Heart Broke (Hard Rock Roots Book 8) (13 page)

She's got her pussy pierced; my dick is pierced.

Maybe we're a match made in heaven?

“Fucking Christ, Sydney, you're going to undo me.” I suck in a harsh breath, my cock tight and thick against the inside of my jeans. I'm sure I've already wet my pants, leaked pre-ejac all over the denim. I can't help myself. When I look at this girl, I'm beyond ready. Desperate. Wild.

I kneel down and slide my fingers along the smooth, bare skin of her inner thighs, my knees sinking into the dirt. Beneath us, there's a coffin buried six feet under. Up here, there's a girl with fish tattooed on her ankles, a pierced clit and … a pink fucking heart above her pussy.

“You're like fucking dirty candy or some shit,” I whisper, lost for words, dropping my mouth to Sydney's warm heat, sliding my tongue along her slit and tasting that same wild floral taste that's all over her skin. She's frigging flavored, this chick.

Sydney buries her fingers in my hair, squeezing hard, letting her head fall back, moonlight slicing across her throat and drawing silver lines on her pale skin. I kiss my way up to that heart, slide my tongue around it and then move back to her piercing. I can't keep my teeth away from it, nibbling on the warm metal and tugging it gently, making Sydney gasp and thrust her hips towards my face.

First time, strip club. Second time, hotel. Third time, graveyard. This'll be one for the memory books.

My mouth kisses across Sydney's skin, drawing goose bumps along in my wake. I shouldn't be here, doing this. At least that's what my brain tells me. I should be miserable, curled up at Blair's bedside or holed up in a dark room somewhere. But I don't want to be. This is the only fucking place in the world that I can imagine myself right now.

I slip my tongue into Sydney's twelve gauge bead ring, letting it slide against her swollen clit. I want her so bad right now it's killing me. I could break this dirty little kiss and stand up, fill her with my cock and slam her into this headstone until we both come. But I want to take it slow, drag this out nice and long, sample every inch of her body.

I doubt we'll get another private moment like this back at the house.

My hands slide under Sydney's thighs and make their way towards her ass, until I'm cupping her cheeks in tight fingers, slipping my tongue into that warm wet space between her legs. I dive in deep, eating her out until the gasps coming from her throat are less husky porn star and more desperate, frantic.

I can't take it anymore.

I reach down and unbutton my own pants, drawing my cock into my hand. My fingers slide down my shaft as I pump myself hard, bringing an orgasm right up to the surface. And then stopping. If you go to that edge and then draw back, it only makes things more intense. And I want them to be. I want to be with Sydney all the way right now, let myself have a girl and feel confident that she's mine. And I've never wanted anyone like this before. Not once. Not even Naomi.

“Dax,” Sydney purrs as I stand up and let her take me in her hands, her fingers feeling up the three ten gauge barbells that pierce the underside of my shaft. Frenum piercings they call 'em, but who the fuck cares? Not me, right here and right now, with Sydney's hands all up on me. I suck in a harsh breath. “You're a little naughty, aren't you?”

“What gave me away?” I ask, the words slipping out in a rough growl as Sydney slides a thumb up my shaft, right over the three bars. It's hard to describe the sensation, like getting fucked three times in the dick. It doesn't make any sense, I know, but there's a reason I'm the drummer and not the lead, okay? I don't have to be a poet. “Was it the piercings or the cemetery sex?”

“Maybe a little bit of both,” Sydney says, sliding off the headstone and kneeling on the ground in front of me. Bare assed and sucking cock in a graveyard. Holy crap.
There's something seriously wrong with us, isn't there?
But we're not hurting anyone, right? I mean, most of these graves are from like the turn of the century or something. The one behind Sydney's head says
Doctor Shoemaker 1850-1895.
Doubt there are any mourning relatives that'll be offended by, uh, our
engagement
here with Mr. Shoemaker. “You want me to forget the men I've been with? Let me help you forget the girls.”

