Wild Licks (9 page)

She had been wanting this all along.

“You wanton thing.” I rubbed the lip of the bottle up and down against her clit and was rewarded with a wail from deep inside her as she came, the throbbing around my cock almost intense enough to make me come, too. I pushed the bottle aside and went after her clit with my thumb, wanting another orgasm from her almost as much as I wanted my own, pursuing it relentlessly.

She screamed again, and then I thrust my thumb into her, fucking her in both holes at once, and any plans I may have been making to delay my own gratification further were shredded by an orgasm so intense I lost my vision, my breath, and probably my mind.

People throw around the phrase
best sex of my life
a lot when what I think they mean is “most recent sex in my life.” Like “best pizza I ever ate.” It wasn't the best; it was just the most recent.

Well, this was the best sex of my life up to that point. I'd never come so hard or that many times in quick succession. Because it was anal? Or because it was Mal? More likely Mal—his style, his technique, the way he made me feel—it all added up.

When we were done, he moved to the small sink to clean up a little and I saw the tattoo on his back for the first time. Had I really not seen Mal shirtless from behind before? Perhaps I'd had a quick glance that time at the Forum, but his hair was so long it could hide the sinuous blackwork dragon that coiled up his spine and spread its wings across his shoulders. Right now his hair was in front, though, giving me a full view of the tattoo.

He returned and lay down with me side by side on the narrow couch, slipping one hand between my legs immediately. That made me feel really weird—warm and wanted and possessed. I was used to withdrawing into my own body after sex and it was like Mal was holding the door open.

I liked that feeling.

“That was great,” I said, because someone ought to fill the silence.

He grunted in agreement. “I must reluctantly concur.”

“Reluctantly?”

“Only in that you have forced me to reevaluate my rule.”

How did he have the ability to speak like an English professor right after knee-buckling sex? I tried to engage my brain. “Did that rule exist because the second time is never as good?”

His chuckle was low, dry. “You could say that.” He reached up to stroke my wig affectionately.

What was he being so cagey about? That wasn't a yes or no. I tried asking another way. “Is the problem that you get bored?” When he didn't answer right away, I figured I had hit a nerve. “Because you'll never get bored of me. I can be a different woman every time.”

“Can you?”

“Sure.” If I was looking for a test of my acting abilities, this would certainly be one. “You tell me what you want, or let me surprise you.”

He slipped a finger inside me and I clung to his shoulders with my hands. He murmured into my ear. “You'll find that I'm very difficult to satisfy.”

I couldn't answer for a few seconds, as his finger triggered waves of aftershocks through my body. Which gave me my answer. “So am I.”

“And the reason I don't do repeats is I become increasingly difficult to satisfy.” He chuckled again and I felt certain this was just more dirty talk, not the real reason for Mal's rule. That was probably still fear of intimacy after all—which was why my proposal that I could be a different woman for him every time was perfect. The thrill of victory surged through me as he said, “If we're going to do this, you need to understand I'm going to push you hard.”

All I heard was
we're going to do this.
Yes! “What do you mean by that?”

He jammed a second finger in alongside the first. “I am first and foremost a sadist. I like pain. I like suffering—
your
suffering especially. Sexual suffering
most
especially. To me the purpose of bondage isn't to look pretty or to tweak your leather fetish. It's to make sure you can't escape while I'm torturing you.”

My throat tightened at the same time as I squeezed his fingers inside me. The words he was saying had stoked the fire between my legs to raging, even as my brain was thinking:
Is he just playing around, or does he mean it?

I really hoped he wasn't just playing around.

I tried to get back into character. “I don't have a tattoo that says
Love Pain
by accident,” I snarled.

With the hand that wasn't deep in my snatch, he yanked my hair (thank you, wig clips!) and forced me to look into his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“For the sex,” I said quickly.

“Why me?”

“Because your reputation says you're the roughest of The Rough.”

He searched my eyes. “A beautiful woman like you could surely have her pick of bedmates.”

