With her half-lidded gaze watching my every move, I make a feast of her. I nibble and flick and suckle until she’s coiling tight around me, and then I bury my fingers in her hair and pull her to my mouth.
I lose track of time, of where we are, of everything but the way she kisses me senseless as I thrust into her over, and over, and over. She’s so tight—her heat around my cock, her fingers on my back, her lips over mine. I’m so fucking lost, I don’t even know how I keep moving inside her, except that I’m desperate—desperate to hear the sounds she makes when she comes for me, for the way her pupils swallow her irises and she looks at me like she wants to do it all over again.
“Fuck,” I say, trying to slow my pace because I’m about to come undone.
“Don’t stop,” she begs, and when she asks me like that—like she needs me to keep feeding myself inside her—there’s no way in hell I’ll ever deny her.
I say a silent prayer that she’s closer than I am, because God, I’m going to come soon if she doesn’t—
A heavy moan rumbles in my chest when she clenches around me, her fingers digging into the coiled muscles of my back as I follow her over the edge not even a full second later. I empty into her as her insides hug me tight, squeezing and milking and unraveling me until I can’t even think.
Kit is moaning into my ear, saying my name and stringing curse words together, but I can’t stop—I push into her until I have absolutely nothing, nothing left to give. And even then, I want to give her more. I want to give her everything.
When I kiss her, she must be able to tell how badly I want to take her again, because her tired voice reminds me, “We are so fucking late.”
IT TAKES ME a pathetic amount of time to pull myself together and collect our clothes from the floor, but then Kit and I get dressed and straighten her sexed-up hair as well as we possibly can. When we finally make our way inside Mayhem, hand in hand, Adam smirks his face off at me. I’ve spent most of my life lecturing him about being on time, but now, he’s the one to say it—“You’re late.”
“Really late,” Mike emphasizes.
“Good,” I say. “John can wait.”
“Yeah,” Joel chides, “because I bet that’s why you’re late. And not because you and Kit were busy fu—”
Dee and Peach both elbow him in the ribs, and he grunts as he doubles over.
“You look great,” Dee tells Kit, and Kit grunts a little too, which pulls a smile onto my face. She’s friends with the girls, but she’ll never really be one of the girls, and that’s just one of the things I love about her. She’s hot as hell, and she knows it, but she doesn’t flaunt it—because she doesn’t need to. Even when she’s wearing one of my baggy T-shirts, an old pair of jeans, and an oversized flannel, she looks like a siren, smiles like a siren, laughs like a siren.
I drape my arm over her shoulders. “Is he waiting in the greenroom?”
When the guys confirm that Jonathan Hess is, in fact, waiting for me in the greenroom, I walk back there with Kit still held captive under my arm. I shake hands with Jonathan. I try not to laugh at the sour look Victoria has on her face. I don’t negotiate.
Ever since we performed with Cutting the Line at their show in Nashville last August, our popularity and sales have skyrocketed. Even Mayhem has had to close its doors to people standing in line, and now, Mosh Records is finally prepared to do the ass-kissing they’ve been wanting us to do for years. The lawyer I staffed checked out the paperwork this morning, and everything was in order. Jonathan’s label is merely a name we’re attaching to ourselves for mutual benefit—his people will help us, and we’ll help his image. For a percentage of our sales, every resource of Mosh Records will be made available to us, and the label will have no say—none at all—over the music we produce or when we produce it. They’ll help with marketing, producing, booking, networking—and all we need to do is keep doing what we’re doing.
Every ounce of hard work I’ve put in over the past ten years gets poured into every letter I sign. I watch Adam sign, Joel sign, Mike sign, Kit sign. And then we all shake hands and leave. It isn’t until we’re backstage again that I pick Kit up and spin her around.
She laughs and squeezes my neck tight while everyone celebrates. “You did it,” she says in my ear when I finally put her down, and when I pull away and see her smile, it’s all the reward I need. Without her, I would’ve celebrated with the guys tonight—I would’ve gotten drunk and hooked up with a groupie after the show—but I would’ve gone to sleep alone.
Tonight, I’ll be next to Kit. I’ll be on her and inside her and it will be so, so much fucking better than it would have been if she wouldn’t have stormed back into my life with her combat boots and her take-no-prisoners smile.