Pretty Instinct (30 page)

“I don’t care. Read my phone anytime you want. And send her any text you want. If I had something to hide, I’d probably have a password.” He playfully nips at my earlobe. “I love you. Mi business es su business. Promise.”

“I’m not going to attack her,”
I would love to
, “that’s ridiculous. She didn’t do anything to me personally.”

“Probably best you don’t go at her. That’d be like her showing up to a dog fight carrying a rabbit; she wouldn’t stand a chance against my tough little nut.” He chuckles on my neck. “So glad I get to see your sweet center, though. My favorite piece of candy, hard on the outside, decadent on the inside.”

“Oh, brother.” I roll my eyes even though my back’s to him. “Go to sleep, Walt Whitman.”

“He was brilliant. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Agreed, and none surprised he’s read another of my favorites. But I remain silent, actually quite tired, ready to cease the sonnets and go to sleep.

“Baby?” he whispers.

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay after the talk with your father? You haven’t mentioned it.”

My exasperated lament bounces off the walls of the small room. “Surprisingly, yes. Now I know why my mom got weird, and while I appreciate him finally admitting his role, his fault, it was still on her to be stronger. She stayed, tolerated it, and found ways to block it out and accept it. Conner and I didn’t have that luxury. We had to live through the dysfunction, sober and trapped. They were both equally selfish, if you ask me.”

“I did ask you, and I think you’re right; your feelings are valid. So what’re you gonna do now?”

“I’m gonna eat dinner with him and Conner and see if I can’t get some more answers.”

“Want me to go with you?” he offers in an empathic, kind tone. Another part of me melts, soft and pliant to
let him in
, thus rolling over to face him.

“I appreciate that, babe, more than you know, but I think both of them will talk more if it’s just us. You understand?” I peer up at him, hoping he does.

“Absolutely.” He nods, resolute. “You called me babe.” His smirk appears, my favorite look on him.

“Yeah?”

“Liked it. You’ve never pet named me before.”

“Well, Siren was taken.” I shrug with a soft giggle, suddenly feeling cheesy and embarrassed.

He in turn growls, diving into my neck once more. “Oh yeah, Siren is definitely
taken.
By
me
, mine, forever.”

***

When I wake, the bus is stopped and peaceful. “Where are we?” I grumble in a froggy morning voice.

“Brownsberg, Indiana,” he answers with a smooch to my forehead. “Your uncle went to a hotel to sleep since he drove all night. Not sure where Rhett or Jarrett went.”

“You call your friend?”

“Sark? Yeah, told him we’d come check out his place in a couple hours. You ready for coffee?”

“God, yes,” I moan, then whimper before I can stop it, when he releases his hold on me and rises.

“I’ll meet ya in the bathroom with a cup. Grab a shower, sleepyhead.”

Why is he in such a hurry?
I wanna lay here and relax, devour my caffeine fix, and drag myself up gradually.

“Up, baby!” he yells from the other room.

I am not a dog
.

“Please,” he adds in sugary taunt, earning himself reprieve from the chastisement I had on the tip of my tongue.

“Hmpthmph,” I grumble, peeling myself from the warm, much comfier than my bunk, bed. When I dawdle to the bathroom, he’s waiting with coffee and a smile—
only
.

Now
I know why he’s rushing me. Empty bus, won’t give him play in the bed… I should’ve realized it sooner, really, but I just woke up. Slow on the uptake.

“Did you know you’re naked?” I cock a brow and reach for my coffee.

“Did you know you’re not?” He wickedly leers back, pulling the cup out of my reach. “Get naked and have a sip.”

Holding his hungry stare, I grab the hem of my shirt and suggestively lift it up and off, tossing it aside. “Drink,” I demand, holding out a hand.

He steps forward and tilts the cup to my lips, giving me time to blow on it before pouring some in my mouth. I try to slurp fast, needing my sunrise crack like a twitching junkie, but too soon he pulls it away.

“The rest,” he drawls, looking down to my shorts, intense and assertive.

“This is blackmail,” I jeer, not genuinely aggravated, and shimmy my pj shorts over my hips and down my legs. I step out of them and use a toe to fling them in his direction, my mouth open. “More.”

He complies, once again offering me a drink. “You hold it,” he instructs, going to turn on the shower when I do.

