“That lung cancer is a terrible way to die? Yes, I am.” When he still made no move to take the sucker, she tucked a few of them into the front pocket of his jeans and went to move past him into the studio.
She didn’t make it two steps before he was snaking his arm around her waist and pulling her against him.
Her back to his front.
His breath hot against her ear.
His hand soft against her breast as his thumb flicked back and forth across her suddenly hard nipple.
“If you’re serious about me quitting smoking, I can think of something a hell of a lot more enticing than a lollipop to keep my mouth busy.”
“Oh, really?” Her breath hitched in her throat before she could say any more, and for a second she feared she might actually strangle on her own desire. It had been three days since he’d gone down on her in that alley behind Antone’s, three days since he’d touched her in any but the most casual way.
She knew it was a good thing, knew the last thing she should be doing right now was sleeping with Wyatt Jennings. And yet she’d wanted him to touch her.
Had wanted him to press his mouth to her throat, her navel, her sex, just like he had that first night.
Had wanted to do the same—and more—to him.
Had wanted it all so badly that every look from him—no matter how innocuous—had lit her up like a concert stage and sent need thrumming through her.
She didn’t know what had made him reach for her today, and right now she didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was finally touching her again.
“Yeah, really.” His mouth skimmed slowly, slowly, slowly down her throat, lips soft and breath oh-so-warm, before fastening on the tender spot where her neck and shoulder met.
She gasped then, cried out, her body arching back into his, her ass pressing tight against his cock. He groaned in response, the sound sending little vibrations across her skin, which had her knees trembling and her body melting into his.
“Fuck,” he whispered, sliding his hand down to rest on her abdomen as his fingers pressed against her denim-covered sex. “I love the sounds you make.” He pressed harder and she cried out more loudly this time, her hand coming up to grab his arm for support even as she let herself rest more fully against him.
“That’s it,” he murmured as he continued to stroke her. His finger pressed right up against the seam of her jeans, while the seam pressed right up against her clit. And just that easily she was close, so very close.
A little desperate now, her body on fire, she rocked her hips up and used her own fingers to press his down more firmly against her sex. He gave in easily, his laugh dark and just a little bit dangerous as he followed her lead and gave her the friction she demanded. At the same time, though, he slid his free hand up her stomach to her breast. Found her nipple through the thin lace of her bra. Flicked his finger over it once, twice, before suddenly squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger hard enough to have light exploding behind her closed lids.
She bit her lip against the pleasure, tried her best to stifle her cries. But Wyatt was having none of it. Instead, he squeezed her nipple even harder as he blew a stream of warm, wet air against the sensitive skin behind her ear.
“Oh, God—” Her voice broke on a moan.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he told her, his finger moving harder and faster against her clit. “I’ve got you.”
It was too much.
His lean, hard body crowded up against hers.
His hot breath streaming against the nape of her neck.
His fingers simultaneously working over her nipple, her clit.
And him, right there, always right there. Tormenting her. Taking her over. Demanding so, so many wicked, wild, wonderful things of her. Too many.
She came with her hands clenching his arm. With her body jerking against his. With his name a broken cry on her lips. And then she was flying, flying, flying into a pleasure both brutal and beautiful in its intensity.
It went on and on and on and all she could do was hold tight to Wyatt and embrace the ecstasy. He was her port in the storm, the only solid thing she had while the world around her turned into a molten kaleidoscope of pleasure.
When it was over—when she could manage to do something more than whimper and hang on tight—she turned and wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her cheek against his chest.
Beneath her ear, his heartbeat was as bold and steady as his drumming, and for long seconds she just stood there, listening. Catching her breath. Recovering.
When her breathing finally got back to normal, she pulled his T-shirt from his jeans, pressed one hand against his tautly muscled back while she slid her other hand around to his rock hard abs. “That makes three,” she murmured as her fingers traced along the top edges of his V-cut.
“Three of what?” he asked, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear.
“Three orgasms.” She started to unbutton his jeans. “You’ve gotten me off three times now. I think it’s past time I reciprocated.”
He stopped her with a hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around her palm and pulling it away from his zipper. She froze, wondering what was going on. Wondering why he didn’t want her to pleasure him when she had felt him, hard and ready, beneath her hand.
“Don’t you want me?” The question escaped without her permission, and as soon as it was out, she wanted to kick herself. The last thing this little game—or whatever it was between them—needed was her turning all vulnerable and needy. Soft, romantic feelings were so not what this was about. Especially considering there was no future for them—no way for them to be together when she was the daughter of the label head and he was one of the label’s most problematic stars.
With that thought in mind, she pushed away from him even as she let her hair swing down into her face to cover her eyes. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked—”
“You have no idea how much I want you,” he interrupted, pressing her hand back against his dick. His very long, very hard dick.
“Then why—” She cut herself off, refused to ask any more than she already had.
“Because the guys are already inside and I’m supposed to be on a very important call with the label execs that started about five minutes ago.”