Sydney slides those bright pink lips of hers around the head of my cock, her blonde hair falling forward and teasing my bare skin as she draws me deep, all the way to my piercings. I can feel myself hit the back of her throat as I moan and let my head fall back. If I look at her while she's doing that … But I can't seem to look away for long.

As Sydney moves her head back and the wetness on my shaft tingles with the rush of warm evening air, I drop my gaze down and catch her looking up at me from under a fall of dark lashes, curled and black with artfully applied mascara. Her real lashes are pale and blonde. As fucked up as I've been the last few weeks, I remember that. I remember seeing her face bare and free of make-up, that golden fall of hair tangled in disarray.

Shit.

I'm falling for this chick hard and fast.

“Relax,” Sydney whispers, sliding her hand up my thigh, her nails bright in the silver darkness. “You're too tense, Dax McCann. You think too much, worry too much.” She grins big, her yellow earrings swinging as she tilts her head to the side and nibbles her way down my cock, biting at the skin with soft teeth until she finds the first of the three barbells. Before I can suck in another breath, she's tugging gently on the metal, swirling her tongue around the silver balls.

Fire follows in Sydney's wake, burning a scalding hot trail down the ladder of metal and then right back up as she traces her lips with the head of my dick, smearing that perfect lipstick and then cleaning it off my shaft with her tongue.

I let her take me close, drag me to the edge of orgasm and then stop again, my chest tight and my body quivering with need. I want to come, but it has to be inside of her. It just fucking does.

“Done already?” Sydney asks as I give her a hand up and tug her against my chest. Our mouths meet and I taste candy and salt on her lips, a mixture of my seed and her makeup tangled between our tongues.

“Not even close.”

I lift Sydney up by the ass and park her on top of the poor doctor's grave.

Her arms go around my neck as she grins and draws a condom out of my back pocket. I don't even remember putting it there.

“I snuck it in for you,” she whispers, bringing it to her lips while she stares at me with that liquid blue candy gaze that makes my body ache for a hit. If I could smoke, snort, or shoot Sydney Charell, I probably would. It's kind of fucked up, but I can't help it. I want her all over me at the same time I want to be
in
her.

Sydney tears the silver package open with her bright white teeth and then unrolls it down my cock with a painstaking slowness that makes my heart race and my hands clench tight on her hips. In the distance, I hear sirens blaring, echoing screams that tear across the quiet of the cemetery.

I should be concerned about what'll happen tomorrow, next week, next month. I should be thinking about a million other things besides Sydney Charell, but when I meet her eyes, feel her full, ripe breasts pressing into my chest, my mind goes completely and utterly blank.

Without another word passing between us, I move my cock to Sydney's cunt and push inside. She's so fucking wet that I slide right in, all the way, balls-deep. There's a gasp and a tightening of muscles before she relaxes a little and lets me move, fingers still threaded around my neck.

I can't help but notice the splash of her tattoos against the darkness of mine, even with her body surrounding me, hot and tight and welcoming. Sydney draws me in with a breath, putting her hand on the back of my head and bringing our lips together again.

My own hands curl tightly around her soft flesh and drag her harder into me, scraping her bare ass against the cement surface of the headstone.

The movement makes Sydney gasp against my mouth, her breath hot and fluttering against my lips as I drive into her slickness, moving one of my hands between us to play with her clit piercing. The moans that fall from her lips are husky and rough, grating against my skin and drawing sounds from my own mouth as our bodies slam together again and again, turning Sydney to liquid in my arms as she tosses her head back, blonde hair fluttering over her shoulders.

When she comes, she wraps me tight, squeezing me inside her body with the ricocheting waves of pleasure that flicker across her skin like a fireworks show. The explosion in her body triggers one in mine, making me come hard and fast.

The orgasm hits me like a freight train, just one quick, violent bright burst and then there's a moment of clarity in my head as I hold a panting, quivering Sydney in my arms.

This chick … pretty sure I'm falling in love with her.

The jury's still out on whether that's a positive or a negative.