I nodded as best I could with his grip at the back of my neck. “And I pick you.” I tried to sound just as confident when I confessed the thing I hadn't been able to say aloud, even while Chuck had been tattooing me: “Because it's not just sex I need. I need pain, too.”

“Perhaps this arrangement can be mutually satisfying, then,” he said, sliding his fingers in and out of me. “I promise no permanent damage, no scars. Beyond that, my dear, here is my pledge. Accept any pain I dish out, any command I give, and you will never take your leave of me unsatisfied. But refuse me and I will send you away unfulfilled.”

“That seems fair,” I said, my hips starting to move in time with his thrusts.

“I cannot promise that our trysts will be frequent,” he added. “Though I confess I would dearly like to see you next week.”

Maybe it was just his accent but phrases like
dearly like to see you
sent my heart racing. “N-next week would be fine.”

“I'll secure a hotel suite. How will I contact you?”

“I'll give you my e-mail address.”

“Excellent. Then I will send you not only the location but also instructions on who to be.”

“How much time will you give me to prepare? If I need a costume or—”

“Two days, at least. Now tell me honestly, Excrucia, do you want to come again?”

I tried to close my legs around his hand but he blocked me with his elbow, his thumb working up and down my clit. “You've been fingering me. Of course I—”

“A simple yes or no would suffice.”

“Yes.”

“The coin is pain, the return is pleasure,” he said. “Tell me what pain you'll give me in exchange for this pleasure.”

My heart beat in double time while I racked my brain. What pain? Did he mean what part of me I wanted him to hurt, or what way I wanted to be hurt? I was paralyzed by the possibilities.

But I suddenly realized what the only right answer was. “I'll give you whatever pain you want to inflict.”

His grin was feral. “That's right. You will.” With that, he bit down on one of my nipples and did not let up until I was screaming—from orgasm.

Sweet mother of angels, what was I getting myself into? I left her in the trailer, well fucked and sated, while I fled to the refuge of my car in the outer parking lot. I managed to escape without running into anyone else from the band, which was fortunate because the thing I needed most at that moment was to be alone to think.

It was already madness to have decided to go down this road with a groupie, but
Gwen
!
I was full-on certifiably insane. I was putting myself on a collision course with everything I knew I should avoid. How long would it be before she came to realize that what I did to her was leaving unseen scars? How long before she renounced me and reviled me? How long before her self-esteem crumbled under the weight of submission? Risa had led me on for months before biting the hand that fed her. Risa, the woman I would have married despite my father's approval, despite the issues, despite everything, had she not broken every promise and recanted every moment she had spent as my supposed slave.

But Gwen is not Risa,
I told myself.

No, in fact, Gwen is not even
Gwen
, technically, having come to me twice now under a disguise. Did she know that I knew? She was certainly playing it cool if she did.

I pulled onto the highway, letting my brain drive on autopilot while I thought. Either she had no idea that I recognized her or she was such a good actress that she didn't let on the slightest bit. Both were possible, I decided. Maybe what she wanted most was to get away from her prim and proper heiress life and this charade allowed her to? I could certainly sympathize with that.

If that was her strategy, it made a certain amount of sense. That way we could still be seen in public for PR purposes. She could pretend all we had was an arranged thing and so could I. We could keep all the rest locked away in our trysts.

There was a kind of safety in pretending. I wondered if it allowed her more resilience, feeling that a scene was happening to a character instead of to her true self. Role-play seemed to ramp up the intensity while simultaneously allowing a kind of emotional buffer.

I still had no doubt that after a few such experiences at my hand she would decide she'd had enough and pull away from me. She was too strong and smart a woman to let me have my way for very long. A time would come when I'd fail to rein in the Need, when I'd push too far. Then it would be time to separate…but perhaps not quite yet. My fantasies were straining for release as I dreamed of the possibilities we might explore together. I'd told her I would dictate where to appear and who to be when she did. If I was already her fantasy, what fantasy of mine could she fulfill?