She reared back, color flooding her cheeks. “They’re already in there?” she squeaked.
He nodded. “Have been for about half an hour.”
“Oh my God. Oh. My. God. Ohmygod!” She was so embarrassed she could barely string a coherent thought together. “If they’re already in there… You just made me…we just… Why did you do that? Why did you make me come on the freaking porch if they were right inside?”
“Notice all your clothes are still in place,” he said with a grin. “Why do you think that is?”
“I didn’t think about it.” She glared at him. “Not a mistake I plan on making again. Why did you do that?” she asked a second time. Her cheeks were on fire, and she pressed her hands against them in a futile attempt to cool them down.
He raised his brows incredulously. “You didn’t actually expect me to pass up a chance to make you come, did you? When you melt so sweetly and make those incredible noises—”
“Oh my God!” She clapped a hand over his mouth even as she cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder. “Do you think they heard me?”
“Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure downtown Austin heard you. Besides, they better have. The last thing I want is for them to think rehab left me unable to make a woman scream.”
“Shut up!” This time it was her own ears she clapped her hands over. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“What’s the big deal?” he asked, prying her hands away from her head. “It’s not the first or the last time one of us has gone at it with the others in the next room. We spend most of the year on a tour bus or charter plane going from concert to concert. What do you think happens? You should have heard Ryder and Jamison when they first got
together. I thought Jared was going to kill someone.”
“I’m going to kill you if you don’t stop talking. I’m supposed to be a professional here.”
“Baby, we’re rock stars. Making girls come is pretty much part of the job description.” He straightened her blouse a little, then swept her hair back from her face. “Now, come on. I really need to catch at least part of this call.”
“Of course you do!” Her eyes widened at the thought of her father being on the other end of the line, fuming at the insult of Wyatt’s absence. “Go!” She pushed him toward the door.
“Come with me.” He wrapped a hand around her wrist and tugged.
“No.”
“Yes.” For the first time, his tone was firm. “You’ve been in on everything else since you got here, so why not this? Besides, the last thing I’m going to do is get you off and then leave you out here on the damn porch. You deserve better than that.”
She started to argue more—she really, really didn’t want to face any of the men on the other side of that door—but Wyatt was serious. He wasn’t letting go, and she knew he couldn’t afford to miss any more of the meeting than he already had.
Which was why she let him tug her through the door even as she damned him and all rocks stars straight to hell. She was so going to make him pay for this before the day was over.
Chapter Eight
The second they got inside she realized she’d made a huge miscalculation. Because it wasn’t just a conference call going on in there—it was a videoconference call. Her father was on the big monitor set up in the center of Quinn’s desk, and he was staring straight out of it. Straight at her.
Oh shit.
She shoved Wyatt forward into the camera’s range and started to duck back outside—anything was better than seeing her father right now. Partly because it was the first time she’d seen him since Caleb had pushed her into taking his place in Austin, and partly because she was pretty sure she looked like she had just come. Her dad so didn’t need to see that and neither did her brother, who was lurking at the corner of the screen.
But Wyatt grabbed her hand before she could so much as open the door. “I already told you, you can totally be here for this.”
“Yeah,” Ryder seconded. “We’re just talking about the bassist auditions and the show at Antone’s. Maybe you’ll come up with some cool ideas for social media for the second show.”
“The second— There’s going to be another one?” Seriously? Li had done enough damage to Shaken Dirty’s sound the other night. Letting him loose on another club for another gig was a very bad idea.
“Yeah. Probably a couple more,” Quinn said. “So we can audition—”
“You were there, Poppy,” Caleb interrupted Quinn as his face became the large one on the screen and her dad’s stern countenance shrank down to one of the smaller boxes. Thank God. “You know music. Give us a non–band member opinion. What did you think of Li?”
“I, umm…” Suddenly, every eye in the room was on her, including her father’s, since he had once again taken over the main screen in the teleconferencing app. He was looking her over and—she was sure—cataloging every hair out of place. Unable to meet his disapproving gaze, she kept her eyes on the small box at the top of the screen, where Caleb was waiting.
“Go ahead,” he urged. “I’d like your opinion.”
Him wanting her opinion wasn’t the problem—it was everyone else in the room she was worried about, especially considering how unimpressed she actually was with Li. She wished she’d walked in a few minutes earlier so she could have heard what the others thought of him, could have gauged the feel of the room. After all, the last thing she wanted to do was bash the guy if everyone else loved him.
At the same time, though, she was positive that Li wasn’t right for the band. And though she was currently just a social media director—or a glorified babysitter, depending on who you spoke to at the label—she knew this band. She knew their sound. She knew their songs. And she knew Li wasn’t it for them. Which meant she didn’t have a choice. If she didn’t speak up when she was specifically asked, and he ended up getting the job, she’d regret it forever.
So she took a deep breath as everyone looked on—as Wyatt and her father and Shaken Dirty’s manager all stared her down—and told herself to be honest about this even when she couldn’t be honest about anything else.
