Play Your Heart Out: A Rock Star Romance (Sinful Serenade Book 4) (13 page)

His hands find my ankles. He pulls me to the edge of the bed and spreads my knees. I can feel his breath against my sex. Damn, he's close.

His lips press against my inner thigh. His groan reverberates against my skin. He kisses a trail up my thigh. Closer. Closer. Closer.

Almost.

Then he's on my other thigh. The fucking tease. He nips at the skin. His hand trails my stomach, to my breast. His fingertips circle my nipple. Pangs of desire shoot straight to my sex.

He groans against my thigh again and that hint of self-consciousness fades away. There's no doubt in my mind—he wants this as much as I do.

How the hell did I get so lucky?

Words refuse to make their way to my lips. Instead, I groan and sling my legs over his shoulders. It pulls him closer.

Closer still.

So fucking close I could scream.

Then his tongue slides over me, one long, slow lick, and everything in the world is right.

Then it's on my lips. My body cries with relief. His mouth is soft and warm. And it feels so intimate, his face buried between my legs.

I don't waste any time. I groan. I press my thighs into his cheeks.

He keeps one hand on my thigh, holding me in place as he works me with his tongue. There's something amazing about how soft his tongue is. The sensation is intense. I'm already halfway to an orgasm.

I relax into the bed, soaking in every moment of pleasure—the way his groans send shivers up my spine, his thumb brushing against my nipple, his tongue on my clit, the tension knotting inside me.

My fingers dig into the comforter. It's smooth and slick. I can barely get a grip.

We're in a hotel. We don't have to be quiet.

I scream his name. I press my thighs against his cheeks. For a second, I worry I'm cutting off his air supply. But he groans against my thigh again and again.

My body is nothing but pleasure. My entire world is nothing but pleasure.

With the next flick of his tongue, I go over the edge. The tension inside me knots to a fever pitch then everything releases. My sex clenches. Bliss spreads to every inch of my body.

My muscles go slack. Damn am I spent. I want to push myself up, to look at him, to touch him, but my body refuses to move.

He finishes the thought for me. His fingers trail up my thigh, over my stomach. The weight shifts on the bed. I turn. And there's Pete, lying next to me, the pride of accomplishment written all over his face.

I open my mouth to say something about how fucking amazing he is but all I manage is a murmured
thank you
.

He lies next to me, pulling my body onto his. His cotton shirt is soft and cool. His jeans are rough. My hands find his hair, his neck, his forearms.

He catches my lower lip with his thumb. "My pleasure."

I murmur my agreement. Press my lips against his digit.

He slides his thumb into my mouth. I suck hard. Anticipation courses through my veins. God, how I want him in my mouth, totally under my control.

I'm too on a cloud to feel self conscious. I blink my eyes open and stare into his. "Are you clean? I am. I got tested a few months ago. Haven't been with anyone but you since."

He nods. "I'm clean."

"Good. I'm on the pill. For later."

He cocks a brow. "Later?"

The words fall right off my lips. "I want to suck you off."

He takes my hand and drags it up his thigh. No waiting. I can't bear to wait another second.

I unzip his jeans. He shifts to his feet and pushes them to his hips. Then the boxers.

This is the first time I've gotten a perfect view of his body. The light streaming through the window casts him in a gorgeous glow. I take in every hard inch—from the desire in his deep brown eyes all the way down to his muscular thighs.

My sex clenches. He's ridiculously hot. And he's that hard for me.

I'm going to make this count. I'm going to have him at my mercy. I push myself to my feet.

Okay. I'm in control. I can do this. I motion to the wall. "Put your back against the wall."

His eyes cloud with desire. He takes a step backwards. Another. Until he's against the wall.

I study every inch of him. The way his lips part with a sigh of pleasure. The way the muscles of his stomach and thighs tense with anticipation.

He's desperate for me.

His eyes stay fixed on me as I take three steps towards him. There's that hint of vulnerability in his eyes. Right now, he needs me.

A rush of anticipation spreads through my stomach. I need him feeling as good as I do. I need him screaming
my
name as
he
comes.

