Kind of Famous (Flirting with Fame Book 3) Page 12

  I couldn’t resist touching him. His eyes closed, but his lips fell open as he made guttural sounds. I moved back further so I could drag my tongue across the shaft and wrap my lips around the head. His back arched, and I loved knowing that I was bringing him pleasure that wracked his entire body. His fists bunched up the sheets on either side of his hips.

  With a last kiss on the tip, I sat up and worked his pants the rest of the way off, laughing because he still had on his shoes.

  I slipped my own shoes off and let him undress me the rest of the way.

  “One second.” He rolled over and opened a side table drawer, which brought on uninvited thoughts about who might have shared this bed before.

  “Shit.” He sat up and began digging around, shoving aside envelopes and pens. “Dammit.”

  He jumped up. “Be right back.”

  He walked his sexy ass into the bathroom where I heard more violent rummaging. Finally, he emerged victorious and set the condom on the side table. The second he hit the mattress, I grabbed his shoulders and drove my lips into his.

  “Whoa.” He lost his balance and knocked me sideways. He chuckled at the mishap, but I touched his extended cock, and he lost all his mirth.

  He licked his lips, then ran a hand down my hip and up my inner thigh. As if to mirror my thumb stroking his shaft, he slid one finger across my need, intensifying the friction with every stroke.

  Unable to bear it any longer, I fell back and pulled him down with me. “Shane,” I begged.

  He grabbed the condom, rolled it on, and returned to kissing me. He whispered, “I can’t get close enough to you.”

  With one beefy arm planted on the bed, he positioned himself to enter me. I tilted up, throbbing to the point of pain. He hesitated until I groaned, “Yes, Shane.”

  As reverently as he’d kissed me, as slowly as he’d worshiped me, he drove in, inch by incredible inch, until I felt him deep inside me. All thought fled when he dragged himself back out and plunged in again, faster, asking, “Does it feel good, Layla?”

  “So good.” It came out on a sigh. “You?”

  “Exquisite.”

  He worked up to a steady rhythm that built pleasure on pleasure, and then he leaned down to suck on my lips, slowing his pace, and caressing me as if I meant more to him than his ultimate orgasm. I’d learned to take care of my own needs during sex, so his focus on me surprised me, delighted me really, and invited me to lavish attention on him, too.

  My hands roamed across his strong triceps and clutched his broad shoulders. My fingernails raked his back, and he bent down to bite my lip. All the while, he moved in and out of me, with increasing urgency, but with admirable control. He watched me and when I closed my eyes and moaned, he said, “Is it good?”

  While I loved how careful he was to make this about me, what I needed was for him to let go and really fuck me, so I wrapped my foot around his back and gave him a literal kick of encouragement. He got the message and sped up his pace, drilling deep, hitting me again and again in the spot that had me nearly crying from the overwhelming explosion of raw pleasure.

  “There,” I cried. “Yes.” I couldn’t say more for fear of losing my already tenuous grip on the relentless journey to outer space.

  He breathed my name, and everything broke. My center burst into light and color and sugar and joy. I released an earth-shattering moan and began to sob all at once.

  Shane pulled out. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. No.” I didn’t sound convincing at all. My voice quivered with emotion, and tears leaked down my temples. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him to me tight. “You just sort of sent me somewhere I’d never been.”

  He dropped beside me, panting, and I worried he’d stopped before he’d finished. I threw my leg back over him, but he laughed and said, “You’re kidding.” He ran a hand across his sweaty forehead. “I won’t be ready to go again for a long while. You just took everything I had.”

  The proof was in the reality of post-sex condom cleanup after which he came back to bed and tucked up beside me. I laid my head against his chest, and his arms encircled me. I didn’t want to move from that spot ever again. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so safe and loved and cared for at any other time in my life.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sometime in the night, I awoke to the sound of my phone’s ringtone on the lower floor. I lay on one side of the bed with the blanket tucked over me and Shane’s arm laced under mine. I wanted to stay in the warmth of his body, but I had an urgent need to pee. I slipped out from under the covers, careful not to jar Shane. He snorted and rolled onto his back. In the dim light, I could make out his inky chest rising and falling.

