“Perfect.”
Dred started the movie and settled back into the sofa, and Pixie got comfortable leaning against him. She could hear his heart beat. A slow-and-steady throb that beat in time to the haunting melodic notes of the opening scene. The camera panned across the lake, and caught up with a vehicle winding its way through a dense Colorado forest, but Pixie could barely pay attention.
What was it about this man’s fingers? Perhaps it was the heat from the fireplace that was warming her, or the way Dred’s teasing strokes had moved from her back to an inch beneath the waistband of her jeans.
Maybe if she focused more on Kubrick’s exceptional directing and the symbolism of room 237, the arousal she felt would diminish. Or maybe if she dissected Jack Nicolson’s performance as Jack Torrance, it would drive away the need to slide her hands across Dred’s chest to feel if those pecs were as hard as she imagined.
Pixie sat up and reached for her whiskey—maybe the sharp bite would quell the feelings. It felt strange to end their first date in his arms, or even his bed for that matter, but with Dred it felt different. She turned the stout crystal tumbler in her hand. Dred leaned forward and took the glass from her, placing it back on the table.
Like he did with the fire, he stoked flames within her. She turned to face him, and he cupped her cheek.
When his lips meshed against hers, they carried none of the softness she’d experienced over the course of the day, instead they reminded her of all of the pent-up energy he’d unleashed the night of the concert. A vital expression of his hunger.
“Fuck,” he growled against her mouth.
His kiss consumed her and turned her inside out, leaving her all kinds of raw.
He tugged her to him and she fell forward, hands pressed against the contours of his solid chest. Strong hands ran down her back, the sensations too overwhelming to consider the implications of where they were heading. He reached under her butt and lifted her so that she straddled him. She’d never been with such a physically intimidating man before, and his raw strength turned her on.
She forced away feelings of guilt, attempted to sever the past and present.
Dred pulled away from her. “Sorry, Pix, I . . . Fuck . . . Ten more seconds.”
Pixie fought against the riptide he created. Just when she felt like she had her head above water, Dred groaned against her lips, his muttered curses of desire pulling her back under. She was drowning. Pixie pushed against his chest, torn between the fear and desire of continuing.
“Sorry, Pix. Being around you is . . .”
“Yeah. I know.” She sighed, collecting her emotions that seemed to have run all over the floor like errant marbles. She fidgeted on his lap.
“As good as that feels, Pix, I’m trying to ignore the way your ass feels pressed against my cock.” He looked down at her, his eyes giving none of his feelings away, but the hard ridge of his erection said enough.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
Dred lifted her off him and lay down lengthways on the sofa. He held out his hand to her. “Come back here, Snowflake.” She liked the way he called her that. It had a purity to it she wasn’t sure she possessed.
She lay down in front of him, her back up against his chest Dred wrapped his arms around her and pulled her a little higher so her head was on the cushions.
He smoothed her hair back and kissed her gently on the neck. “I’m more than willing to wait for you, Pix, because I think when you and I finally sleep together, it’s going to be unlike anything I’ve experienced. But don’t for a second think that I’m not desperate to strip you naked and take you right here.”
And his words made her want that, too.
*
Fuck me, it’s bright.
Dred squinted one eye open and tried to focus. Shit. They were still on the family room sofa. Someone had thrown a blanket over them. Likely one of the guys when they’d come home last night. He was so freaking hot, and his mouth felt like something had died in it.
If he didn’t know better, he’d swear an octopus was clamped around him. He lifted his head to look at Pixie. She was still very much asleep, her mouth slightly agape yet still beautiful.
His balls were probably bluer than the Blue Jay’s mascot, but that didn’t stop his cock having a mind of its own.
He looked toward the kitchen counter to see Jordan munching away on the only breakfast cereal he’d eat, Lucky Charms. He had six boxes in the cupboard, always fearful he’d run out. There were provisions in their contract to have them on hand at every gig. Christ, they were a fucked-up bunch.
“Morning, brother,” he said quietly.