The possibilities were so enticing to dream on I drove right past my exit.

We took two days off after the Beach Bash and then we went back to rehearsing. I wrote some fragmentary songs while home alone, but I reserved judgment on whether they were excellent or pure dreck. When I am at my most heated emotionally, it is likely to be one or the other, but my ability to judge which was absent entirely.

Meanwhile, I finally confronted Christina and Marcus via phone while driving to our rehearsal space late that morning. “I've been waiting to hear what producer we'll be working with in the next session, you know,” I told them.

“Well, given our timeline, we're a little constrained by who's available. Christina nixed the idea of Max Martin because you'd have to move to Europe for a month or two to work with him,” Marcus said.

I grunted in agreement.

“I do wish you'd consider giving Larkin Johns another chance.”

I pulled over rather than risk an accident while arguing, because I could barely see from rage. “You have got to be kidding me.” My knuckles whitened as I stress-gripped the steering wheel.

“Hear me out, would you? I know you didn't see eye to eye—”

“I threw him out of the studio and locked the door behind him,” I reminded him.

“I know, and I want you to know he doesn't hold that against you. Mal, he understands how passionately you want the final product to be good. I really believe you two have more in common than you think.”

I couldn't very well say that the reason I disliked Johns was his tendency to side with the record execs rather than the artists. “I'm not some pop princess who will do as she's told,” I said instead.

“No one expects you to be. May I point out that the two songs he produced on your last album are the two that have hit the Top Forty? ‘Kidnap My Heart' wouldn't have done half as well without his sound. I truly believe that.”

“I believe you have a self-fulfilling prophecy. The two songs you gave him to rework are the two you enthusiastically pushed as singles.”

“I should also point out that right now in the UK, four of the top five singles in airplay were all his. He's got a really good grasp on the sound that will cross over to European markets. Not that we at Basic actually get anything from your UK deal…” He trailed off and I wondered if he was trying to hide some bitterness about that, especially since he then entreated Christina to change my mind. “Christina, what do you think?”

“Mal,” she said, “I will fight for whatever you want. But I don't want to cut off the band's best chance for big sales over a personality conflict.”

I was silent.

Marcus spoke. “You and Larkin are both professionals. I know you could work together if you stay focused on the common goal of a kick-ass album.”

“The difficulty lies in our divergent priorities,” I said, trying to be polite about it.

“Well, I'd like to sit down with you and him, and the rest of the band if you want, and discuss those priorities. Unless there's some other producer you'd like us to try to get?”

“You know I'd prefer Bart Cubbins,” I said. Other than the tracks Johns had reworked, the rest of the album had been basically mixed by me, Samson, and Cubbins in a collaborative effort.

“He's not available,” Marcus said quickly. “I know, I did check. Even though I didn't like that choice, I did check. If there were an easy alternative, I'd have suggested it, Mal.”

“Fine. Set up a meeting in a few days.”

“Great. Will do.”

“See?” Christina said to Marcus. “I told you he could be reason—”

I hung up as I sped back into traffic. Maybe the meeting would make it obvious to Marcus how badly we got along.

Overall, rehearsal went well that day, and we were blissfully undisturbed for two whole days in a row. Almost. Late on the second day, Axel picked up his phone and said, “Now I know why bands go to the south of France or tropical islands to work on stuff.” He stared at his phone, shaking his head.

I set my guitar down and signaled the others to take a break as well. “What is it this time?”

“Christina got us on the guest list for Jolene Hingham's birthday party.” He cracked his neck and sighed. “Biggest see-and-be-seen event this season, she says.”

“Two questions,” I said. “One, when? Two, who is Jolene Hingham?”

“Three,” Chino piped up. “All of us or just you two?”

“All of us,” Axel said, “tonight, and she won best supporting actress last year for playing the schizophrenic best friend in
West Texas
.”

“Ah. So not the one with the lips puffed to match her tits,” I said. “The redhead.”

