allowing me to work locally, quit touring, and save money for my girls and their futures.
I’ve done well with the generous salaries the company sets, but this is what I’ve been working for since Lauren died, and it was up to me alone to see them thrive.
What if all four of them get into college? That’s a price tag I can’t comprehend at the pay I earn now. Cheer team, ballet, and recreational art lessons break the bank enough.
My brow creases as I stand at a stalemate with a billionaire’s bratty heiress, in a bus I spend more time in than my own home.
I’m too old for this life.
I want to settle down, and Mr. Perkins likes me. I’ve spent close to a decade proving my worth at his feet, all to make my goals reality. And if everything goes smoothly through the end of the quarter, a spot at the big table will be waiting for me.
I feel it.
Confidence grips me at the thought of becoming present with my girls.
No more nannies and detentions I haven’t got time to understand or resolve. No more slammed doors or missed recitals.
No more disappointed glares from eyes that match Lauren’s. Eyes that beg me to do better.
It’s time I paved the sharp edges created by her death. I sigh, running my hand through my hair as I think about my oldest, and the spitfire she’s become.
I worry about Bryar, sneaking out and seeking her next thrill. If I’m not careful, she’ll turn out like…
“I have eyes, you know.” Lemon smirks, shoving past me in the doorway.
She tugs her clothes off in the middle of the bus and drops them to the floor, drowning out every thought I had before this moment as she stands completely nude and twists her hair into a bun. “Check-in isn’t ’til eleven, Sherlock.”
“The hell are you doing, Sour Patch?” I groan at my worsening erection and avert my gaze. “Put them back on this instant.”
I train my eyes away, growling like a wounded animal, likely because I am one. My cock throbs painfully at the mere sight of her, but the insufferable brat just giggles, twisting bright yellow hair around a finger I want to suck between my teeth, and…shit.
“This is not comical!” I will my eyes in the opposite direction. “Miss Perkins, you will put some clothes on immediately, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what, Daddy?” she whispers, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not, Daddy? Does it make you feel naughty? Because you want to put your big, hard cock in my pussy and fill me with your cum?” Her eyes sparkle as my mind reels at her words. “You could, you know. I’d let you right now.”
I whip around, not bothering to cover my erection from this excruciating harlot who tempts me every waking hour, but it’s mistake number one.
I lose all composure with her bare body before me, and I feel my control as it slips.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you, Miss Perkins?” I step closer, a risky move when I want so badly to feel the weight of her breasts in my palms, suck her nipples, brand them with lessons she’s yet to learn from the playboys she toys with. I want her to know how I see her.
“A slut.”
She says it like she believes it.
“What? No.” I frown.
Her eyes soften, and it warms places of me it shouldn’t. I’ve been gruff with her, distancing myself on tours, pushing her away with harsh stares and short words, but it’s necessity.
This conversation alone is already more than it should be. Still, I can’t have her thinking so little of herself. She’s got the whole world at her fingertips if only she believed it.
“Why would you think that? That you’re a…that I think you’re…” She’s never been shy about her promiscuity before. Lemon Perkins could give two fucks what I think, couldn’t she?
“Because you like good girls, or you would have tried something by now.” The hurt in her eyes spikes me in the chest even before she twists the knife.
“Probably ones who don’t let older men watch them have orgies while they palm their big fat cocks.
” Her violet eyes narrow on the tented fabric below my waist.
I don’t love her.
I hardly know her.
I know the face she makes when she comes.
A chemical reaction.
A physical goddamned need.
But it’s not fair to Lauren to love again.
Even if I did, ten of me couldn’t sate one evening of Lemon’s lascivious needs.
Not to mention she’s a mess.
Tests me on a daily basis. Drives wrenches in all of my systems. She’s reckless.
But the way her dripping cunt glistens beneath my stare, how I want to show her she’s more than this reputation she feigns, it grows as hard as my god forsaken cock.
“I like order,” I clip. “And you make everything the opposite.” A growl that surprises even me rumbles from my throat and drags her eyes to mine. “But you are not a slut, nor do I see you as one.”
Her eyes widen. It hurts me that she assumed I thought so little. She’s free, but she loves with her whole self. I’ve seen it. She will be that band’s biggest cheerleader for the rest of their career. She’ll befriend their significant others. She’ll send them birthday cards.
She may be unorthodox, but Lemon Perkins is not a slut.
“You don’t think I’m—”
“No.” My fists clench at my sides, hair stands on end, and my cock leaks at the tip for her. Somehow, the millions of reasons not to be with her don’t exist in this moment.
Fuck it. I grab the back of her neck and yank her lips to mine, planting a kiss I feel all the way to the head of my cock. “You’re not a slut, Sour Patch.” I rub my thumb over her lips.
“But it’s time someone taught you some lessons.”
The twinkle in her eyes is a cosmic swirl. “You gonna teach me yourself,” she teases, “or watch someone do it for you?”
With that, I flip her over my lap faster than my brain can process, feet tumbling over gravity on our hasty topple to the sofa. My fingers part her dripping cunt, and I want to hate it, to loathe her for pushing me to this moment, but her whimpers own me as she bucks her hips to meet my touch.
I don’t enter her, just spread her arousal around her swollen center, in awe that it’s there for me, Lemon Anne Perkins. “All for me,” I growl without thought as I rub her pussy, squeezing it in my palm like it truly is mine.
Her moans become as needy as her tilting hips, and I worry someone will hear.
“Shh.” I slide my thumb into her mouth. I’m rough, but I know this woman’s kinks like I know my own dreams, and her grinding hips tell me she’s more than spurred on by the play.
She sucks and swirls her tongue over my thumb like I wish she’d do on my cock, and I try not to think about the reasons she’s become this skilled.
That she’s practiced and learned on God knows how many men before me is a thought that makes me want to shove my length in and take up all the space inside of her, until there’s no room left for anyone else.
I fume at the thought of her with any other man. The band, Onyx, the ones I’ve seen licking all the places I want to taste as she comes, meeting my gaze and whispering my name across the room.
It’s always been for me.
Two dozen tours.
And hundreds of orgasms straight from her perfect, moaning lips.
They might get her screams, but what they don’t know is, I see her eyes.
She comes for me.