Heavy Metal Heart: A Bad Boy Rock Star Romance (12 page)

He stood up and pulled Helena to her feet, despite her protests. "We can't now. They haven't turned the seatbelt sign off!" 

"Fuck the seatbelt sign," he replied as he led her down the aisle to the back of the plane. "Everyone on this plane works for me." 

Not a single staff member or bandmate protested Torsten moving about the cabin. A few good-natured wolf whistles and cheers erupted from the band as Torsten unlocked the cabin door. 

Helena blushed and hurriedly stepped inside, albeit a bit wobbly from the turbulence. Torsten calmly closed the door behind them. 

"What do you think?"

The room was small but comfortable, like a hotel room. The king-sized bed took up the majority of the room, but it had a bathroom attached, end tables on each side of the bed,  a loveseat against one wall, a desk, and a large TV on a stand.  

"Reminds me of a certain hotel from not too long ago." Helena grinned wickedly. 

"Yes. Though that room had more wall space for me to fuck you against." Torsten picked her up like a feather and tossed her on the bed.

"I don't think that girl you brought up would have liked that," Helena replied, watching him crawl on top of her like a lion coming in to enjoy its kill. 

"I don't give a fuck what any woman likes but you." Torsten pressed his still-clothed hard-on between her legs. He swore he could feel her wetness soak through her own clothing and his. 

"That's what I love about you." Helena looked surprised by her own words as if she didn't mean to say them. 

Torsten felt a tight squeezing around his heart as he saw the look in her eye. She felt more than lust and he knew he was beginning to feel the same. But how would she feel if she knew the true extent of his past? What he had to do to survive from one day to the next? She sure as fuck wouldn’t say the word “love” in any kind of context concerning him. Undoubtedly, she’d run far away if she knew.

He didn’t want this to end but could he take that risk? 

Her hands on his zipper, then reaching inside his pants and taking his stiff cock pulled him out of his own thoughts and into the present. A moan escaped his throat as her warm, wet tongue massaged the underside of his head and he forgot about everything else.

As the plane touched down in Paris, Helena stirred under the covers. She’d taken a quick nap after their fuck fest. The gentle movement of the plane and Torsten’s glorious naked body next to her assured her she wasn’t dreaming and she smiled. 

They never left the private cabin for the entirety of the flight. At one point, Torsten wrapped himself in a towel to receive the ordered food from the stewardess. He was keen on answering the door completely naked, still rock hard with his cock coated in her pussy juice, but Helena insisted on the towel.

They spent the entire two hours catching up what they had missed while apart. She explored his body as if it were a new landscape, reacquainting herself with his muscles, tattoos, and glorious cock that practically made her come on command.

"We don't have to get off immediately," Torsten told her sleepily after the captain announced they were entering Paris airspace. "We have a private runway and can leave the plane whenever we want." 

Helena took the time to shower and put on fresh clothes and makeup. She knew Torsten didn't care, but she didn't want to face the band and plane staff in typical "walk of shame" fashion. She knew she wasn't just another conquest, she was Torsten's woman.

Not to mention she had a job to do and had to maintain professionalism. 

Torsten continued to doze, stretched out and naked on the king-sized bed like a lazy cat. He was so tall the bed barely contained him. Helena admired his long, rippled figure for a moment before rubbing his massive, sculpted back to wake him. 

"Mmmmm," he groaned, but did not move. 

"How long are you going to sleep here?" she chuckled.

"Dunno. I won't have a proper night of sleep for six weeks, so might as well get it in now." 

"That's not how sleep works." Helena sat on him, straddling his ass. She pressed her fingers deeper into his skin, working into the taut muscles of his back. 

"Mmmmmph." 

"What ever happened to wining and dining me in Paris?" she asked teasingly. 

"I need to recover from you sucking and fucking me, first." 

"Awww, poor Torsten." Her tone dripped with sarcasm as she lowered her mouth to his ear. "The lead guitarist of Mjolnir is getting so much pussy, he can't even get out of bed." 

"Heh. I'm not as young as I used to be, baby." 

She playfully bit into his shoulder. “Poor old man. Don’t we all wish we were younger.” 