“Yes, although I don't think she's normally a redhead,” Axel said. “So don't go making a fool of yourself at the party saying happy birthday to the wrong woman.”

“Will we even have a chance to greet this woman? How big is this party?” I asked, looking over Axel's shoulder to see if Christina had sent any further information.

Up popped the official invitation and I heard a few other phones chime in the room: Christina had forwarded it to all of us. The bright yellow graphic was a rose—the yellow rose of Texas?—and the font was some kind of coiled rope design. Not the sexy kind of rope, the fake cowboy font kind. “Please tell me there isn't a rodeo theme.”

Axel looked back at me in sympathy. “I would, but I'd be lying. Hoedown all the way, it looks like.”

I held in a groan.

“Aw, c'mon, Mal,” Chino said, bumping me with his shoulder. “At least we get a break from tuxedoes.”

“You can still wear black,” Axel pointed out. “Put on that concha belt you got in New Mexico and all the rest of the silver and turquoise stuff.”

“I suppose.” It was just as well that we were being yanked out of rehearsal, I thought, given how it was going. I wasn't pleased with how the band was sounding and my own playing irked me. I picked up my phone to check the details of the location and saw I had a text.

From Gwen. How fortuitous?

I was going to stay home and watch Netflix tonight but did you see they got rid of all the BBC shows?

Just kidding. Tonight's the birthday party for one of Simon Gabriel's clients, Jolene Hingham, and I've been encouraged to make an appearance. Make it with me?

I strongly suspected that the female grapevine had carried the suggestion from ear to ear rather than it being a complete coincidence, but I supposed it didn't matter. I texted her back:

Apparently I've also been invited to the party. I would hate to disappoint Ms. Hingham and I would hate even more to disappoint you. I shall pick you up at 7pm.

P.S. The BBC is overrated.

“What's so funny?” Ricki asked, because I was staring at my phone, grinning like a fool.

He said yes. He actually said yes!

“Mal agreed to be my date tonight,” I said, setting the phone down on the kitchen counter and trying to act cool about it. “So I guess I'm going to this party.”

“Well, I know I am.” Ricki bent over to put the milk back into the fridge and then put a hand on her back as she straightened up. “Argh. What's the point of being the CEO who wears yoga pants if I never get to do any actual yoga?”

“The problem with working at home is you never go to the gym,” I said, resisting the urge to do a little twirl while still looking at Mal's message. Why was I so elated? It's not like we were actually dating, right? But any chance to be near him thrilled me down to my toes. I wondered what he was going to wear. For that matter, what was I going to wear?

“You know,” Ricki said, distracting me from wardrobe thoughts, “we still haven't formally invited the rest of The Rough to join the Governor's Club.”

“Have you talked to Axel about it yet?”

“Yes. He's fine with it. He let it slip to Mal already, of course. Those two keep no secrets from each other.”

“Oh, really,” I said neutrally, thinking it didn't seem likely Mal actually told Axel as much as the other way around. Axel was a much more open person. “Well, you're in charge of invites.”

“All right. But I won't do it tonight. It's too public. There won't be a chance.” She downed the small glass of milk she'd poured for herself. “What are you going to wear?”

“No idea. It's supposed to be Western style? I have some nice cowboy boots somewhere. I'll have to look.”

“Likewise. You want to go in the limo together?”

I shook my head. “Mal says he'll pick me up.”

She laughed softly. “Like a real date.”

“Tsk. It's that we know what kind of shenanigans you and Ax get up to in limousines. Wouldn't want to ruin your fun.”

She blushed but didn't argue. Ha.

Mal was right on time, pulling up in a sleek red sports car. As Jamison opened the passenger door for me, I was pleased to see I'd matched his color scheme—or lack of one, since every stitch of clothing Mal was wearing was black. So was mine. I'd found a black suede skirt in my closet with a vest to match. Over a white blouse and with super-dark cowboy boots it was suggestive of Western without being costumeish.