  Although that body he’d kept under wraps made me go weak at the knees, what really sucker-punched me was his gentle face as he slept. I knelt down and put my chin on the mattress just to gaze at his sweet lips that were quick with an awkward analogy or a surprising compliment or a goofy joke. And they knew how to kiss. His nose was a bit crooked, but that only made him more interesting to look at. His skin was smooth like milk, except for the dusting of freckles, like my own. Thankfully our similarities stopped there, or I might start to worry we’d come to find out we were secret siblings. His hair was red, but not orange like mine. He was ginger; I was pumpkin.

  What I liked best about him was absent while he slept. What endeared him to me was how his pretty blue eyes saw me. How his pretty lips spoke to me.

  I stood and stretched. There was a bathroom upstairs, but I didn’t want to wake Shane—especially not that way. I found my clothes and carefully wound back down the spiral stairs to the lower floor. I’d spied a half bathroom on our way in and located it easily. I peeked in his cabinet to find travel-sized soap, toothpaste, lotion, mouthwash. I squeezed some toothpaste on my finger and gave my teeth a pitiful scrub.

  Then I went into his kitchen to snoop around. His stainless-steel fridge was stocked with the usual, though his choices amused me. He had a penchant for brands I’d never heard of—probably from some local store that imported only the finest from the hills of New Zealand or from local organic sustainable farms. His milk came in a glass bottle. He had both jalapeno and raspberry-chipotle-flavored bacon, like he subscribed to some kind of bacon-of-the-month club. I giggled at his imagined bacon fetish.

  Glass bottles labeled Antipodes appeared to be water, and I hoped it didn’t cost $200 an ounce because I took one and cracked it open. I also plucked a brownish pear from a bowl and went to dig my phone out of my purse. I passed another bookcase on my way to the inviting overstuffed sofa in the living area. I perused one shelf, charmed by his assorted collection. No leather-bound editions here. Brave New World, Lord of the Flies, 1984, Slaughterhouse Five. They were so dog-eared, he’d either bought them at a used bookstore and left them here for show, or he’d read the shit out of them.

  I had to question for a moment if his entire apartment was staged. The pretentious food in his kitchen, the implication he read widely, the character in every piece of furniture, the perfectly chosen paint colors—all wrapped in a deceptively shady exterior. I took a bite of the perfectly ripe brown pear, pondering the mystery, and realized that the apartment was a little metaphor for Shane himself. The best of him was happening on the inside. My little secret.

  The battery on my phone was running on fumes, but Shane had left a cord on the small side table. Thankfully it was the right kind, so I plugged it into the port and sat down to find out who’d been trying to reach me.

  The most recent text came from Jo: I assume you’re with Shane. Could you text me and let me know so I don’t worry? —Mom

  Aw. Crap. I should have let her know where I’d gone. It was sweet of her to put the onus on herself for worrying rather than on me for being a rude guest. I quickly texted: I’m so sorry. Shane and I got to talking. I guess I fell asleep here.

  I p
aused before hitting send. Should I tell her when I’d be back? I didn’t know myself. Would I be able to get into her place in the morning to change for work? I hadn’t thought this out at all. I figured if she responded to my text, I could make a plan.

  The next text was from my actual mom, approving of Jo’s Hamilton T-shirt from Monday night and checking in to see how things were going. I didn’t respond right away because I didn’t want her to wonder what I was doing up at—I checked the time—six in the morning.

  It surprised me it wasn’t earlier. I glanced out the window and noticed the sky had brightened considerably. The sun would be up soon, and I’d need to decide what to do about my morning commute. A change of clothes would have been nice, but the clothes I’d worn out would suffice. They weren’t the same as I’d worn to the office the day before. I could take the subway directly from Shane’s. I pulled up the MTA map on my phone, and, using GPS, found the nearest stop.

