Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) (12 page)

One hand traces its way up my back, all the way to the bottom of my still crop top. Then under it. His fingertips grace my bare skin. I'm not wearing a bra. He's so close to touching me properly.

Why isn't he touching me properly?

My body throbs with need. I stare into Tom's eyes. There's no clue in them. No explanation. He's been clear about us being friends. This isn't what friends do. Friends don't dance like this.

Don't lead each other on.

"Excuse me." I step back. "I'm going to sit the rest of these out."

The song shifts to something faster.

"Willow, don't. I'll stop." His fingers graze my wrist. "Don't brood with Pete. It's no fun."

I will myself to push Tom away, but his body feels too fucking good. Okay. I need to focus on something else. On whatever it is that's upsetting him. "Yeah. But you can't run away from your feelings. You have to let the pain sink in sometimes."

"Not interested in pain. I prefer pleasure."

I stare back at him. It's hard to tell if he's serious, especially with the limited lighting. "What does that mean?"

"I'm not trying to be oblique, kid. But I'm more than happy to explain in detail if that's what gets you off."

Okay. He is mocking me. That's enough. "Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"Teasing me. I get that you're a slut. I get that you can nail any woman you want. I get that you can tell I'm attracted to you, that it amuses you that someone like me would want someone like you. Stop rubbing it in my God damn face."

"Doesn't amuse me."

"Yes it does."

"It doesn't. I... Forget it."

"Just stop teasing me. I don't care how long it's been or how many days you have left until you can finally nail the first girl who meets your stringent criteria." I take a step backwards. "I haven't had sex in six years, and you don't see me torturing my friends to pass the time."

Tom's jaw drops.

I continue before he says something to make me even more angry. "I've got the message. You can do better. We're friends. Platonic. That was your edict, not mine."

"Six years?"

"Yes."

"That's not possible."

I ignore his commentary. I need to stay focused on making it out of this alive. "Stop flirting with me. Please."

"Stop looking at me like you're thinking about me naked."

"Fine."

"Great."

I spin and head for the couch.

Pete has that same calm expression on his face. He leans in close enough to whisper. "You can go. I'll keep an eye on Tom."

"No, I'm great. Having a lot of fun."

It takes Tom the briefest of moments to find a dance partner. He picks a blonde women with long hair and a short skirt. His hands go to her hips, inches from her ass. She whispers something in his ear and clings to his shoulders like he's a buoy and she's lost at sea.

"He won't fuck her," Pete says.

"Cause he can't fuck anyone."

"True." Pete watches the action. "But he won't take her home."

"If I'm really lucky they'll start necking."

"They won't. He doesn't kiss on the lips."

I stare back at him as if to ask
really
.

"You learn way too much about a person's sexual habits on tour. Not that I can talk."

I look at him curiously.

"Phone sex. I get carried away. Or I did. Long story, not very interesting." Pete turns to me. "You like him?"

No sense in denying something this obvious. "Yeah."

"Tom's never thought about anyone that way. Not sure that he believes anyone will ever love him."

That's sad. The acid in my stomach settles down. It's hard to stay angry at someone who seems so lost. He's dancing with the girl, yeah, but he's not here. Not really.

Pete pushes off the couch and offers his hand. "Come on. Let's go. He won't keep making a fool of himself without an audience."

Tom is already on to a new dance partner. She paws at him. She's clearly not interested in Tom Steele, human being. She stares at him like he's a shiny celebrity trophy to show all her friends.

I nod a yes to Pete and follow him out of the club.

***

B
ack at the hotel, I brush my teeth and collapse in bed. Screw pajamas. I strip to my panties and hide under the covers.

My mind is racing. Almost three a.m. and I'm nowhere near sleep. I toss and turn for a solid hour, trying to think about anything but how good Tom's hands felt against my skin.

He was drunk.

Didn't mean anything.

I will myself to stop thinking about him, but that's a completely useless goal. Fine. I guess there's only one way to satisfy my desire.

I pull the covers over my head and slide my hand down my torso. It's been a while since I've done this. Haven't felt any inclination. My fingertips skim the waist of my panties. Already, I can tell it won't be enough. Won't help the situation any.