He had his hair loose, his shirt unbuttoned all the way down, his chest covered with multiple necklaces and adornments, giving him
almost
a Native American aesthetic but mostly just pure “rock star.” I slid into the passenger seat and before he could say anything, I leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. The scent of his skin was familiar and made my insides purr.

He glared at me a little but didn't say anything, merely put the car into gear. The moment Jamison closed my door, he pulled away from the house.

“You look quite nice,” he said, but it was a generic compliment.

“Did they teach you to say that sort of thing on society dates?” I asked.

A short bark of laughter escaped him. “Yes. Was it that obvious?”

“It's okay, Mal,” I said for my own benefit as much as his. “We both know this is all for show.” I reminded myself to keep my cool and that he didn't know I was the painslut who had agreed to let him do whatever wicked thing he wanted to me. A sudden wave of heat passed through me, though, as I wondered,
What if I told him?
I suddenly didn't know which idea was more dangerous and thrilling, keeping the secret or shocking him by revealing myself. I took a breath; I'd have to think about it later. On our way to a public gathering wasn't the time to shake things up. “You don't have to try to pretend on my behalf.”

That provoked a softer laugh from him. “You're much more of a…realist than I expected.”

“I grew up in show biz,” I said. “You've got to learn where to draw the line between fantasy and reality or you'll go crazy.” Come to think of it, maybe that was one of Dad's biggest problems. To this day, he still has trouble distinguishing image from substance. I was suddenly glad he was in St. Maarten for a couple of months. I didn't want Mal to meet him and get a bad impression of my family.

Okay, now who's pretending?
I thought. Mal wasn't a suitor for my hand. We were publicity dating, that was all. Even if I did tell him that arm-candy Gwen Hamilton and his exotic fucktoy were one and the same, wouldn't that make it even less likely this could turn into a “bring him home to Dad” sort of relationship? I suddenly found my head spinning, like I couldn't get my bearings on my feelings. It seemed very warm in the car, like I was getting drunk purely from breathing his pheromones. I wanted to touch his forearm as he rested his palm on the gearshift.

“Oh, oh wait!” I said suddenly as I realized he'd taken the wrong fork through the estate. The main gatehouse was to the east and he'd taken the west loop.

“Did I go the wrong way?”

“You did, but it's okay.” Maybe I wasn't the only one disoriented. “This'll come back around. We're not late or anything, are we?”

“We will be fashionably timed,” he said with a nod.

“Well, welcome to an impromptu tour of the Hamilton estate,” I said, waving my hand. “Here is a hill. Over there, another hill.”

He cracked a grin; then as we came around a bend and a building came into view, he asked, “Is that a stable?”

“Yeah. From the brief time when we had a couple of horses. But no one in the family was equestrian enough to keep it up, so it's been empty since about the time I went off to college.”

“A shame, but understandable. Horses require a lot of attention and upkeep. They're not like a car you can simply leave in the garage until you want to go somewhere.” He craned his neck to look at the barn a bit better as we cruised past. “I had an equestrian phase as well. It stopped when they wanted me to go fox hunting.”

“You mean with a live fox?”

“Yes. My father called it a noble tradition. I called it savage. He threatened to take my horse away if I wouldn't bow to his wishes.”

His voice was flat and matter-of-fact, but I saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Did he?” I asked softly.

“He did. Sold my horse.” His eyes were on the road but I had a feeling he was seeing something in his past. His chin tilted up and I saw him swallow.

“How old were you?”

“Eleven? Twelve?” His voice turned bitter and I couldn't blame him. “Old enough to know it was only a matter of time before I was going to leave that wretched family behind.”

And young enough to have your heart broken by losing your horse,
I thought. How cruel. “How old were you when you knew you wanted to start a band?”

“Oh, I was already dreaming of that by then,” he said. “The ultimate thing my parents would disapprove of. I'm quite chuffed to have succeeded at it.”