“No, not really.” His voice floated up from the pillow after a long pause. Helena’s eyes widened as she realized the gravity of what she just said. 

“Fuck! Torsten, I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, feeling like an asshole for referring to the past again. “I don’t mean to keep bringing it up.” 

“I know, love. It’s fine.”  

Helena slid off his back and he rolled to his side to face her. “I did have some good times as a young troublemaker but I wouldn’t trade any of it for right now. With you.” 

Helena felt her heart melt into a puddle as she gazed at him. His fingers trailed along her cheek and neck. It was scary how fast she was falling for him, how much devotion and care he showed her. 

He talked and walked a big game, which everyone saw. But only she saw the moments like this, where he was sweet and gentle. He was almost vulnerable. 

"Aren't you such a softy," she smirked. Inwardly, she cringed. She knew, in his own way, he was letting his guard down and opening up to her. Why couldn't she do the same? She knew why. She couldn't bear to be deceived and taken for a fool again. 

"I'm one of the biggest softies you'll ever meet," Torsten replied with the same level of snark. At least he didn't hold it against her and could dish it back at her. "Once I'm over being a fucking hardass." 

Helena slid her hand down his chest, across his abdomen, and around his back to give his bum a squeeze. "I don't think you'll ever lose this hard ass." 

"Ugh, such a pervert. Just like me." Torsten gave her a warm kiss. Every kiss of his always felt so warm and sincere. Was that an expression of how he felt? Was it the chemistry between them? Or was that just a sign of how many mouths he's kissed before? 

With a sigh, Torsten rolled out of bed, stood, and stretched. Helena remained lying in the pile of pillows, admiring his physique from her vantage point. 

He walked around to her side of the bed and slapped her ass, which made her jump. Underneath her clothes, it was still pink and tender from all the slapping and grabbing an hour earlier. 

"Now who's being lazy?" 

Helena giggled. "You hush, Torsten Hard Ass." 

She saw the hint of a smile as he put clothes on, almost hurriedly. He was happy. Despite whatever he'd been through, he knew how to be happy. 

He’s happy with
 me. 

She began gathering her luggage, but Torsten told her to leave it. "The staff will bring it up for us," he said with another warm kiss. "That's what I pay them for." 

He held the door open as they exited the room. 

Ugh, he's a gentleman too. Probably getting a good look at my ass, but a gentleman all the same.

As if to shatter the illusion, he delivered another quick smack to her rear as she walked through the door. She shot him a scolding look  but couldn’t keep from smiling. Her sensitive skin tingled with the sensation, sweet pleasure on just the edge of pain.

They were the last of the passengers to leave, as she guessed. The stewardesses busied themselves with cleaning, tidying up around the seats and vacuuming the floor. Helena blushed when they looked up and smiled at her. 

"We hope you enjoyed the flight, Miss Forss!" 

"Thank you," she mumbled. 

Torsten led her to the exit at the front of the plane, past all of the staff members who would surely be gossiping about her, and down the short flight of steps onto the Tarmac. She saw Paris in the flesh for the first time. 

"So this is Paris?" She spun around in a slow circle. Flat landing strips for planes was all she could see in every direction. 

Torsten laughed. "Don't sound so disappointed. We're several miles outside of the city. Most airports are like that. It'll be a short car ride to the hotel." He gestured ahead of them to the sleek, black Maserati that waited for them. 

A man dressed in black slacks and a crisp black polo with Mjolnir's logo stepped out of the driver's seat, leaving the door open. He nodded to Torsten and walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger seat. 

"Get in, love." 

The words sent a shiver down her spine, not out of fear but the pure respect it commanded, which was insanely sexy. Torsten was such a natural-born leader, every order commanded obedience and respect. 

Helena carefully stepped into the passenger seat. Luxurious shades of red and black covered the car’s interior. The seat cushioning her was soft, red leather. The dashboard was red as well, with the steering wheel and console in an inky, luxurious black. 

The man closed the passenger seat after her. She watched Torsten shake his hand, exchange a few words, then made his way to the driver side. He slid in next to her as the man closed the  driver door, then walked across the runway toward the terminal. 

"You're driving?" 