There's a light knock on the door.

No. Whoever that is, no. I slink under the covers.

They knock again.

"Willow, hey."

Tom.

Hasn't he tortured me enough?

"Y
ou up?" He asks. "I have to say something to you."

"Come back when you're sober."

"I'm sober enough." He taps on the door. "Please."

I want to know what it is that's so important it can't wait for a decent hour of the morning. But I'm not going to make this easy for him.

I pull a thin white tank top over my head and check my reflection in the mirror. It's practically transparent. Perfect.

I open the door. "Yeah?"

His eyes pass over me slowly. They linger on my thighs, my crotch, my breasts.

"Eyes up here, Tom." I copy his tone.

"Can I come in?"

Probably best not to make noise in the hallway at four a.m. I nod, yes, and plant on my bed. Tom closes the door behind him.

He sits next to me, his knee pressing against mine. "You were right. I shouldn't be teasing you."

It's a far cry from
I'm sorry, Willow. Let me make it up to you in orgasms. One for every asshole thing I said. Should be a solid eight, then I'll satisfy you with my solid eight
but it's something. "Okay."

"Yeah. Just. I never had a girl friend before. Don't exactly know the protocol."

"Pretty sure you know it doesn't involve grinding."

"I don't mean to flirt that hard. Can't help myself." He runs a hand through his hair. "No excuses. I'll cut it out."

"Great." I dig my toes into the carpet. It's rough, scratchy. "How was... that girl?"

"Subtle."

"I try."

"Didn't take her home."

"Why not?"

"Didn't feel like it..." He shifts, uncomfortable. "I'm gonna wait the whole two and a half weeks. Too frustrating otherwise."

"What happened to giving without receiving?"

"My cock isn't getting the message." He looks me in the eyes. "You've really gone six years without fucking anybody?"

"Yeah."

"You get fingered or eaten out or anything?"

"I don't think this is appropriate platonic friends conversation."

"Okay. Can I ask one thing?" His expression is earnest, concerned.

I nod. "One thing."

"How fucking horny are you all the time?"

"Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't really think about sex at all. Until recently."

"How recently."

"Until I walked in on you naked."

"That's not personal. Just that it's been years. It's not like you were practicing your photography taking nudes of hot male models, right?"

"True."

"You appreciate an attractive naked man. Nothing wrong with that. As soon as you see another guy, get laid, you'll realize I'm not special."

"I appreciate you writing off my desire. Maybe you should get a new platonic female friend, so you can realize I'm not special."

"Didn't mean that." He pulls the blanket aside, making room for me to get under it. "Go back to bed."

"I don't need to be tucked in."

"You want me to leave, say the word."

I say nothing. Instead, I make a point of stretching long as I lie on my back. My shirt pulls up my stomach, almost all the way to my chest.

Tom's gaze goes to my exposed skin. "You sleep in that?"

I nod.

His fingers graze the edge of my tank top. He starts to pull it down. Slowly. Too slowly. Heat races through my body. I bite my lip, squeeze my toes into the sheet.

Tom looks into my eyes. It's just like in the club. He's asking for permission. Half of me wants to tell him to go fuck himself with his mixed signals. The other half wants to beg him to get into this bed and to get me out of these clothes.

There. The shirt is back in place. His fingers graze the waist of my panties. They stay there.

I rock my hips forward, half an inch.

His fingers stay in place. Not moving closer. Not pulling away.

Just there. Teasing me. Filling me with anticipation.

I press my eyelids together. My lips part with a sigh. Yes. Please. Now.

He doesn't move.

I can't take this anymore. I have to know what this is supposed to mean.

"Tom, I..." A sigh breaks up my words.

He looks away. "You should get to bed."

What? He's leaving. He can't leave now. I'm on fire.

He shifts off the bed. "I... I'll see you tomorrow."

He opens the door and steps into the hallway. He's half lit, half in darkness. It would look gorgeous on film, but it's hard to appreciate anything at the moment. He spent the whole night working me up and now he's leaving.

