But I know she cares about me. I know she likes the way I touch her. Is as turned on by me as I am by her. I plan to prove to her I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be as solid as a rock for her until I take my last breath.
She sends secret looks to me as she tunes her electric guitar and checks the mic. She used to acknowledge me before but not like this. Now everything about her says she’s here with me.
The band came to the Kremlin this afternoon to practice. Ravil let them use an office on a floor that’s mostly empty right now. I sat and watched, unwilling to leave Story alone for even a moment.
“Your boyfriend’s making me nervous,” Flynn complained at one point, when he kept screwing up his chords. He sent me a lopsided smile, full of carefree charm.
The other two band members had barely said a word, and I realized I probably made them all nervous.
I was about to use the iPad to offer to wait outside, but Story told them, “Get used to it. Oleg’s hanging with us now.”
And, seemingly as easily as that, I was accepted into the band’s sphere. Something that seemed like no more than a fantasy just a few short weeks ago.
Now I’m imagining myself as their roadie, in charge of carrying the heavy equipment and setting it up. Protecting the band. I like the idea.
“We should hire them a manager,” Sasha says, also watching. “They’re so good. I can’t believe they haven’t gone bigger.”
Maxim nods absently. Like me, he keeps sweeping the club with an alert gaze.
“I mean, I’ll do it until we can find someone,” Sasha offers.
I stare at her. Without even hesitating this time, I make my expression alive and readable. I lift my brows and spread my hands.
Sasha seems to get it. “I totally would do that for them. I’ll be damn good at it, too.” She breathes on her nails and pretends to buff them on her sleeve.
“Definitely,” Maxim agrees.
I nod.
I do the sign for “thank you.” Story spent the past few days making me watch Youtube videos with her to learn the basics. I don’t know why I never considered it before.
“You’re welcome.” Sasha beams. She’s already learned most of them, too.
The band picks up their instruments, and Story takes the mic. “Hey everyone, I’m Story Taylor, and we’re the Storytellers. Thank you to Windy City Brew for having us out today.”
She doesn’t wait for a response, but the band kicks into one of their upbeat numbers. People who weren’t paying attention while she was talking now bob their heads in time with the music.
A strange feeling settles over me.
Contentment.
It’s like all the pleasure of every time I’ve seen Story perform condenses into this single moment.
Because now she’s mine.
This supernova of a girl belongs to me. Was in my bed last night. Let me tie her up and ravish her all night long.
I check the crowd again, popping my knuckles. The thought of anyone ever trying to hurt her again turns me lethal. But I don’t see anything amiss. No one who stands out as not belonging.
My brothers are here watching, as well. They wouldn’t let anything happen to Story, either. I should have trusted them with the details of my ugly past a long time ago.
Story smooths into their next song and then another. The pub is alive now, people happy and talking, people listening. No one’s up to dance yet, but that doesn’t usually happen until later. The Storytellers have perfected the art of playing just the right groove for the moment, picking things up at the end, when drinks have made the crowd happy and sloppy. Ready to dance.
When the band goes on break, Story beelines for my table and drops into my lap. I band my arm around her waist, feeling as tall as a mountain.
You were great, I type on the iPad.
She twists to kiss me. A long, lingering kiss that probably makes Maxim and Sasha uncomfortable. “I love having you at my shows.”
I’m so fucking sorry I missed the last one, I type. I know I let her down, and now that we have the means to communicate, I need to explain myself. I overslept because of the concussion. I promise, will never miss another one.
She looks at me for a long time, then she takes my face in both her hands. “I believe you.” There’s a look of wonder on her face. “That’s so scary for me. I think I just expect people to let me down, and then I’m pleasantly surprised when they don’t. But with you… I don’t know. I could come to…” —she swallows— “depend on you.”
Depend on me, I write.
She smiles.
Move in with me, I type.
She freezes, her eyes skittering from the words on the iPad to my face and back.
Blyad'. I pushed it too soon.
I want you in my bed. I try to lighten it up by making it about sex. Every night.
It works. She smiles.
“You would terrify all my guitar students.”
Oh fuck. Is she actually considering it?
We’ll soundproof that empty office for you and the band, I promise. Of course, I’d have to run that by Ravil, but I would do anything to make it happen for her.
She drags her lower lip through her teeth. “Okay.”
I was so busy preparing my next offer for how to make this work for her that I barely process what she said.
I raise my eyebrows in disbelief.
She laughs and nods. “Let’s try it.” She shrugs. “I would love to live with you and the gang.”
“What’s this?” Maxim interrupts. “Did I hear you’re moving in?”
Story shrugs with a big smile. “Well, you do have a great rooftop pool.”
Sasha throws back her head and laughs. She points at Story. “You and I are going to raise the roof together at the Kremlin.”
Maxim groans, but his expression is indulgent. He’s crazy about his wild unruly bride.
Story lifts her glass of water and toasts us all around. “Here’s to raising the roof.”
Story
Oleg pushes me up against the side of his Denali, pressing his huge body against mine. His mouth finds my neck, and he bites, insinuating his thigh between my legs for me to grind up.
“Are you going to give it to me rough again?” I ask, breathless.
His large hands cup my ass, and he growls in my ear.
I’m already hot for him—performing makes me horny and so did sitting on his lap between sets. I love the way it feels to get claimed by him.
He hoists my hips up and dry-humps me, the bulge of his cock pressing right against my sweet spot.
“Promise?” I ask.
He chuckles. First chuckle I’ve ever heard from him.
Then he gently sets me down, opens my door and lifts—not helps—literally lifts me inside and onto the seat.
The guy likes to manhandle me.
And I like being manhandled.
He puts the Denali in gear and beeps the horn at Maxim and Sasha, who were waiting in a gorgeous blue Lamborghini to make sure we got out of there safely.
“They want us back next month,” I tell Oleg happily. “I was over there collecting our pay and Sasha shows up and introduces herself as our manager.”
Oleg steals a glance at me as he drives.
“She basically asked him if he was happy with how we lit the place up and then asked when he’d like to have us back and if he wanted to make it a regular thing. He agreed to have us monthly, and then she asked if he would consider charging a cover and giving it straight to the band.”