Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) (28 page)

"Not yet." I push the toy away. "I want you to come with me."

"Not sure you're gonna make it." He shifts the vibrator away. "But I'll try."

He repositions our bodies, me flat on my stomach, my legs spread, him on top of me. He thrusts into me. His mouth goes to my shoulders and neck, sucking, kissing, biting gently. He's still attentive, like he's never going to lose control.

A few more thrusts, and I'm too close to think anything at all. I bite my lip, trying to hold off my orgasm. It's no use. The tension knots. It's too much, too intense. I need to come. Immediately. I arch my hips to match his movements, to push him deeper.

There. My orgasm is one hard pulse of pressure and then I'm unraveling. My legs shake as I come. I squeeze the sheets, screaming anything that will fall off my lips. Mostly his name.

My body goes slack. I collapse. Spent.

Tom presses his lips to my ear. "Fuck was that hot." He shifts off me, lying flat on his back.

No way I'm letting him go unfinished.

I push myself onto my hands and knees and bring my body over his. I wrap my hand around his cock. "Can I help you with this problem?"

"You don't have to be that polite," he groans.

"No? Doesn't turn you on—" I suck on his earlobe until he's groaning and thrusting into my hand. "To hear me ask, Tom, may I please suck your cock?"

"Fuck," he groans. "Say it again."

I'm too wound up to get self-conscious. I whisper in his ear. "May I please suck your cock?"

He groans something completely incomprehensible.

I kiss my way to his chest and stop to flick my tongue over his nipples. "Will you come in my mouth?"

"You want me to?"

"Please."

"You're gonna kill me." He brings his hands to my hair. "God, yes."

I plant kisses down his torso. I've never enjoyed giving head before. Certainly never made a special request. But I want to make Tom feel as good as I do. I want to be in control of his pleasure.

The piercing is a little daunting. I take my time getting into position. I push his legs apart, sit back on my heels, and press one hand against his hip. Once I'm confident in my leverage and my balance, I lower myself closer.

There. I wrap my hand around his cock and flick my tongue against his tip. He tastes like me. Because he fucked me so thoroughly. It spurs me on, but I'm not feeling merciful.

Teasing earns teasing.

I flick my tongue against him. Again and again. Until he's groaning and clawing at the bed. I try different speeds. Faster. Slower. Harder. Softer. I lick my way around him, stopping to give his piercing thorough attention. It's even more fun like this. He shudders whenever I flick my tongue against it. He claws at my hair. His groans are desperate and needy.

Still, I tease. I tease until I can't take it anymore.

He sighs when I wrap my mouth around him. He presses his hand against the back of my head, guiding me gently. I take him deeper. Deeper. When I can't take anymore, I use my hand like an extension of my mouth, stroking him.

I do it again. Again.

"Harder," he groans.

God, the way that pleasure sounds on his lips. It echoes around the room, filling me with satisfaction.

I suck harder. Harder. Until he groans loudly enough to wake the people down the street. I keep up my motions until his hands knot in my hair.

Deep groans escape his lips. "I'm gonna come."

He tugs at my hair. Gently at first. Then rough enough it hurts.

I hold Tom in my mouth as he comes. He's salty and sweet at once. I like him in my mouth, feeling his orgasm, tasting it.

When he's finished, I push myself up and swallow hard.

There's a world of wonder in his eyes. He blinks, dumbfounded.

He pulls me onto the bed and wraps his body around mine. He runs his fingers through my hair. "Haven't got carried away in a long time."

"I liked it." I nestle into his body.

"You knocked me out. Only have about ninety seconds of consciousness left."

"Sleep. You have TCM and Netflix. I'll be entertained."

I go to shift off the bed but Tom pulls me next to him.

He wraps his arms around me, pulls my body into his. "Don't go."

"Okay."

"No." His voice is soft, mumbled, halfway to sleep. "Don't leave me."

"I won't."

"You promise?"

"Yeah." I press my lips into his forehead. "I promise."

Within minutes, his muscles go slack, his breathing slows. He's asleep. I close my eyes and let my body find slumber.

This could be my life.

It really could be this perfect.