I’m appreciating both my coffee and him, naked and glorious, his lengthy, hard erection jutting up and out from his defined, leanly sculpted body. He steps under the waterfall and holds out a hand to me. Audaciously, I set aside the mug and hasten to him, anticipation flushing through my whole body…more evident in certain tingling parts than others.

He draws me in and very impressively, since this shower wasn’t meant to fit two (I don’t mind the tight squeeze), pivots me directly under the spray, running his hands up my neck, using his thumbs to tilt my head back, saturating my hair. When he’s satisfied it’s good and dowsed, he curls his long fingers and brings my head back upright. “Turn around,” he demands, a baritone overtly brimming with arousal. He lathers in shampoo, his care thorough and methodical, no strand left untouched, individually gliding each between his fingers. “I love your natural color, baby.”

“Oh yeah? Took you a while to say something,” I goad, glancing over my shoulder with a coy grin.

“I noticed the second you walked out. I just wasn’t sure it was okay to profess it publicly back then. I notice everything about your gorgeousness.” He’s moved on to soaping up my back and butt, distracting me beyond further conversation. “Okay, turn around.” He takes me by the hips and guides me around, exuding complete control. “Lean your head back and rinse that out.”

I’m about to ask why he’s not doing it when his hands answer, roaming down my torso, fondling my breasts far more than what’s required in the mere interest of cleanliness. Then the devilish mitts slide lower, washing my belly, before he’s
thoroughly
washing my most intimate place.

Completely at his mercy now, I moan, my head thrown back, fingers tangled in my own hair. Exhilarated and in real danger of combustion, I push myself against his hand. “What are you doing?” I shriek, jerking my head up, eyes popping open. “Oh my God, that tickles.” I giggle. “
Why
are you kissing my armpits?”

“Because I’m guessing no one ever has, and that’s a damn shame. Your little pits are precious and deserve love too.” He lifts his head and winks before moving to the other one. “Okay, baby, turn around again so I can do your conditioner.”

“No need. That’s two in one shampoo. Not the greatest, but saves time with five people showering on one hot water tank.” I shrug. “My turn to wash you,” I say, and it comes out in a sexy purr.

I lather soap in my hands, my eyes sweeping over every part of him, deciding where I want to start—not that there’s a wrong choice. My foam-filled hands worship the brawny muscles beneath them, fingers digging in on the definitively outlined pecs, hip indents, and rippling abs. Blushing fiercely, I take intricate, methodic care between his legs; first his heavy sac, rolling it in my hands, then his light smattering of closely trimmed hair, finishing the job by stroking my firmly clenched hand up and down his rod-hard length…multiple times.

He groans when I squeeze, grunts when I tug, and utterly
hisses
when I perpetrate a twisting motion. “Baby, enough,” he begs in a breathy huff and takes a step away, turning around. “Finish washing
me
before I finish, please.”

I re-lather up and start at his shoulders, dipping down into his pits, finding them almost as ticklish as mine, then caress over every rigidly flexed muscle in his back. Licking my lips, I grip both his butt cheeks and rub my palms and fingers lasciviously; this taut, delectable ass is definitely one of my favorite parts of his body. I can’t wait to test my theory of its buoyancy later.

“All done,” I pant, backing into the spray to make sure I’m completely rinsed.

“Hardly.” He turns, stalking me the few steps until my back is against the wall. He spins me around, seeking out my hands and forcing them flat against the tile in front of me. “Leave ‘em there,” he growls in my ear, partaking of a nibble while he’s there. I feel his piercing grip my hips, tugging back on them ‘til he has me poised at the angle he wants me.

I shiver, scarcely able to stay braced and upright as he runs a single finger through my moisture, mockingly sliding that single digit inside me, then just as swiftly out. “Love the way your body talks to me. I want you too, my little Siren,” he says at the same time he spreads me open and plunges his thick hardness all the way into me.

I moan/scream at the tight fit, the stretching fullness bordering on stinging pain.

“Easy, baby, relax,” he coos into the back of my neck. “You little minx, quit flexing or this won’t last long.”

I’m not doing it on purpose, my center is literally protesting the intrusion on its own.

