Chapter Twenty-Six
Alexis
The week after that life changing performance seems to be mine and Colt’s actual honeymoon, even if it’s spent entirely in our tiny apartment. We barely put clothes on and spend most of our time wrapped around each other, making up for all the time we spent torturing each other with sexual frustration.
And there was a lot of sexual frustration to work out.
And we talk. About so much more than we talked about before. Our childhoods, our families, our touring experiences. He has a lot more miles logged than I do, just on his first tour as a teeny bopper when he was thirteen. Add the years he’s spent working for his oldest brother, and he’s an old pro at life on the road.
“Is it weird for you?” I ask as we’re tangled up in bed, my head pillowed on his shoulder and my right leg threaded between his. I stroke up and down his torso, mesmerized by the way his skin ripples and shudders, the muscles standing out in high relief when he flexes for my enjoyment. “Being in one place for so long?”
He hums thoughtfully. “Yes and no. At first it was just nice, the kind of relief you always get when you get a break from touring and get to spend more than a few nights in the same bed. And then I moved here, which was enough of a change to break up any potential monotony, plus we were hard at work putting that show together. And now …” He tucks a finger under my chin to tilt my face up and takes my mouth in a long, deep kiss. “Now I’m having fun with a new distraction. But yeah, it’s strange to see the same walls every day for so many days in a row. I have no complaints, though.”
I roll onto my belly and layer my hands over his pec so I can prop my chin there and look at his face. He grins at me, that hint of boyishness that’s such a fun contrast to this body that’s all man.
“Really?” I press. “No burning desire to hit the road again?”
He gives me a quizzical look and skims a hand down my back. Over the last week since the last of our barriers have fallen, I’ve learned that he’s a very tactile person, and he likes to touch me at every opportunity. “Are you trying to kick me out?”
With a laugh, I lever myself up to sitting and shake my head. “No. I just don’t want you getting bored.”
He hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me close, pressing a kiss to my rib cage. “I promise, I’m nowhere near bored.”
I skim a hand down his side. Because as much as he likes touching me, he practically purrs like a cat when I return the favor. This poor boy clearly hasn’t gotten enough affection in a long time, and now that he has it available, he’s trying to drown himself in it. It’s fun to watch the shifts and changes in his body when I touch him in different places, the way he turns toward my touch like a flower seeking the sun.
“Good,” I murmur, stroking down his hip to his thigh. He sighs and rolls onto his back, and I settle between his legs, running my hands up and down the thick muscles of his quads and then back up to his torso. As I move higher, stretching my body over his, he wraps his arms around me and traps me against his chest.
He lifts his head and pecks my lips, his eyebrows pinched as he studies my face. “What’s this all about? Are you getting bored?”
“No. Not bored, exactly.”
His lips tilt in a sardonic smile. “Oh, well, that’s so very reassuring.”
With a laugh, I press my hands into his chest, going back to sitting. “I just want to schedule more shows. Last week was amazing, and I want to do it again.”
He puts his hands behind his head, his biceps flexing with the movement, and lets out a chuckle when he sees me practically drooling. A month of him shirtless, including a week of totally naked, and I still can’t get enough of looking at his body. It’s a work of art.
With an unrepentant shrug, I meet his gaze. “You’re beautiful.”
His eyes soften, and he pulls one hand out and rests it on my thigh. “So are you.”
“Now about the next show …”
Chuckling, he plants his hands on the bed and pulls himself up to sitting, scooting back away from me. “I’ll make some calls right now. Ricky said we were welcome back anytime, but I think we probably want some variety.” After brushing a kiss across my forehead, he stands and heads to the living room where he left his phone. “Both our pages have been blowing up with requests for more performances and more videos,” he calls through the open door. “We should think about booking some studio space and recording some songs. We could put them online ourselves and make more money per sale than we’d get with a label.” He comes back into the bedroom, thumbs flying over his screen as he types out a message to someone. “My brother would probably produce it for us,” he says without looking up. “He’s done it for me before even when he thought the songs were shit. He’d probably enjoy these.”
My eyes widen, and I’m not sure which part of that to address first. Recording our own songs? Going indie? With a big time producer like Brendan Brasher mastering the songs?
Finally, I go with what seems safest. “Your brother didn’t tell you your songs were shit.”
He looks up from his phone and shoots me a grin. “He didn’t have to. I could tell he thought so from his attitude the whole time.” A thoughtful look takes over his face, and he scratches his chin. “Or maybe he just thought I was shit.” With a shrug, he finishes up his message and gives the screen one final, definitive tap. “Either way, neither you nor I nor these songs are shit, and even with bad phone recordings my brother will be able to tell that.” He crawls back on the bed and gives me a kiss. “What do you think?”
Biting my lip, I look into his hopeful eyes. “Let’s do it. Reach out to your brother. Book some studio time. Schedule as many performances as you can. I’m tired of waiting. Let’s take control of our careers instead of hoping we get permission from someone else.”
He takes my lips in a fierce kiss and presses me back on the bed. Hooking one leg over his hip, he drives inside me in one stroke, ending our kiss on a groan. “That’s what I want to hear,” he rasps, his voice dark and gravelly.
His eyes are dark and hooded with lust as he stares into my eyes, rocking into me a few times before pulling out and fishing a condom off the nightstand. Rolling it on, he plunges into me once again, wringing a desperate cry of pleasure out of me.
Our joining is hard and hot and fast, and my orgasm drops on me like a ton of bricks, hitting me with the force of gravity. Colt’s right behind me, pressing me down into the bed, his lips fused to mine. “Too fucking right we’re done waiting,” he says as he peels himself off me. “Let’s do this.”
Colt’s declaration that we’re doing this launches us into another whirlwind of productivity. We spend hours rehearsing together in my apartment, filming take after take of the best songs from our live performance until our voices are raw and raspy and we have to stop and drink tea with lemon and honey.
He relaxes on the couch with me, mug in hand, a tired grin on his face as he lifts his arm for me to settle against his side. We’re both fully clothed, which is rare for us, but since we’ve been filming, clothes are a must. Well, I suppose we could do a naked hits series or something …