I
wake to an empty house. The glory of this place is utterly lost on me. The sunshine, the warm air, the crystal clear aqua pool—it's all lost on me. I can barely smell the chlorine. Barely taste my coffee. It's not that he's gone. Not exactly.

He must be worried. Scared. My stomach refuses to settle. I'm scared for him. I shoot him the most low-key
I'm absolutely not checking on you
text I can muster.

Willow: Hey. How is everything? Call me if you need to talk.

No response.

No response while I kill time watching a movie.

No response when I dress, pack my suitcase, and take an Uber to Kara and Drew's brunch spot. They're both ecstatic when they arrive. Kara takes every opportunity to show off her engagement ring. But she's much more excited by the fresh ink on her shoulder. A key. And Drew has the matching lock on his shoulder. When they press against each other, the key and the lock connect.

And here I thought they couldn't get more adorable.

I muster up enough enthusiasm they don't interrogate my mood. Don't get me wrong. I'm happy for them. It's just hard for the happiness to get through all the dread in my gut. For Tom or because of him? The only thing I'm sure of is how much I need him.

Drew and Kara spend the entire day showing off Santa Monica, Venice Beach, and Marina Del Rey. The loose collection of cities west of the 405 is called the Westside and it's beautiful. Everything is clean. The sun shines big in the bright blue sky. The air tastes of salt. The breeze blows over the streets, tempering the heat.

Even with all the nerves in my stomach, I fall for the city. I want to be here. Near my brother and all the people who are becoming my friends.

It's the perfect place to set up a studio.

But not if things get messier with Tom.

Still no response.

Still no response at dinner.

Or when we get ice cream after.

Or when we go back to Drew's place and pick out classic romance
Sabrina
from the many streaming options. My brother, the good fiancé. He doesn't object to watching something about feelings.

Halfway through the movie, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I nearly jump out of my seat.

Tom: Results are inconclusive. Mom has to have another test in a few weeks. It should be right after we finish the tour.

Willow: Are you okay?

Tom: Yeah. You alone?

Willow: With Drew and Kara.

Tom: Too bad. I was going to send you a naughty picture.

Willow: Do it anyway. Please.

Tom: Thinking about it.

Willow: They got a couple's tattoo. It's disgustingly cute.

Tom: Tsk. Tsk. You should be happy for your brother, kid.

Willow: I am.

Tom: Would you ever get a couple's tattoo?

Willow: With you or with someone else?

Tom: With Brad Pitt. Of course with me.

Willow: Depends.

Tom: On?

Willow: If this is forever or not.

Drew clears his throat. "It's rude to text during the movie, Wil."

Kara whispers something in his ear, capturing all his attention. "If you want some privacy, you can take the spare room, sweetie." She motions upstairs. "Just ignore the guitars. In fact, if one is lying on the floor, go ahead and kick it."

"Insolent today, Kendrick. I'm gonna have to punish you for that." He whispers in her ear.

She laughs.

Yes, privacy sounds like a capital idea. For them as much as for me. It must be nice, loving someone that openly and honestly.

"Yeah. Thanks." I push myself off the couch. Sorry, Humphrey Bogart but you've got nothing on Tom Steele.

I don't look at my phone until I'm alone in the spare room, my back pressed against the door for extra security.

Tom hasn't replied to my not quite a question. Not with words.

The only thing on my phone is a picture message:

Him, from the neck down, completely naked.

So much for thinking anything besides
oh hell yes
for the rest of the night.

***

T
om and I talk about nothing for hours.

The next day, we're back on the road, on the tour. The bus is louder with Meg and Kara around. But sometimes it's not. Sometimes it's quieter, sometimes one of the happy couples goes off to a bunk or to the bedroom and soaks in the glory of just being together.

And I sit with Tom, close enough to feel all the warmth of him but not close enough that I have to explain this to anyone, and soak in the glory of being with him.

I get lost in the rhythm of the tour. Hazel works me hard. Every night we're stopped, she has a new project that requires my assistance. She talks to me about my interest in a studio, guides me through my options. Encourages my boudoir aspirations enough that I actually manage to do a shoot with a model. Then it's two. Then three. Then half a dozen. Little by little, I get comfortable working with strangers.

