The Song Remains the Same (43 page)

“Yeah, I’ve got other responsibilities.” She laughed. “Kenna told me you just bought an apartment here, so hopefully, I’ll be able to see you all more.” With a small wave and a smile, Mike made her way out of the VIP balcony overlooking the stage.

“Phil?”

“Yeah, Baby Girl.”

“Please tell me you never slept with her,” I whispered.

His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “I’ve never slept with her. I’ve never done anythin’ with her.”

Slumping against him in relief, I hugged him hard around his tapered waist. “Cool. Because I really like her.”

He busted out laughing, and I gave Robin and Dean hugs. Then, I met some of metal’s New York elite.

The interview I had joined Mike on was for the band Freedom to Speak, a highly controversial and political hard rock–punk group that had been stirring up some serious interest in the northern East Coast. We had gone in armed with a recorder, and even though I had no questions of my own prepared, Mike had seemed impressed with the fact that I had busted out with my own notebook and pen, ready to scribble away.

“I take notes of the bands,” I’d sheepishly told her.

“I want you to take notes and write up a review on them. If it’s anything like your other reviews, I’ll include it in the article and give you credit, of course.”

Holy shit!

Meeting the band had been a blast. As much as they took their music and message seriously, they had been extremely open, non-chauvinistic, and friendly with us. They wrote and played on everything from the war in the Middle East to the abhorrence of rape culture, and I was really looking forward to listening to their set.

“Do you have any demos or albums out right now? Are you with a record label?” I’d asked the lead singer, Jeremy.

Fishing through a box, he’d handed me a few demos. “We aren’t signed with anyone.”

I’d gotten all their information, and I would be giving it to Phil if their music was worth it. Having a balls-to-the-wall band like Freedom to Speak might just be the direction NOLA Records would like to go.

Watching Freedom to Speak on stage and listening to them and their hard, edgy sound was perfect. Already, I was writing up a review in my head, and when I casually mentioned to Phil that they were unsigned, he nearly jumped over the balcony to get to the backstage area.

Grabbing my hand, he marched us down there, easily getting access from security. Freedom to Speak were walking off the stage when Phil accosted them.

“Oy! You guys aren’t signed?”

“Holy shit, that’s Phil fucking Deveraux!” croaked Jeremy.

His eyes darted to me, and I gave him a thumbs-up.

“Yeah, and he’s with the reporter chick. Cara?” asked the guitarist, Jimmy.

“Kenna,” corrected Phil. “My Baby Girl said you guys weren’t signed yet.”

“Kenna is Baby Girl?” asked the bass player, Larry.

“She is,” said Phil impatiently. “NOLA’s Junk has started our own label—”

Jeremy nodded. “Yeah, we’ve heard that.”

“If you guys are interested, I think we’d love to produce with you.”

Jeremy beamed from ear to ear. “Hell yeah. You guys wanna join us for a few beers?”

Phil looked to me. “If you wanna, Baby, I’m down.”

“Sure,” I replied.

Buzzing, we hailed a taxi and headed back for our last night at Stephen and Tara’s painfully colorful penthouse. Phil was feeling frisky and continuously groped me while waiting for the cab and then while in the cab. In the elevator, we were full-on making out. I would’ve been embarrassed, but Stephen and Tara were dry-humping up against the elevator wall anyway, so whatever. When the doors let out the soft
ding
, Phil tossed me over his shoulder and marched into the apartment.

“See y’all tomorrow,” he drawled at them, cavemanning it to our room.

“Oof!” I grunted as he put me on my feet.

“Baby Girl,” he panted, kicking off his shit-kickers, “I’m about to come in my fuckin’ pants.”

Seriously, the bulge was enormous.

“You fuckin’ looked like sex on legs all night, and I was watchin’ you flirt with everyone—”

“I was not!” I huffed, bending over and unzipping my boots.

“Stop!” he cried.

“What now?”

Hand whipping out, he pointed to the corner of the room. “You see that fuckin’ chair?”

“I do, yes.”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ sit in that fuckin’ chair, butt-ass
nekkid
, and I’m gonna watch you fuckin’ strip out of those second-skin jeans you’re wearin’. Don’t fuckin’ move until I fuckin’ tell you.”

With the level of profanity used, I could hazard a guess as to how painful his erection must be. Tearing himself out of his clothes, he threw them haphazard all over the room before settling his
nekkid
ass in the squishy-looking armchair.

His big hand wrapped around his huge cock, and my knees nearly buckled beneath me. Phil looked confident and delicious as all hell.

“Strip,” he commanded. “Nice and slow.”

Fuck, I’m done for. That voice, that face, that body, that cock—he has the whole fucking package. Gods above, I can’t stop staring at him!

Phil cocked an eyebrow. “Baby Girl?”

“Yeah, Phil,” I breathed.

Aw, that made him smile, which turned me to jelly.

“Start with your sweater.”

My hands fumbled slightly, but I managed to pull the damn thing over my head. Underneath, I wore only a sheer black chamois. I went to pull it off, but he shook his head.

“Jeans.”

Since I’d already removed my boots, I peeled those fuckers down, not sure how successful my attempt at being sexy turned out. He didn’t laugh, so that was a plus.

“Beautiful,” he sighed.

His head dropping back, he surveyed me through narrowed eyes. His hand stroked up and down the length of him, and I felt myself blush, biting my lip.

“Take off the rest,” he said throatily.

“Top or bottoms?”

“Top.”

He let out a sexy groan as I tossed the chamois away with a flick of my wrist. I hooked my thumbs into my panties, but he shook his head again.

