He stopped her with a kiss. He knew he shouldn’t, knew that touching her was a bad idea when he was this screwed up. He was spiraling down again, his life getting out of control, and the last thing he wanted was to mess her up, too. To drag her down with him when all she was doing was trying to support him. But what he’d done in there was still too new—the wound too fucking raw—to just sit here and listen as she went over it. Besides, when confronted with unsavory business stuff or kissing Poppy…let’s just say it was a no brainer.
Still, for a second he thought she was going to keep talking. Her hands came up to his shoulders as if to push him away, and the look in her eyes told him she had a lot more to say, that she wasn’t going to be so easily derailed. But when he wrapped both arms around her waist and pulled her body flush against his, she let her eyes flutter closed and melted against him.
She felt good pressed against him like this, soft and warm and perfect. He nipped at her lower lip, sucked it between his teeth. She gasped, her hands tightening in his shirt, and he took instant advantage, licking inside her mouth to stroke his tongue around and along her own.
It was their first kiss, he realized as he delved deep. Despite what had happened in that alley a few nights ago and on the porch a little while ago, this was the first time he’d actually kissed her. Fuck. He was an even bigger dick than he thought.
Determined to make up for his callousness, he tangled his hand in her hair and tugged her head back. Then he slowly stroked his tongue along her full lower lip, loving the sounds she made. Loving even more the way her hands greedily clutched at him.
She felt so good, tasted so good—like cream and honey and sun-warmed summer peaches—that a part of him wanted to stay right here, like this, forever. He’d been wanting to get his hands—and his mouth—on her again ever since he’d walked out of that alley to go on stage the other night. So much so that when he’d seen her on that porch this morning, he hadn’t been able to resist touching her. Even knowing it was the worst thing he could be doing right now—his counselors had warned him about trying for even a casual relationship until he’d been out of rehab at least six months—he couldn’t let her go. Not right now, when every single cell in his body was calling out for her. Craving her.
She turned him on like nothing had in a long time, her sweetness and honesty and concern going a long way to soothe the demons inside of him. He didn’t know what it was about her that silenced the noise in his head, that beat back the cravings and the pain, that gave him the opportunity to just be. He didn’t know, but in that moment he was grateful for it—grateful for her—and he was going with it. Savoring it—and her—as he deepened the kiss and explored her like he rarely bothered to explore anything anymore.
She tasted like honey mixed with the spiciness of cinnamon, and he couldn’t get enough of the taste. Couldn’t get enough of her.
Especially when she made those little noises deep in her throat, noises that were half moan, half desperate plea. They went straight to his cock—straight to his head—and he knew getting her off wasn’t going to be enough this time. He had to have more of her. Had to have all of her.
Keeping one hand on her ass, he slid his other hand up her back to the nape of her neck and tangled his fingers in her hair, then gently twisted until the pins holding it up started to loosen. It didn’t take long—there was so much of the stuff, and it was so heavy and full of body that it only took a few tugs before her hair was slipping its restraints and tumbling down over his fingers and her shoulders like a waterfall of rich brown silk.
He pulled away then, just a little, so that he could get a good look at her. She was breathtaking, her lips swollen with his kisses, her skin flushed, her eyes glazed. And her hair was a tangled, tousled mess falling in waves nearly to her ass. Her very round, very inviting ass.
“You’re so beautiful,” he told her, sliding his hands inside her jeans. He wanted to feel that ass under his hands, with no fabric to get in the way. Wanted to slip her jeans and panties off so that he could see her in the light of day. And then he wanted to bury his face right between her thighs and fuck his tongue deep inside of her. At that moment, he wanted it more than he wanted heroin—more, even, than he wanted things to work out with the label. The need to taste her was a razor scraping away at his insides, the need to watch and listen to her fall apart even more so.
But her hand was on his as he started to pull on her panties, her fingers tangling around his and stilling them even as her body arched toward him.
“We shouldn’t,” she told him, her lips moving against his.
“We should,” he countered, skimming his mouth down the slender column of her throat and over the top of her chest to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the nipples he could feel pebbling beneath the thin fabric of her tank top. “I’ll make you feel so good.”
She moaned as his lips closed around one nipple and he started to suck. “We need to talk about the band,” she finally managed to choke out. But her hands were tangling in his hair to hold him in place as she arched her back and thrust her nipple more firmly into his mouth.