  Once I had a plan in place, I curled up onto the sofa to check my website and see if anything interesting was going on. My first stop was to check if Jaclyn had replied to my private message, although given that I was sitting on Shane’s sofa in my underwear, it had become an academic question. Unless I learned he had contracted an infectious disease, there wasn’t much she could tell me that would unravel my own current opinion.

  But in fact, her assessment matched my own.

  Pumpkin,

  You piqued my curiosity. We’ve all been so fixated on the Noah train wreck, I haven’t paid much attention to our dear Shane, lately. He doesn’t typically pick girls up on tour, though, and I can’t find any indication that’s changed. I know I said I wouldn’t pry, but I can’t control what my curiosity does, and I’m deducing the following.

  Your friend didn’t likely meet him on the tour, and your timing suggests she met him since he got home, which would mean this week, probably at Noah’s or Micah’s. Micah’s makes more sense considering Noah’s in a foul mood and not up for hosting. So, the friend could be someone Jo knows, either through her work or from her aerobics classes.

  Since you’re being coy, I’m guessing it’s someone who works with Jo over at the Rock Paper, who wouldn’t want to scream her interest in Shane from the rooftops because it would undermine her credibility or something.

  My next thought was that the friend might have met him for something work related, like an interview, but who’d want to interview a drummer? (Rim shot!)

  Am I close?

  Don’t worry, her secret is safe with me. I’d love to know if I’m in the right ballpark though.

  But you just want to know if he’s free and/or a total creep.

  Alright, so he’s not currently seeing anyone. His dating history is scattered on the boards if you want to dig around. I will tell you is that he’s both particular and intense. The boy knows what he likes and he goes after it. Your friend shouldn’t take it personally if he doesn’t notice her. If he does notice her, she’ll already know it. He’s kind of obvious.

  What else? Dude’s sweet and loyal (sounds like a dog, sorry). The only thing she should watch for is Noah who’s on the war path. Don’t let your friend get into their dog fight. Yes, that’s twice now I’ve reduced them to animals. I love these guys, but they can turn into cave trolls when they get all up in their feels.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to parse out her meaning. What the hell was going on with Noah? And what did that have to do with me? Did Jaclyn think Noah would try to hit on me out of some strange competition? Or did she think Noah would be mad at me for stealing Shane away? Neither situation seemed remotely plausible.

  Instead of writing Jaclyn back with questions I couldn’t formulate, I went to check out my own forum, scanning through my private messages to clear out any personal requests.

  Di$a$ter had sent me a link to some concert video, adding: Just in case you haven’t seen this.

  I opened the YouTube link. Concert video loaded and started auto-playing. Shit, it was loud.

  “Hello, Boston!” yelled a sweaty, scruffy Adam. “This one’s for you!” Then the very recognizable opening chords to “Light My Way” rang out. I hit the X again and again until finally the window closed.

  It was too late; I heard footsteps above me. Shane’s bare feet and legs appeared on the spiral staircase, followed by his boxer-clad self. Every inch of him was solid as a rock. He wouldn’t pass as a body builder, but I’d bet he’d sink in a pool full of saltwater. I bit my lip, hoping he’d come straight over so I could put my hands on that body. He did cross to the sofa, but after leaning in for a kiss, he straightened his back and stretched. The waistband on his boxers edged down, revealing his hip bones.

  I gaped at the line of auburn hair inviting me like a trail of breadcrumbs. I remembered my way back there.

  He caught me ogling him, and his yawn broke into a laugh. “Morning, Star Shine. Hungry?”

  “Star Shine?”

  “Yup.” No further explanation. “Do you like cinnamon? I have these amazing pastries.” He didn’t wait for an answer and went into the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open, then a clattering of pans. He hollered, “Do you drink coffee?”

  “Of course,” I yelled back.

  A few minutes later, he was back empty handed, pushing in next to me on the sofa. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Mmm-hmm. You?”

  “The best night I can ever remember.” I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about sleep.