“He’s not right. I mean, he’s a good bassist and his fingerings are really good. But he’s not in Shaken Dirty’s league. He couldn’t keep up with Jared or Ryder and he definitely couldn’t keep up with the drum fills Wyatt laid down. Plus, his style just doesn’t fit. When they were doing ‘Closer’ and ‘Mastermind,’ he couldn’t get the feel. And his work on the two new songs was a disaster. He came in way too heavy and it threw off the whole sound.”
She glanced at Wyatt as she finished, saw him watching her with brows raised. It was the only sign that he was surprised by her summation. The same couldn’t be said for the other guys, all of whom were looking at her like she’d grown a second head.
For the first time she wondered if her father was right—if the new generation of musicians was just as sexist about women and music as the last one was. Why else would they be so shocked that she understood the nuances of their music so well?
But Jared’s surprise turned quickly to satisfaction. “She’s right,” he told her father and brother and whoever else was on the call with them. “That’s exactly what we were saying when she and Wyatt came in. Li sounded sloppy on the new stuff. He blurred the notes, and bass for us has to be super clean, super tight.”
“You don’t think he can learn it?” her father countered, just as she expected him to. God forbid the man take her word on something or believe, for one second, that she actually knew what she was talking about. “He didn’t have much time with the songs.”
“He had more time with the new songs than Wyatt did,” Quinn told him, adding his voice to the discussion for the first time. “And Wyatt nailed both without breaking a sweat.”
“Oh, I broke a sweat,” Wyatt interjected, but she could tell by the look in his eyes that he was pleased his bandmates were happy with his work.
“Still, he did it,” their manager agreed from the box at the bottom right of the screen. “Wyatt fit in seamlessly. It was Li who was the problem.”
“Yes, but the argument can be made that Wyatt knows your style,” her father pressed. “I don’t think he’s any more talented than Li. Just more prepared.”
It took every ounce of self-control she had not to disagree. But this wasn’t her meeting and she wasn’t in charge of this band. So she gritted her teeth and metaphorically sat on her hands.
In the end, she didn’t have to say anything, though, because Ryder spoke up. “I beg to differ. Wyatt’s on a whole different level than Li. But either way, we’re not arguing that the guy isn’t talented. We’re just saying he doesn’t fit in with us. And neither did Owen or James.”
“So we keep looking,” Caleb slid in, smooth as silk. “You’ve still got two more bassists lined up to try—”
“Both who come with their own problems,” her father interrupted. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t Marc have a massive ego that makes him prone to temper tantrums? And Johnny’s bipolar.”
“That doesn’t mean they aren’t good musicians,” the management guy said. “Personally, I think Marc is going to work out well—”
Poppy winced, because she disagreed. Marc Roundhouse was a dick, pure and simple, and he refused to adjust his playing style to fit in with anyone. There was no way he and Shaken Dirty were going to mesh. No way. And Johnny was a good bassist…when he decided to take his meds. Which, unfortunately, wasn’t nearly often enough.
A fact that her father was very much aware of, considering he’d been a part of one of Johnny’s other bands for years. Right up until they had dropped him at her father’s behest…
“Marc isn’t going to work out at a
ll,” her father told the now silent room. “And neither is Johnny. They are entirely too high drama and”—he gave a hard stare she was sure was directed at Wyatt—“you’ve got more than enough drama in this band already. So I say you take Li. He won’t cause any trouble, and frankly that matters a hell of a lot more to me right now than whether or not his bass playing meshes perfectly the first time out of the gate.”
“With all due respect,” Wyatt jumped in before the others could say anything. “It’s not about him not meshing perfectly. It’s about him not meshing at all.”
“Yeah, well, they’ve got a month to fix that,” her dad said. “Because this band already has one liability. It can’t afford another.”
“First of all,” Quinn interjected. “You can’t force us to take on a bassist we don’t want. It’s in our contracts. And secondly, we don’t have any more liabilities. Micah’s gone—”
“And Wyatt’s still there.” Her father’s voice sliced through the sudden silence in the kitchen like a razor blade through skin.
“Wyatt’s not a liability,” Jared grated out.
“Of course he’s not—” Caleb started to soothe, but her father cut him off.
“I have an empty bank account that says otherwise,” her dad said. “And an insurance company that is making me pay through the nose to keep him. If we add in someone else unreliable, the cost of this tour is going to be prohibitive.”
Poppy’s stomach hurt, and she crowded a little closer to the camera, met Caleb’s eyes. He looked as sick and unprepared as she felt, which meant her father was blindsiding him with this, too. She couldn’t help thinking it was because she was here instead of her brother, couldn’t help thinking their father was taking such a hard line because he expected her to fail at keeping Wyatt in line.
The bastard.
“All I’m saying,” her father continued, “is Li doesn’t have a drug problem. He’s as sane as any rocker gets, and he wants this job. He isn’t going to screw it up. So if you want to keep Wyatt, you take Li, too. Frankly, one addict is all any band needs for street cred.”