I rise to my tip toes to kiss him. His hard cock presses against my stomach. Almost.

My tongue slides into his mouth. My hands slide into his hair. He's going to be panting and desperate.

Sucking on his tongue isn't enough. I pull back. I take his hand and bring his fingers to my lips. He pushes forward, sliding his fingers into my mouth.

I press my tongue flat against them. Mmm. Even his fingers taste good. My sex clenches as I suck on his soft skin. This is going too slow.

My hand finds his hip. Then it's curving around his thigh. I trace the lines of his tattoo. My fingers catch on something. A scar. But this isn't the time to ask questions.

Right now, I'm the one making him desperate.

I drag my fingers up his thighs, over that soft tuft of pubic hair, and I wrap my hand around his cock.

His pupils dilate. His lips part. There. He's where I want him.

He catches my lower lip with his thumb. The gesture is intimate, a reminder that this isn't just sex.

I suck on his thumb for good measure. Harder and harder until he's groaning. No more waiting. I'm getting back in control.

My hands go to his hips. I lower myself onto my knees. One hand slides to his firm ass. The other goes to his cock.

I watch his reactions as I rub his tip with my thumb. When he's groaning enough that I'm certain he's desperate, I brush my lips against him.

"Jess," he groans.

God damn, that's a beautiful sound.

I flick my tongue against his tip. His groan gets louder. I do it again and again, until he's groaning so loudly
I
can't take it anymore.

I wrap my lips around him, taking him into my mouth. He tastes good. Like soap and like Pete.

His hands go to my hair. They find the band holding my French braid together and do away with it.

My hair spills over my cheeks. He digs his hand into it, tugging just enough my sex clenches with desire.

I want his pleasure as much as I want my own.

I take him deeper. Until he's groaning. Until our bodies are the only things in the universe. His skin is soft but he's so fucking hard. I dig my fingers into his firm ass, using it for leverage to take him deeper. When I can't take anymore, I stroke him.

His hands knot in my hair. They nudge the back of my head.

Deeper.

I take him as deep as I can. Stroke him as hard as I can.

His moans blur together. It really is beautiful music. Much better than anything I've heard on the radio.

"Fuck, Jess," he groans as he tugs at my hair. "I'm going to come."

Hell yes.

His eyelids press together. A sigh escapes his lips.

He shudders. He's almost there. I watch the pleasure spread over his face as I suck on him.

He lets out another groan. His palm presses against the back of my head, holding me in place as he thrusts into my mouth.

"Fuck, Jess," he groans. "You're fucking amazing."

My body floods with desire. I feel amazing—powerful and sexy.

I swallow so I can take him deeper. I dig my fingers into the flesh of his ass. It's almost too much, but I can't do anything to stop the ecstasy in his expression.

It's the best thing I've ever seen.

With his next moan, he comes. His thighs shake. His hands tug at my hair. And he groans my name again and again.

He tastes good. Sweet. I hold him in my mouth until he's finished then I swallow hard.

He sighs with pleasure as he takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. Then his arms around me, his palms on my ass and between my shoulder blades.

He pulls my body into his. The embrace is so tight I can't breathe.

We collapse on the bed, tangled up in each other, everything in the world exactly where it should be.

***

W
e linger in bed for the better part of an hour. His arms are around me. My back is against his chest. I can feel his heart beat and hear his breath.

It's heaven.

I don't move until my stomach is grumbling. I push myself to a seated position and turn to face him. The moonlight casts highlights over the hard lines of his body.

My gaze is drawn to the tattoo on his thigh. I haven't had a chance to really look at it. My fingertips skim his knee. "May I?"

"You can touch me anytime you want."

I fight my blush. "You've got me all wrong, Steele, I'm only in it for the body art."

"Too bad. I wouldn't mind going again."

"Wouldn't mind?"

"Was planning to wait until after dinner."

"Oh. That's probably good. We need our strength."

He chuckles. Damn his eyes look even more beautiful in the moonlight. I want to drink them in.