"I like to drive myself," he replied nonchalantly. "I enjoy it. Plus, it keeps me from feeling too much like a pompous, assfuck celebrity."

She couldn't help but laugh at his colorful language. "Such a poet." 

"That's why I write the songs." He leaned across the seat to give her a quick kiss before revving up the engine. "Buckle up, love. I like to drive fast." 

Helena couldn't keep her eyes away from the window any more than she could keep her mouth closed. 

It surprised her how Paris looked so familiar. Coming from Olso and visiting several other large, ancient cities, she found many of them to have a similar feel and flow. Tall buildings, no less than five stories high, with classically structured facades, and narrow streets. 

Torsten indeed drove fast, but stoplights were frequent in the city. He controlled the Maserati like a cowboy taming a wild stallion. The engine roared with power when in motion, but he eased to each stop gently. 

Each stoplight allowed for a pause to take in the sights and atmosphere. The air smelled clean and fresh, though not nearly as cold as Norway. Parisians crossed the streets hurriedly, tittering in French, which Helena knew at only a conversational level. 

The sky overcast with thick clouds and a light drizzle fell. It reminded her of home. 

After taking a right turn off a roundabout, the compacted city buildings gave way, and the Eiffel Tower came into view. Helena stared at it curiously. Against the gray sky, the dark triangular form looked like an upside down tree in the distance. 

"It looks much better at night, and when we're closer to it," Torsten said, as though reading her thoughts. 

"Will we have time to check it out?" Helena asked.

"We can make time." Torsten squeezed her thigh with a firm grip that made her heart leap. 

She noticed many Paris neighborhoods had classical mixed with modern designs. Often sandwiched between two classical-looking buildings was a sharp-looking building with glass walls. 

She just spotted another such building when they pulled up to a driveway that read St. Yves Paris. It was a classical, archway structure flanked by two red doors which opened slowly as Torsten approached. What came into view on other side made Helena gasp. 

A fountain flowed in the middle of a gorgeous courtyard. Surrounding the fountain in a hexagonal shape was a lush, manicured lawn. Torsten eased the car in the roundabout circling the lawn and stopped in front of the magnificent building. 

It looked like a palace out of a princess fairy tale. Surely it belonged to some French nobility in previous centuries. 

As if by magic, Helena's passenger door opened and she jumped, tearing her gaze away from the beautiful building. But it was a valet who opened her door swiftly and silently. 

"Welcome to St. Yves Place, Mademoiselle Forss," the valet said in French. 

She gingerly stepped out on shaky legs like a newborn fawn. This ordinary girl from Norway just pulled up to a palace and was being treated like a princess. 

Torsten had gotten out himself on the other side and tossed the keys to the valet. He walked around the back of the car and slid an arm around Helena's waist as he approached. 

"Don't look so stunned. This is one of my favorite boutique hotels in Paris."

"I can't help it, it is... stunning," Helena said.

"Wait until you see the inside." Torsten gently urged her forward. Helena walked up the marble steps to the luxurious dark wooden doors. A doorman made a quick bow of his head and pulled one door open. As she crossed the threshold, Helena could not pick her jaw off the floor. 

The ceiling seemed impossibly tall with an intricate chandelier in the center that looked roughly the size of Torsten's car. Two sets of staircases flanked each side of the room, covered in a luxurious red carpet, tinged with gold and black thread. 

A posh-looking sitting area sprawled across the center of the massive room, with luxurious armchairs and a mahogany coffee table that stretched out like a river. Two clean-cut men in expensive-looking suits sat and conversed in French while drinking espresso. 

A fireplace about as tall as she was sat flush into the left wall, the marble mantle outlining its figure like a well-fitting dress. 

Torsten left her side to approach the smiling woman at the front desk across the room, his boots echoing softly on the shiny, marble tile under his feet. Helena's eyes continued to flit across all the details in the massive, luxurious room. 

She never experienced this kind of luxury in her life. Glancing over at the chatting businessmen, she felt out place. Plain and shabby. Lars never told her what kind of money the band made. He never made any kind of effort to take her to a place like this. She wondered if Torsten was trying to impress her or if this was par for the course when it came to touring.