I go on a photography tear. When we're stopped with nothing to do, I take headshots or portraits of anyone who will get in front of the camera.

The pictures are good.

Really good.

Like I can really do this.

Like my life could really be setting up a studio in Los Angeles, near Tom, near everyone.

If he loves me too.

If this is forever.

There are too many possibilities, and I don't get much of him. There's always someone around. I'm tired. He's busy trying to catch up on all the stuff he does besides playing the drums like a God damn machine. We're two ships passing in the night, barely time for a kiss or a hug or an occasional screw in my hotel room, late at night, after everyone is asleep.

The days blur together. Two weeks. Then three. We curve around the South West. Then we're in San Diego.

Today is the last show. The last day of knowing where I'm going to be or what I'm going to do.

Now I have to figure out what the hell I'm doing with my photography.

With Tom.

With the rest of my life.

***

T
he guys are more relaxed tonight. It is a relief, knowing this is the last show for a while. Can't say that I spend much time taking in Pete, Drew, or Miles's mood. Behind the camera, the world makes sense. My feelings for Tom don't overwhelm me. Even when I'm photographing him. He's an amazing subject. This look of concentration spreads over his face as he loses himself in the music. His arms flail with frenetic energy. But they're precise. Exact. Sweat drips off his torso. During a break in the set, he stands and joins Miles at the mic. Mostly to show off his body. Some to goad Drew and Pete out of their clothes.

It works! It never works. Pete really is attractive. I can see why Hazel teases. His body is easily as good as Tom's. The curving lines of a tattoo peek out from the waist of his skinny jeans. It's not just a thigh tattoo. It's over his hip too.

That's yummy.

I spend almost a whole ten seconds looking at something that isn't Tom.

Can't say I'm particularly moved by my brother stripping. But I know other women will be. Especially with the way he's blushing. I capture his awkwardness. And the way the audience groans with adoration when he shows off his new tattoo.

The show blurs together. I get lost in my photography. The concert thing gets old, night after night, but there's something amazing about capturing the energy, the mood, the facial expressions.

I snap out of my trance in time for the encore. Thank God we're almost done with this touring thing. I'm exhausted. I barely hear the outro, the guys soaking in the adoration of the audience.

They make a dramatic exit. The lights go down.

And that's it. Show's over. I can't hide behind my camera anymore. I can't throw all my energy into surviving the tour anymore.

I have to figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life.

Hell, I have to figure out what I'm doing tomorrow. It's Ophelia's test. And I'm still not sure if I'm invited. Every time it comes up, Tom and I end up out of our clothes before we can discuss it.

Thankfully, Hazel demands my presence immediately. I take one last look at the sweaty crowd leaving the packed venue—it's been a hell of a ride—and make my way to her backstage editing nook.

"You've come a long way, Willow." She compares a set of pictures from our first show to a set from last night's show. "How do you feel?"

"Exhausted."

"Don't tell me you're skipping the end of tour party." She hooks up my camera and uploads the pictures. Her eyes stay on the computer. "You're too young to hide."

"I'm not hiding from anything."

"Hmm."

Hazel takes me through the evening's set. She points out her favorites and gives me tips on places to improve. Then we do the same with her photos. She's taken half as many pictures but there are twice as many keepers. One day, I'll be that good.

"Show me some of your personal projects, sweetheart." She nods to my camera. "Every time I see you, you look exhausted. Tell me it's because you're busy shooting pictures and not because you're sleeping off hangovers."

"I don't really drink. But there's nothing on my camera. I wiped my memory card last night. Here." I take over on the computer and show off a Dropbox folder of my recent portraits. It's a mix of standard actor headshots, moody editorial pieces, and a hell of a lot of boudoir.

"These are fantastic." She points to a headshot of Pete with a mysterious look on his face. "I can admit my bias towards the subject, but you'll get actors knocking down your door if you can get Pete to show off this much emotion." She navigates to a sweet yet sultry boudoir shoot of an inexperienced model. "You captured her shyness without letting it bleed into fear or insecurity. This is great work."