When his dexterous fingers find my clit and strum it in perfect harmony, I do relax, every muscle in me going lax with glorious euphoria. “There we go, melt around me, baby, tight but eased wet, just how I like it,” he murmurs as his thrusts pick up speed and force. He tugs at my hips, bringing me up on my tiptoes, then pushes down on my lower back, effectively popping my ass higher in the air.

“Fuckkk yeah,” he rumbles, reaching a whole new
that spot
inside me. “Right there, perfect.”

It feels so damn good, the friction of his head hitting my upper wall, his fingers relentless on my clit, and his sounds—
God, his sounds
—the quivers within my walls come on quick.

“That’s my girl.” He bites lightly at my shoulder, immediately covering it with an open mouth kiss. “Give it to me, Lizzie, drench my cock. Now.”

His ministrations grow more urgent, pressing down and around, rolling my clit like his toy, his pounding into me maniacal, and I do… I see black, then flashes of white, my head falling forward limply as I clasp and pulse around him. Nothing else exists, just the two of us locked in a bubble of pure ecstasy where I float, only aware of the sweet sounds of our slapping skin and his pleasure, piercing but unable to penetrate my blissful daze.

He comes, body going motionless, hands compressing down mercilessly on my hips, dick twitching inside me. I embrace it, mind, body, and soul, basking in what we make each other feel.

Having yet to reclaim my breath or bearings, he slips from me, the hot evidence of physical domination coating the insides of my thighs. Instantly, he’s there with a washcloth, soothingly cleaning me before twirling me back around to face him.

“Making love to you is the only perfect thing I’ve ever known.” He kisses my forehead then beholds my eyes. “I love you, Lizzie Hannah Carmichael, and I always will. Completely.”

“I love you too.” Overcome, I lay my cheek to his chest and count his heartbeats thundering beneath my ear.

“We better get ready.” And with one more kiss to my hair and playful pat on my ass, we do just that.

“Sark, my man!” Cannon and his friend bro hug, complete with sharp slaps on the back.

“How the hell you been, Cannonball? Traveling man now, huh?” his handsome, charismatic, blond buddy asks.

“Something like that.” Cannon chuckles. “Hey, I want you to meet someone.” He reaches back to where I’m trying to blend in behind him and snares my waist, catapulting me forward. “Kasen Sark, this is Lizzie Carmichael, my
one
.”

A confused visage crosses his face briefly, but he’s quick to recover. “Pleasure, Lizzie. Thanks for doing some shows here.” He initiates a handshake, mine cold and clammy from a stranger’s touch.

“Pleasure’s mine, and thank you for having us,” I muster, my head dipping marginally. I can’t help being a bit apprehensive…he’s wondering where Ruthie is, obviously. Do I measure up? Does he already hate me? And I care why?

Because he means something to Cannon, who means everything to me—that’s why.

“What, uh, happened to—”

“Why don’t you show us around, Mr. Tactful,” Cannon interrupts him, knowing, as I do, he was about to ask about Grandma Fiancé.
Told ya.

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” He changes directions of conversational topic
and
to show us around the place, suddenly spewing off every fact about the bar, “his new baby,” he can think to tell.

The place is very sleek; red, black and yellow leather seating, along. L-shaped bar and a ginormous dance floor, which is white, but obviously made to glow with the right lighting. Upstairs is a plush VIP area, same color combos and its own, smaller bar as well. Sark tells us as we tour that there’s a full kitchen somewhere that serves until 11, then finally takes us down a different set of stairs to show us the stage and tombs. He has a state of the art drum kit, sound board and stage lights, and asks if he can run for us.

Fancy schmancy.

Cannon looks to me for how to answer and I just shrug. We’ve never done all the bells and whistles, so even if Sark does it wrong, I’ll never know.

“Just don’t shine anything bright up in our eyes,” I say, jovial.

“You got it. So you guys wanna go ahead and sound check or do you need the others?”

“We don’t have our instruments,” I answer.
Did he not notice that?

“I’ve got some backstage. They should work to get things set.”

No, that’s not how that works
. But Cannon’s way ahead of me.

“I’ll check bass and drums, you do guitar on my side and the front mic.” He winks at me, proud of his solution.

“Okay,” I agree, though skeptically. Not only will it be a half-ass check, we’ll just have to do it again when the boys join us. But then it hits me, and my heart threatens to burst; Cannon’s doing this for his buddy, who so obviously wants to show off his new gadgets, full-out running to the sound booth.