Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (26 page)

Sydney is a goddess in every way that matters.

When she emerges from the sea of mirrors and fabric divider walls that make up the dressing area, she's wearing nothing but a magenta bathrobe and a pair of black heels with patent leather bat wings at the ankles, positioned just low enough to show off the black and yellow angelfish tattoos above them.

She can't have been gone more than an hour, but when she walks into the room, my heart immediately starts to pound and my palms get slick with sweat. In the background, another Amatory Riot song happens to be playing (haven't listened to the radio in a while, but I guess we're pretty fucking popular now), so I get to see her stomp to the beat of my drums. Whether Sydney knows it or not, she lets the notes guide her feet, smiling wickedly at me she gets closer.

“Fuck,” I murmur under my breath, feeling my body respond to her presence like a drug. Last night, I was a little worried that I'd screwed things up. After I told her that I loved her, she gave me a hug. Yeah, a
hug.
One that lasted an almost uncomfortably long period of time. After that, she disappeared into the shower to wash off her hair dye and then acted like everything was normal. True, we had a hot fuck that lasted well into the night, but that doesn't mean she liked what I said. “I'm such a goddamn idiot.”

I stare, completely enraptured as Sydney drags her eyes away from me and lets Vlad and that editor-in-chief chick introduce her to the photographer. I wish she'd look back up at me, let her blue gaze wash over my body, but she stays focused on the conversation happening next to the camera. When I take a few steps closer, I can hear at least a little of it.

“You can take the robe off whenever you feel comfortable,” the photographer tells Sydney, settling herself behind her table of computer screens, cameras, and assistants. The whole scene is pretty much what I expected except for the fact that the woman's got a fucking Mohawk in royal purple. Fuck

Tattoo Terror,

I think we're right where we need to be right now. Maybe this whole thing is a blessing in disguise?

Looking back up at me, Sydney slips the robe off her shoulders
slowly
, revealing both sleeves of tattoos, her chest, her tummy and … well, everything else. I see turtles, brightly colored fish, that infamous orange octopus, and a killer whale all drenched in blue waves that cascade down her arms, across the tops of her breasts. There's a sparkle of color along one hip and a flicker more on her left calf as Sydney grins back at me with nothing but pasties on her nipples and nothing but a thong on her hips.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You going camping or something?” Turner chuckles from beside me, his tattooed arms locked tight over his chest as he wrinkles his nose at his pseudo-sister. “Because you're pitching a massive tent. Fuck, dude, how long is your dick? Because seriously, I could like, set up camp in there.”

“Longer than yours,” I tell him with confidence and he snorts.

“Turner, shut the fuck up,” Naomi says as she watches Sydney with a careful gaze, taking in those liquid candy blue eyes, the sharp cut of her pink bangs as they hang low over her brows. I have to look away for a moment and swipe the sweat from my face.

Fuck.

I almost consider heading to the bathroom for a line, but the photographer's directions draw my attention back to the staging area. There's nothing but a white backdrop and a cluster of props off to the side, but nobody seems to mind. When you've got someone as beautiful as Sydney Charell to photograph, nothing else matters. “If I wasn't attracted to men, I'd marry her,” Naomi says as she lights up a cigarette and passes it over to me. I reach to take it and our fingers brush, causing our eyes to meet and hold there.

Seconds pass, but there's nothing between us like there was before—no more awkwardness, no more frustration, no more anger. We watch each other carefully for a moment and then a small smile cracks Naomi's lips.

“Friends still?” she asks. “Even though I threw a laptop at your ass?”

“Even though I confessed my love to you at an inappropriate time?”

“I think we can work past that,” she says as I take the cigarette and pull a drag of nicotine into my lungs. “Especially since that last rock fill was fucking amazing.” Naomi nods her chin at the speakers as the photographer and her assistants talk Sydney into position.

And when I say position …

“Fuck, I'm going to come in my pants,” I grumble as I let my lashes flutter and open them back up to find Sydney's hands pressed against the backdrop, her beautiful face with that sharp ass jawline glancing over one tattooed shoulder. Her ass is like, all fucking that. Round and plump and perfect. I'd take her hard and fast for the camera and I wouldn't care who was looking. The only thing that's stopping me is the fact that this is her dream, her chance. If she wants to model, who am I to stop her? Even if I have to live with permanent blue balls … and a massive dollop of jealousy that Turner isn't helping.

“If Naomi was posing like that for a magazine, I'd be losing my shit. I don't personally find Sydney attractive, but can you imagine how many men are going to spank it to this?”

I ignore him and take a step forward, my boots scraping against those perfect concrete floors as

I find myself drawn to the edge of the spotlights, that place where the bright white of the set lights meets the shadowed darkness of the warehouse.

Sydney spins around as our music fades into Escape the Fate's “Live for Today”, tangling her fingers in her pink hair as she poses with a hand on one hip. With each flash of the camera, she moves slightly, tucking her fingers beneath her chin, curling her lips into a smirk, accepting a blue guitar from one of the assistants. I watch with my fucking mouth gaping open and my fingers playing in my pocket. It's a sneaky way to tease my cock without anyone noticing. And if they do, well fuck them then. I can just barely stroke it from this position, but it doesn't matter. I'm so hypersensitive right now, a feather could make me come.

Sydney slides the guitar strap over her shoulder, using the instrument itself to shield the black thong she's wearing. After a few more poses with that, the photographer yells something I can barely hear over the music and has her assistants drag a drum kit on set. My fingers itch to play it even as they're playing with my cock … but all the while, I know I'd rather play

Sydney.