My gaze rakes over his strong shoulders and chest, all the way down his torso and over his hip and thigh. His tattoo is huge—takes up most of his quad and some of his hip.

It's beautiful. Red and grey roses with strong, sweeping lines. Instead of thorns, the flowers are connected with barbed wire.

I trace the curving lines of the design. There's that scar again. I move past it but there's another scar. There are a lot of scars.

His voice is deep and steady. "You're gonna hurt my feelings not asking about my tattoos."

"You have more?"

He points to a tattoo that curves around his left hip and side.

"Nothing on your chest or shoulders?"

"Gotta save some skin."

"In case you feel something else in your soul?"

He nods.

"How many things have you felt in your soul?"

"A few."

"Are they all tattoos?"

"Yeah." His eyes meet mine. "But it's not one thing. There's a lot in this design."

"I wouldn't want anything I've felt that deep on my skin. It's too ugly."

"It helps, reminding yourself that you survived something ugly."

I swallow hard. "Did you get that to cover your scars?"

He takes my hand and brings it to his thigh. "The scars are part of the design."

I look closer. He's right. The scars are woven into the barbed wire.

My eyes meet his. "Why do you have scars on your thighs?"

"You really want to know?"

I nod.

"You sure? It's the kind of thing you can't take back."

"I'm sure."

"My dad hit me."

The words fall from his tongue like he's saying his dad was a mechanic. Like it's natural.

He stares back at me. "Once, he was drunk and miserable. He took the kitchen knife and started threatening to kill himself."

My stomach drops.

"I tried to stop him." He motions to the scars. "Got halfway there."

"Your dad did that?"

He nods.

My heart aches. "How old were you?"

"Young." His posture stiffens, a clear
we're not discussing this
message.

But I want to know him, know where he hurts. "Did that happen a lot?"

"Depends on your definition of 'a lot.'"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I don't like thinking about him. He's been gone a long time. Ten years since he died."

"I'm sorry you went through that."

He nods.

"What was it you felt in your soul?"

"Lot of things. It's complicated." His eyes meet mine. "You've never wanted ink?"

"Nothing has ever jumped out at me." Almost nothing. My cheeks flush. "You'll make fun of me."

"I won't." He holds up his hand. "Scout's honor."

"Were you a Boy Scout?"

"No. Tell me anyway."

"There's this couple's tattoo. If I ever really loved someone, I'd want to get it."

"What's there to make fun of?"

"It's from
The Hunger Games
. From
Mockingjay
."

His lips curl into a smile.

"See, you're going to make fun."

He shakes his head. "What from
Mockingjay
?"

"You've read it?"

"Of course."

"You know how Peeta gets brainwashed and he's not sure of his mind, so he asks Katniss if his memories are real or not real?"

Pete nods.

"At the end, he goes to her and says, 'you love me, real or not real.' And she says 'real.' I want that. One person gets 'real or not real' and the other gets 'real.' It could be with a mockingjay or an arrow or just the words."

My face is burning. I can barely bring myself to look him in the eyes.

There's no judgment in his expression. He's smiling. "That sounds sweet."

"You don't think it's lame I'm a super fan?"

"Fuck no.
Hunger Games
is good shit."

My fingers are drawn to the lines of his tattoo. "Will you explain it to me, what it is you felt in your soul? Why you got the tattoo?"

"It's not exact. If I could explain it exactly, I wouldn't need the ink."

"That's okay."

His voice drops. "My biological mom died giving birth. Dad never got over it. That's why he was always drinking. He never stopped blaming me for it." Pete's eyes go to the comforter. "Looked at me like I stole the sun from the sky."

He's been through an ocean of pain. I reach out to comfort him. My fingers find his cheek. He leans into the gesture for a moment then he turns away from me.

"Always knew I could lose anything at any moment," he says. "Wasn't till I landed with Ophelia that it mattered. She was the first person who thought I was worth something. Roses are her favorite flowers. Became mine too. Got the ink the day I turned 18. Can't explain better than that."

"I think I understand."

He moves closer. Pain slides off his face until his expression is all playful. Does he really feel better or has he just pushed it aside? I'm not sure.