“You might enjoy fighting me for control, but you absolutely love it when I win.”
She nodded and grazed her fingertips shamelessly over her clit.
“I didn’t tell you to touch yourself.”
With a strangled moan, she stopped, fist pressed firmly against his desk. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please love me.”
Aw, shit. Damn. “Babe, I always love you. Every time I touch you. Every time I breathe. But right now, I need you to climb on my lap and fuck me. Hard and fast.”
A sly grin turned up the corners of her pretty red mouth. “After all that, you’re putting me in charge?”
“Babe, when my cock and your pussy are involved, I’m always in charge. There’s no question about that.” He tugged her forward, and she climbed on, sliding down his length without another word. He groaned and stole her mouth in a kiss. “Never gonna get sick of this.”
“Me neither.”
“Good. Now fuck me and prove it.”
“Yes, please.”
THE END
_____
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About the Author
Molly McLain has lived in Northern Wisconsin all of her life. She’s a proud fan of the Green Bay Packers, fountain soda, angsty rock ballads, and jellybeans. She also loves camping and binging on reality TV, but her favorite vice of all is road tripping with the radio cranked. Someday, she hopes to travel the country with her husband and her laptop, because nothing gets the plot bunnies hopping like the wind blowing through her hair.
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Twitter: @MollyMcLain Instagram: @mollymclainauthor
Rock, Rattle, & Roll
Taryn Elliott & Cari Quinn
One
The Getaway
Deacon McCoy stared at his phone. “C’mon. Light up. A text—something.”
“You’re just going to have to go kidnap her.”
Deacon glanced over at the couch where Jazz Edwards sat cross-legged tapping away on her laptop. The drummer for their band, Oblivion, was decidedly un-Jazz like tonight wearing old jeans and a simple black t-shirt. Her dark hair was minus the colorful doodads he was used to. Though that could be because they were all subsisting on three hours of sleep at night.
The new album was freaking killing them.
Deacon stepped over his body bag sized duffel by the door and sat beside her. The house they were renting was decidedly smaller than the penthouse they’d been living in for the last six months. First of all it was a house. They’d lived in the city for so long, the idea of a backyard—okay, so it was a small backyard, but it had grass—was the main reason they’d signed the lease. Like the rest of the place, it required a bit of sweat and creativity, but hey…look at that—it didn’t require their soul.
Evidently they were saving that for the studio. He was tired as hell, and the writing was going…not well. They were fighting over lyrics, fighting over chord progressions, fighting over damn near everything. And if he didn’t get away from the entire band for a few days, he was pretty sure there would be bloodshed.
And not his own.
Possibly Simon’s. At least as of noon that day. Yesterday had been Gray. When he’d started snapping at Jazz, Deacon had known it was time to get the hell away from everyone. Yelling at Jazz was like dropkicking a kitten. Not done. Ever. With Christmas just around the corner, it was a good time to take a break. An even better time to drag his wife away for an actual honeymoon.
Wife.
Shit, it still felt strange on his tongue. Strange in a good way. In the best way, actually.
But there had been no time to write a damn thank you card let alone enjoy being married. The band had dived into the studio practically the day after the ceremony. And Harper McCoy was officially starting a new business. In true Harper fashion, she’d hit the ground running. Donovan Lewis, the head of their new label, Ripper Records, had used her for a last minute dinner party, and that had snowballed into a fledgling roster of clients.
The fact that Donovan seemed to know everyone in the state of freaking California certainly helped. Harper had gone from stressing about finding a client to actually having to turn a few down. Something she’d been loath to do.
But tonight was the last job she had until Christmas Eve. Again, she would be working for Donovan for his big end of the year Christmas bash. So their first Christmas would be full of pastries and canapés and one tired chef that wouldn’t feel like celebrating.
They needed this time away. They’d been in high gear since they’d met. And getting their schedules to mesh took an act of Congress, for fuck’s sake.
They were going on this honeymoon.
No matter what.
He hauled ass off the couch when his phone’s face lit up.