When the sun comes up and cuts into the room, stabbing me ruthlessly through the eyelids, I groan and slap an arm across my face. Doesn't much help. There's still way too much fucking desert sunshine streaming in from the wall of windows to my right. Not exactly the best way to start a hangover morning.

“Fucking Beverly goddamn Hills,” I grumble as I roll over and blindly search the nightstand for that remote thingy, the one that controls the automatic blinds on the window. It'd be too much to just pull them down myself, right? These fuckers are actually
inside
the panes of glass, so they can't be marred by the filth of human hands or the terror of
dust.
I grunt and curse as a half-full bottle of vodka rolls off the table and hits the floor with a crash, startling my bedmate.

Bedmate?

Shit.

I roll back over suddenly and end up hitting my forehead against Dax's.

“Fuck,” he curses as we both both pull back and rub at our sore spots. “Sorry.” Dax blinks up at me, at least as perturbed by the awful amount of sunshine as I am. Hey, I'm cool with warm weather, but I just don't want to look at it until I've had a handful of ibuprofen and a plate of bacon.

There's this awkward moment of silence as we both stare at each other.
Holy crap.
I don't entirely remember how we got home last night, but I
do
remember our conversation at the cemetery. I remember fucking, and I remember saying
yes.

To dating.

Uh oh.

I swallow hard and sit up, tucking some hair behind my ear. Dax does the same. He still looks fucking precious, his eyeliner smeared around his face and his dark hair mussed, showing those blond roots of his. But Jesus Christ. I swore, swore, swore to myself that I wasn't going to get involved with anyone—especially not a dark drummer with a broke heart. Watching him hurt, that breaks
my
heart. It's too much responsibility.

And yet … here he is, sitting in my boudoir, baby.

“How'd we get back here last night?” I ask, stretching my arms above my head and realizing that I'm still dressed in yesterday's clothes. There are grass stains on my bare knees and dirt crusted on my black shorts, but whatever. I've woken up wearing worse—much, much worse. I don't see any cum stains which is always a good sign.

“Honestly,” Dax begins as he leans back against the headboard, letting the blankets fall around his hips and revealing his bare chest to me when I'm so not ready to see it. It's too early for tight pecs and dark swirls of tattoos, hard nipples and abs that look like I could wash my clothes on 'em. Fuck. “I have no fucking clue. I can't remember anything past …” His voice trails off and we exchange a knowing glance.

“Oh, please,” I say with a grin that makes my throbbing headache pulse just a little bit faster. Pain pills, I need pain pills
stat.
“You can say it. We fucked on somebody's grave. So what? I'm not religious? Are you? Didn't think so.” I kick my legs out of bed and stand up before he can even muster up a response. “Oh yeah.” I plant my hands on my hips and stare down at my boots. Still wearing those, too. Impressive. “About our conversation last night …”

“It was fucked up,” Dax says, tucking his hands behind his head and staring across the room at the wall. His face is so
serious
though, like he knows how not-stupid it all was. “Sorry, I shouldn't have tried to pressure you into a relationship like that. It was bullshit. Don't worry about it.”

I leave one hand on my cocked hip and point the other at him.

“Listen here, you,” I start, moving around to the end of the bed so his gray eyes are staring straight at me. He blinks a few times and then leans forward, his muscles sliding beneath his skin in a way that's … well,
criminal.
I almost fan my face, but then, the frigging air conditioning is blasting into the room and making me shiver. Why live in the heat and then spend all day hiding from it? I'll never understand So Cal and I grew up here. Go figure. Guess what though? Our single wide didn't have no AC, okay? We didn't even have a
fan
. “I'm not playing games here, alright? I already told myself not to get messed up in all of this.” I swirl my orange fingernail in a lazy circle as Dax's lips twitch. “And I can already tell you're trouble, sweets. I could see it coming from a mile away, but you know what? You're here, and I kind of like you, alright? Besides, you have a nice long dick, a sexy ass bod, and a hatred for Turner Campbell that I can appreciate. If you want to date, let's date. Screw it. Why the hell not?”