  On a sudden urge, I climbed across his lap and straddled him, twisting my fingers in that mop of cinnamon hair.

  “Oh, hey,” he said. “This is shaping up to be a pretty great morning.” His hands slipped under my shirt, up around my shoulder blades, and he drew me into him. Those lips. They were everything.

  I broke away from his kiss. “What are you doing today?”

  “Rehearsal mostly. You?”

  “Work. All day.”

  His fingers never quit moving, working their way down my sides, to my thighs, then up to my stomach and across my breasts, where he lingered. “Do you think you can get the day off? You should call in sick and come with me.”

  Oh, the temptation.

  As much time as I’d spent supporting Walking Disaster, I’d never once scored so much as a meet and greet.

  Way back when they first started out, Adam played pretty small venues, and back then, I could have met the band members by hanging out at the merch table after the show, or even volunteering to work it for free. Since I started running the fan site and they blew up so huge, I’d never gotten closer than tenth row at Bankers Life Fieldhouse, and those tickets had cost me a couple hundred dollars on a scalper site.

  For the second time, Shane was offering me something way more valuable than a meet and greet. Experiencing a real rock band’s rehearsal—not my dad’s band—would be, as they say, priceless.

  It would kill me to decline. And yet . . .

  “It’s my first week. They might frown on that.”

  “Can’t you take vacation?”

  I shook my head. “Haven’t accrued any yet.”

  “Can you work remote?”

  “Theoretically.” At the hopeful look on his face, I added, “I haven’t really tested it out, and I don’t know if my manager would like me to up and decide not to come in.”

  “You work for Lars, right?”

  “Ultimately, yes. He’s not my manager.”

  “I’m friends with Lars. He runs a music magazine. He understands the importance of accruing music experience. You know he’d want his staff members to spend a day watching a world-class band practicing.”

  “World class?” I raised an eyebrow. “Which band would that be?”

  He pinched my side, gently. “You’re asking for it.”

  “Ouch!” I batted his hand away. “You need to stop tempting m
e. If I lose my job, I’ll have to go back to Indiana.”

  “Give me your phone.”

  I reached over and hugged it to me. “No way.”

  He dragged his teeth across his lower lip, and I thought for a half a second about calling in sick after all. But before I could dive back into him, a timer buzzed, and he lifted me off him with ease and set me down on the sofa. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with cinnamon croissants and two mugs of coffee. He sat on his ankle.

  I picked at the pastry and popped a corner into my mouth. “Mmm. Oh, Jesus.”

  “Try the coffee. It’s real Kona.”

  Of course, it was. I took a sip and stopped scoffing. “Holy God. Why does this taste so good?”

  He shrugged. “It’s Kona.”

  Because obviously.

  I couldn’t tease him about it though. So far, he’d proven he had impeccable taste, and I wanted to savor every mouthwatering bite and every delicious sip.

  As if he thought the food could coax me to play hookie, he pressed me with puppy-dog eyes. “Stay here this morning. Come in with me to rehearsal and shoot video for Lars. If I know him, and I think I do, he’d love that.”

  “Don’t you think it’s nepotism or at least a conflict of interest if I use you to get content for the magazine? I mean, isn’t that like sleeping with your source or some other journalism taboo?”

  He leveled me with his blue eyes over his coffee. “Layla, everyone uses their connections in this business. It’s not a big deal.” He twisted his index finger around mine. “Lars wouldn’t hate for you to hang out with your favorite band.”

  His cocky grin proved his confidence in the belief that that favorite band, for me, was his.

  He wasn’t entirely wrong. I was becoming a raging fan of one member. Speaking of members . . . My imagination went wild with the things I wanted to do to him, but, sadly, I had a different kind of job to do.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We finished our amazing breakfast together, chatting about inconsequential topics. He asked me about my job. I asked him about the things in his apartment and fridge. When I got up to get ready—as much as I could, given that I had no fresh clothes—he announced he’d be coming into town with me and began the process of commandeering an Uber.