His eyes are a brilliant blue even in the low light, like pressed sea glass with moonlight shining through. “Yes. I used to wonder about that all the time.”
There it is again. Used to. Before I can ask him what he means, someone screams.
Very suddenly, the whole room erupts. The back door has been breached, and the bar floods with loud, drunk, raucous people.
The band is quickly surrounded by security and ushered off stage, through a door I hadn’t noticed before. They have to fight people off. The fans are screaming and crying, swarming in a thick pack, trying to get closer to the Tucker brothers. It’s like a riot. People are crazy and out of control, pushing and yelling.
My God. This is dangerous. It’s a stampede.
Gage picks me up and pushes us through the crowd. People swear at us as Gage’s big, wide-shouldered form shelters me and breaks through the throngs. He does this far more easily—almost tactically—than most people might have. He’s a quarterback, I remember. No wonder. But the crowd gets thicker. More people are screaming. And we’re not any closer to the exit.
Gage finds a door and shoves us through it, slamming it behind us.
It’s dark in here. And the noise outside is suddenly muffled and quiet. It’s a tiny space, and narrow. The crack of light from around the door allows enough light in to see that it’s an equipment closet. There are a few microphone stands and some wound-up cords hanging from hooks. There’s an old-fashioned key in the door, which Gage turns, locking us in.
“I hope we don’t get stuck in here,” I whisper.
“We won’t. Are you all right, honey?”
“I think so. Do you think the band is okay?”
“They’ll be fine. They have plenty of security.”
My heart is racing.
Gage’s is too. I can feel it. He’s still holding me and he leans me against the wall. But he doesn’t back away. He’s pressed up hard against me, like his protective instincts won’t let him distance himself. His large, warm hand rests against my face, as though he’s feeling me for signs of distress or injury. The back of his knuckles graze my cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I’m breathing hard. “Yeah. Are you?”
He doesn’t answer. His chest rises and falls with his heavy breath. The scent of him, of leather and man-spiced adrenaline and a hint of whiskey, is … dizzying … intoxicating. Here, in this dark space like a calm, intimate haven inside the eye of a raging hurricane, I feel safe. From them.
Not from him.
Not from myself and the addictive, rushing urges coursing through my body.
He smells so good.
He feels so good.
Much, much too good.
He smooths a stray strand of my hair back, tucking it behind my ear with strong fingers. Despite the gentle gesture, his eyes are bright with lust.
Gage leans closer.
I place two fingers against his lips, to stop him.
If I kiss him, or give him any piece of myself … I don’t want him to be gone by morning. I can’t be casual. I care. I feel, too much.
“I want to taste you, sweet girl, so much. I’ve been dreaming of—”
“No,” I whisper. Oh God. The way we’re positioned, with my knees apart and his big body not allowing me to close them. The enormous bulk inside his jeans is right there—pressed hard against the thin layer of my hitched-up skirt and the thin silk of my saturated panties. These delicate barriers aren’t enough. My pussy feels soft. My clit pulses with tiny detonations of silky warmth, which throb lightly against his hard, colossal thickness. God help me.
“You want me.” His voice is gruff and I can’t help it: I love the sound of it. The deep gravel-edged tone of it seems to reach inside me, stoking the fire.
“No,” I lie, gripping his muscular arm. I need something to hold on to. I need him to anchor me.
“I can feel how much you want me,” he purrs. “How sweet and wet and ready you are.”
“I’m not,” I insist.
He nudges his cock harder against the cradling softness of my body. God, my pussy is so wet that his gargantuan length slides, displacing the ruined shred of my panties, so my sensitive flesh is rubbed directly against the rough texture of his jeans. “You’re going to give yourself to me, baby. Everything.”
“No,” I manage to breathe. “I can’t.”
“You can. You will. Let’s bet on it. You’re going to surrender to me and fall in love with me and give me everything I want, before the month is done. I’ll bet my half of the bar on it.”
“No.” Why would he do that? I gasp, because he presses against me again, rolling the tiny bud of my clit with his gigantic cock. I’m going to come if he keeps doing that. I try to squirm away from him but it only makes the pleasure spike, so much that I go still, because if either of us moves, I’m going to die of both ecstasy and embarrassment. I’m breathing hard and my heart is thumping in my chest. “I’m not betting you. That’s a terrible idea and you’re a terrible person for even suggesting it. I’m not giving you anything. Let me go.”
“It’s not safe for us to move yet.” Burning me with the fever in his eyes. Not caring at all that I just called him a terrible person. Which he is. Very terrible. “It’s a one-sided bet. If you win you can still keep your half.” His voice is rasped when he murmurs in my ear, “You want to hear what I’d do first?”
“No.”
“I’d peel off this little dress, like I’ve done in my fantasies. Like in the dreams I’ve been tormented by since the minute I saw you. Then I’d lay you back on a big, comfortable bed with a view of the ocean and the windows open to let in the breeze and the sun so your perfect skin will be warm to my touch. Then I’d start licking my way down your body.”
“Stop,” I gasp. I need him to stop talking. His low, deep voice is touching me with its husky allure, funnelling its way deep into the low pit of my stomach, and lower, to my sensitive nub, like an electric current is touching me there. My pussy gets even wetter. I can feel the slippery quiver of my inner muscles as my clit throbs gently against the rock-hard ridge of his gigantic cock. The pleasure rises higher and I grip him with both hands, willing myself to keep control of it.
I’m going to come. I don’t know if I can stop it from happening.
“You want to hear what I’d do next?”
I can’t even reply to him. One word, one breath, and it could all unravel. So I stay very, very still.
“I’d take those little cherry-ripe nipples that I can see under your clothes and I’d suck them into my greedy mouth. One, then the other. I’d suck hard, rolling them with my fingers until they’re pink and sore, feasting until I get my fill. I’d get them all messy and wet, until you’re almost coming.”
Damn him! Can he tell I’m riding a wave that’s already too high and too good to slow down?
“And then,” he growls softly, “I’ll lick my way down to your sweet, wet, pink pussy.”