Her new pink hair, the flash of silver and black eye shadow on her lids, that bright pop of color on her mouth, all of it swirls together with the richness of her tats, the pale creamy color of her skin, until I feel like I'm going to pass the hell out. After a few more poses, I
really
feel like I'm about to come, so I pull my hand from my pocket and curl my fingers into a fist. If I have to walk around here with a wet spot on my jeans, those stupid cameras are going to see it and I'll never live it down.

I glance over my shoulder at our personal little film crew. It's becoming a habit for me to pretend they're not there. Hell, with Sydney posing and all that, I actually
had
forgotten about them. But they never forget about us. I spare them about a second of attention before I have to turn back and watch Sydney again. They want to film me masturbating on the set of a major magazine cover shoot? Screw them. Have at it. All I care about right now is
her
.

I'm head over freaking heels,
I think as I unconsciously wet my lips with my tongue. Sydney's looking right at me now, mimicking the motion either by accident or on purpose, I'm not sure. Our eyes stay locked as she continues to pose, to position herself in ways that remind me how little time we've really gotten to spend alone together. I seriously want to Google some Kama Sutra shit and try it out with this girl.

I'm so distracted by her body, the way she moves, that I hardly notice when the poses stop and the photographer's waving me over.

“What's up?” I ask as I pause next to the woman and examine her Mohawk. It's an impressive piece of art propped up on her head like that. Of course, she doesn't hold a candle to Sydney, but nobody does. Not anymore. I take a deep breath and pretend I'm not a fucking obsessed psycho with a massive crush and an even bigger hard-on. “Is there something I can help with?”

“Actually, yeah,” she says, her voice this smoky accent that I can't quite place. Eastern European, maybe? “I want you to get in there, rev it up a little bit. Don't be afraid to get sexy, sexy,” she says, slapping a hand against my chest with a wink and a wicked smile.

“Me?” I ask, but Vlad's already there with a makeup brush in his hand, cleaning up my cheeks and forehead with a dusting of powder, refreshing my liner while I slap him away with a growl and give Photographer Chick a
look.
“I'm not getting in there. This is Sydney's thing.”

“
You
are Sydney's thing. Her eyeballs go to you, no? You don't see it? Get your ass in there and do not disappoint me.” She claps her hands, the gold bangles on her arms clacking with the motion as Vlad sneaks in and manages to get a brush through my hair. “Go, go,
go.
”

I glance over at Sydney and find her standing there with a smile on her face, completely confident in her body and her look, not at all bothered by the two black star stickers covering her nipples. She motions me in with a crooked finger and before I know it, I'm striding across the pristine white carpet that covers the floor. I don't stop until my hands are on her hips.

That single touch is enough to
ignite.
I feel like a stick of dynamite that's about to explode.

“Do you want me here?” I ask, my words low and my breathing hot and heavy. I'm practically
panting.
“Because there's no way in hell I'm screwing this up for you.” I don't want today to be about the bands or the drama or the music; this is
her
time to shine. Instead of answering me, Sydney wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me hard and deep, tongue sliding into my mouth with a groan. The sound actually comes from
my
throat, and before I know it, I'm kissing her too, pushing her back until her mostly naked body slams into the white wall at the edge of the set.

My mouth moves from Sydney's lips to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone. I can't seem to get enough of her, even as I know we're being watched, photographed, filmed.

“Does it bother you?” she asks quietly as our hands roam and things get real racy, real fast. “That they're watching?”

“Honestly? No. I want them to see,” I whisper as I stand up and thread my fingers through her hair, kissing her mouth with a slow, steady intensity, drawing a long moan from her throat that even the loud pulse of music can't hide. “I want them to film us,” I continue as I move my mouth to her earlobe and nibble on the tiny diamond studs there. “Because I want them all to know that you're mine now.”

My hands move back down Sydney's body, taking in the sweat soaked warmth of her skin until I get back to her hips. With a grunt, I lift her up and her legs come around my midsection, squeezing me tight as I kiss her neck, sliding my tongue along the smooth expanse of her heated flesh. When she starts tugging on my shirt, I oblige, tearing it off my head and tossing it away before I go back to my task, grinding my erection into the sparse bits of fabric that separate us. Just a layer of denim and cotton to get through, and I could be inside her. Even in front of all these people, I don't care.

Sydney scrapes her nails down my back as I kiss her throat, leaning forward and sinking her teeth into my shoulder hard enough to draw a bit of blood. As she does that, she looks right at the camera with her too blue eyes and our photographer curses with excitement.

My naked tattooed back, Sydney's high-heeled legs around my waist, her teeth in my flesh, eyes on the camera. We've got our shot … and our cover.

I follow Sydney into the dressing room and tear open her robe, lifting her body up and slamming her into one of the vanity tables that line the wall. Either the staff figures out this is happening or they watch. I could not care fucking
less
at that point.

“You're so goddamn addictive,” I say as I continue to kiss Sydney's throat, her jaw, her chest, her tits. My hands knead the soft flesh, the grim reaper on my bicep grinning as my muscles clench and release with each movement. I suck the black star pasties into my mouth, biting down on the hard points of nipple I can feel hiding underneath.

“Oh god,” Sydney moans, her thick curved lips parted with pleasure as I make my way down her belly, across the coral reef tattoo on her hip, licking and biting at the succulent display of flesh that's open and bare and ready for me. Little beads of sweat pop up across Sydney's skin as I work my way down to the front of her thong, kissing and nibbling at the moist heat that's
just
out of my reach. I don't stay down there long though, just enough to get that dirty candy taste in my mouth, and then I'm standing back up and whipping my cock from my pants.

I look Sydney straight in the face as I shove her panties aside and thrust in balls deep, slamming her ass into the table and sending tubes of lipstick and bottles of hair spray rolling to the concrete floor. The
walls
here are nothing but fabric panels that can be slid around and adjusted for privacy, so I'm
sure
the entire warehouse can hear my grunting, Sydney's moaning.