"Goodnight, kid. Sweet dreams." He pulls the door closed.

***

I
wake up flushed and wanting. Nothing helps. Not swimming laps. Not a cold shower. Not an egg sandwich and a massive cup of dark roast coffee. Even avoiding the band is a hollow victory.

When I can't come up with an excuse for why I, the lowly photographer's assistant, am the one holding up the drive to Seattle, I get my ass to the bus.

Only I'm not holding up anything. Tom is the only one here.

His eyes connect with mine. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Out."

"I called you ten times." He folds his arms over his chest. "Next time try picking up your God damn phone."

"Why? It's not like you were worried."

"Who says I wasn't?"

"I found a pool and went swimming."

"Just tell me next time." He pulls his hoodie over his head and closes his eyes. "God damn, it's bright in here."

Someone steps onto the bus. Miles.

"Pretty sure that's called a hangover." He looks at Tom with a smug expression. "Thought you were above hangovers, Sticks."

"Fuck off," Tom growls.

"Thought that hangovers were a sign you couldn't handle your shit. That you were out of control," Miles says.

"You want to do this now?" Tom glares at Miles. "Cause I've got a fucking laundry list to back up my case. It's starts with Ativan and ends with Ecstasy."

"Ecstasy doesn't start with an X." Miles nods hello. "How are you doing, Willow?"

"Fine." I glance at Tom. "Xanax starts with an X. But those are both prescription anti-anxiety meds." I swallow hard. The therapist at my boarding school was particularly aggressive with medication. I'm sure the drugs help other people, but I hated feeling like I was living under a cloud.

"Sweet of you to help Tom make his argument." Miles looks me in the eyes. "Bring anybody back to your place last night or stuck hanging with Tom and Pete? Although... Wouldn't be a bad man sandwich if you're into that kinda thing. At least if you can get most of it from Pete and not Tom."

"A man sand—" Oh God, he means a threesome.

"Wouldn't that be a girl sandwich?" Tom asks. "The girl is in the middle. You don't call a pastrami on rye a rye sandwich."

Miles nods, accepting his point. "You and Pete ever tag team a girl?"

"Fuck off."

Light floods the bus as Miles flips open the blinds. Tom glares daggers at him.

"Didn't realize it was a sore subject." Miles laughs. "More sore for the lucky lady."

God help me, there's something appealing about the idea of the two of them at once. Maybe I fell on my head and woke up a sex maniac. That would explain the sudden influx of lust in my veins.

"Pete? Seriously. He's only ever been with Cindy," Toms says. "And don't talk about him like that."

"You ever listen to the man go at it on the phone? The shit that comes out of his mouth makes
me
blush. Bet he can get a girl off without even touching her."

"Isn't that the point of phone sex?"

"But without her touching herself."

"That's my brother, asshole."

"Not biologically." Miles shrugs.

"You ever have a threesome with another guy?" Tom asks.

"Once or twice. When I was using, fuck if I remember."

"Who?"

"Nobody you know."

"Drew?" Tom asks.

Miles laughs so hard he cries. "Fuck, Sticks, that's a good one."

"I could see it."

The laughter continues. "Okay. Sure. Who would Drew tap in? You?"

"No. Somebody he doesn't want to punch in the face."

"So, nobody." Miles shakes his head, apology in his eyes. "Sorry about the mental images." He looks back to Tom. "Who the fuck did you tap in?"

"It was in high school," Tom says.

"We went to the same high school."

"You were two grades above me."

"Who?"

"It was after you moved to Malibu."

"Mhmm."

Tom breaks. He feigns shyness. "Alan's girlfriend had a fantasy. It was her birthday wish."

Miles laughs. "You've always been giving." He looks back to me. "You ever have a threesome, Willow?"

"No. I don't really sleep around." I try to change the subject before my mind gives up on productivity and moves to the gutter. My birthday is coming up. If Tom just goes around granting women's birthday wishes—

"I'll be your wingman if you want to change that." Miles steps past Tom, pointing me to the kitchenette. "You have a hangover? Don't mind torturing Tom with the coffee grinder but you seem like a nice girl."