I’m floating on cloud nine, higher than I’ve ever been, but it has nothing to do with coke or weed or any other type of drug I’ve dabbled with. My high is natural. Sloane. Sloane’s my addiction.
After a breakfast of hash browns, sausage, and eggs, that we cook together, he invites me into his music room. He makes me promise to behave, so, with as much innocence as I can muster, I cross my heart. It’s the first time in the two days I’ve been here that he’s asked me in when he practices. From the inside, I have a perfect view of the den and kitchen. Outside, however, all I see is my reflection.
I walk amongst the drum kit, piano, four racked guitars, and music stands as he presses buttons on the wall. Low static fills the room, but when he adjusts the knobs, it quiets. Pretending the fact that he’s wearing only pajama bottoms doesn’t affect me, I sit in an overstuffed armchair.
Strapping up, he turns to me and offers me a boyish smile. His hair is all over his head. He has a day’s stubble on his face, but he’s so hot, and sexy, it’s hard for me to remain seated.
He moves his long fingers and a rock lead serenades me. My body flushes at the hungry look in his eyes. We stare at one another as he plays again.
We made love most of the night. One of the boxes of condoms he purchased yesterday afternoon is completely gone. He should’ve listened to me and picked up a couple of twelve packs, instead of several three packs. It’s like I’m talking about beer, although I have to admit the cum he fills the condoms with is pretty tasty.
I giggle at the thought and he pauses.
“Care to share?”
“Your semen is delicious,” I offer.
He lifts a brow and his eyes smolder. “Good to know, since I love to have you drink it.”
I blush to the roots of my hair. Soft laughter rumbles from him before he beckons me with the crook of his finger. Though I obey the silent instruction, his hard cock commands my attention. My hand grips him the moment I stop in front of him.
“Ah-ah-ah,” he chants, twisting away. “You promised to behave.”
I roll my eyes and sniff, deepening his amusement.
He gestures to his guitar. “Your fathead father wanted you to learn to play.”
“You just insulted my dad!”
“He deserves more than my insults,” he retorts, and changes the subject by offering me his guitar.
Cursing under my breath, I place the strap of the guitar over my shoulder and pluck at a couple of strings. Soon, my irritation floats away. I giggle at the grating sound I pollute the air with.
Sloane smiles before placing his body behind mine, and covering both my hands—the one holding the neck of the guitar and the one at the strings—with his.
“Do you know which string and fret plays what key?”
His thick erection pressing against my back scatters my brain. Even if I did know it, I’d forget. I shake my head.
“Like this.” His fingers guide my hand and he bites my ear, whispering, “Follow my lead.”
My heart hammers and my body responds to his immediately. Interest to play his guitar quickly wans and turns into desire for him. The short synth we do doesn’t register. Sensing he’s lost me for a music lesson, he removes the guitar and sets it aside, pulling me into his arms, and sweeping me off my feet. I immediately wrap my legs around his waist, groaning when he pushes into me, stretching me around him, and kissing my neck.
His hands cup my ass. I flatten my palms against his shoulders, bouncing, the friction sending streaks of fire through me. As I near my orgasm, I hug him and lay my head on his shoulder.
“Sloane,” I whisper.
“Let it go, baby,” he returns and I do.
Sloane
“Wanna race?”
Before I can answer, Georgie urges Tima forward, the horse’s mane, and her dark hair, flying in the breeze. In seconds, she’s yards ahead of me. My heart thumps in concern.
Spurring Rylan forward, I gallop behind Georgie, focusing on the path ahead of me, already seeing the fence we have to clear. “Georgiana!” I yell.
She pays me absolutely no attention, and performs a flawless jump. Anger vibrating through me, I tighten Rylan’s reins and follow behind Georgie. The moment I catch up to her, I signal her. Laughing, she bridles Tima. I seize the opportunity and yank her off the horse and onto my lap. My heart’s about to pound out of my chest. I have no idea what she sees in my face, but her happiness falters.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” I yell. “You could’ve been thrown and hurt.” Jesus, I’ve never felt such a combination of fear and anger so deeply. “Or worse,” I add on a strangle.
She licks her lips, her cheeks flushed from the horse ride. “Are you really that concerned for me?”
At her question, I can do nothing but hug her tightly and kiss her forehead, helpless against the visualization of her body being thrown from the horse.