“Grab your tits, Baby Girl. Try to make me come without even touchin’ me.”

I can do this! I just wish for the life of me that I could quit blushing.

My hands unhurriedly slid up my sides to cup my breasts, squeezing gently and tugging on the nipples. They were hard, aching in the most awesome way. Sticking a thumb in my mouth, I wet it and then rubbed it over a sharp nipple.

“Ah, fuck…” he moaned.

Upping the ante, I reached up and tugged my ponytail, letting my hair spill over my shoulders and down my back. I never took my eyes off him, showing him he affected me just as much. I was
dying
to be filled with him. That hollow ache intensified. Before I could catch myself, my hand slipped beneath my panties, my fingers slicking between the lips, and I gave my clit the pressure it craved.

“Are you wet, Baby Girl?”

“Yeah…” I breathed.

“How do you taste?”

Fingers drenched, I brought them to my lips. “Like your mouth after you go down on me, only not as good.”

“Not as good? Baby, you’re my favorite flavor.”

“But it doesn’t taste like you, too,” I explained.

That made him growl deep in his chest. “Take off your bottoms.”

Pushing them down, I stepped out of them and sank to the floor. Phil’s eyes widened, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I spread my knees wide and slipped my hand between them again.

“I want you so bad, it hurts,” I confessed softly.

Crooking a finger, he commanded, “Come here.”

On hands and knees, I crawled my way to him. Every nerve in my body was firing off with the need to feel him all over me, inside me. The sight of him pumping his cock was driving me insane. The tip glistened with an obscene amount of pre-cum, and my mouth watered, wanting to taste it. I met his gaze, and the inferno between us burned as hot and bright as ever. I could practically see the heat shimmering in his eyes.

I wrapped my lips around the tip of his cock and sucked it clean.

“What do I taste like?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Sweet,” I replied. “And salty.” Deliberately, I licked the head, pushing the tip of my tongue into the tiny slit. “And
clean
.”

“Fuck, Baby…” he gasped. Reaching down, he lifted me up to straddle his waist. Grasping his cock, he rubbed the head of it along my oozing slit. “You want it?”

“I
always
want it,” I replied, squirming. “I always want
you
.”

“I always want you, too, Kenna. Only you,” he said softly.

Positioning himself, he pushed the head inside.

“Phil…” I moaned, trying to take more of him.

He wasn’t letting me.

Diabolical bastard!
“Please!”

“Please, what?”

“Please put it in me. I need you in me.”

Letting go of his cock, he slid his hands to my waist, allowing me to slowly sink down the length of him. We both sighed as the head of him tapped against my cervix.

“So perfect…” he breathed, his fingers digging into my flesh. “I can feel your tiny heartbeat, Kenna. It’s goin’ apeshit on my dick.”

“Oh God…” I whimpered, wriggling. I needed to feel him move, needed the long pulling friction of his cock riding me hard. “Please, babe. I just need you to fuck me.”

“I will, Kenna. I just need to feel you first.”

“Please!” I cried out.

Crushing me close, he buried his face in my neck, tonguing and tasting the sensitive flesh. Beneath me, his hips arched, thrusting deeper, shooting a swift zing of pain through my core.

Fuck yeah.

With a guttural groan, he seized my mouth with his, infusing me with the wild, brutal need pumping through him. It was so good between us, so constant and strong, and we both needed a little pain to take the edge off the sweetness.

“Ride me hard,” his voice ground out. “Fuck my brains out.”

Grabbing on to the back of the chair to steady myself, I lifted up and slammed myself down.

“Oh…fuuuuck.” He arched against me.
“Harder!”

My insides had gone molten, fluid, so fucking hot. I was peaking quickly, and I couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t let me. My cunt squeezed down on him, and it was so mind-blowing that I was close to blacking out. Still, he wouldn’t let up. He was helping me, working me hard. My next orgasm was building steadily once more.

Fuck. Yes. Fuck. Yes. Oh, holy shit!

The back of the chair repeatedly banged against the walls joining at the corner—
thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk
—creaking and groaning in distress.

“Fuck, Baby, don’t stop!”

Our bodies grew slick with our sweat, and the wet slapping sounded like a twisted bit of warped heaven.

“Come for me. I can feel—” He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes screwing up tight. “FUCK! NOW!” he roared.

With the strength of a tsunami, I came, feeling it rush out from my core to the roots of my hair and the tips of my nipples, fingers, and toes.

“Fuck!” I screamed just as Phil bucked hard beneath me, roaring incoherently.

Collapsing on top of him, our breaths labored and harsh, I was as limp as a boned fish.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, kissing the top of my head.

A giggle escaped me, and I bit my lip to stop it. I shifted slightly, and the fucking chair broke. With a snapping sound not unlike the crack of wet bone, two legs buckled beneath the thing, and we went sprawling on the floor.

I laughed so hard that tears started leaking down my cheeks.

“That was awesome!” I crowed.

After fixing up the apartment in New York to our tastes, we spent the rest of our time there breaking it in. While we were there, we could pretend life really was just the two of us. We didn’t have to share a house with several roommates. It was just Phil and me, and it was something we really, really enjoyed.

“I think we’re gonna have to get our own place in Louisiana,” he told me as we packed up the things we were taking with us back to Lafayette. “I like our privacy too much.”

Phil’s dad had moved back into the Plantation House in La Place, taking our half, while Danielle, Martin, and the kids had taken over the other side. Da and Gloria were staying at my place since the flooding had annihilated their home.