Authors: Elizabeth Coldwell
Everything to Him (7 page)
“All the best, mate. I really hope it works out for you.” Davey pulled back, regarding Mark with a rueful look. “And remember, whatever else happens, we’ll always have that night in Prague with the strippers and the Danish tour guide.”
Stefan’s farewell to Mark was curt, but given the history between the two men, it was hardly surprising. Paul, summoning up his trademark crooked grin, shook Mark’s hand and told him, “Just fuck off and don’t come back, you old bastard,” in a tone conveying the exact opposite.
I almost couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to Mark. The announcement of his departure had hit me like a physical blow, and I was afraid if I started telling him how I felt, I’d never be able to stop. But he pulled me into his arms, once such a safe haven for me, and simply murmured over and over, “I’m sorry, Aimee. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” I replied, certain he knew I wasn’t just referring to the fact he was leaving. When we finally broke the embrace, we both had tears in our eyes.
With one last affectionate ruffle of my hair, Mark turned and left the room. His slamming of the door seemed to echo for an age after he’d gone.
It was typical of Paul to break the silence. “So that’s us fucked, then.” He glanced at his watch. “The Miller’s Arms should be open, if anyone wants to join me for a pint. There are worse places we could have a wake for the band.”
“Someone should speak to Martine,” Davey pointed out. “The press are going to be all over this as soon as they find out. She can put out the official statement saying the tour’s off.”
Stefan shook his head. “No, she can put out a statement saying we wish Mark all the best in his future career and we’re starting the audition process for a new guitarist as soon as possible.”
Paul spoke for all of us. “Are you out of your mind? Do you seriously expect us to find someone to replace Mark before next week?”
“Of course. We might have to reschedule the first couple of dates on the tour, but I’m sure the fans would rather see us later than not at all.” He pulled his bass lead out of the amp, a sign we would not be rehearsing today. “But Paul’s right. We all need a drink. Come on, I’m buying.”
As we followed him out of the rehearsal room, I couldn’t help admiring Stefan’s confidence in our overcoming this unforeseen setback. It was one of the things I loved best about him, along with his soft hazel eyes and his deliciously firm arse. But somehow I found it impossible to share that confidence. Mark had been such an integral part of Sweet Lies, I simply couldn’t imagine life without him.
* * * *
I was still thinking about Mark’s departure when I stepped into the shower that evening. Stefan, Paul, Davey and I had decamped to the pub for a couple of hours, though we’d spent more time reminiscing about our more outrageous adventures on the road than discussing a potential new guitarist. We’d managed to let Martine know the bad news before it popped up on the cyber-grapevine. A no-nonsense Geordie, she took it in her stride, as she always did everything. As the band’s PR officer for over ten years, she’d grown very practiced at dealing with our various upheavals, whether musical or domestic. As the only girl in the band, I sometimes needed to get away from the boys’ club atmosphere that could take over, particularly when we were on tour, and I’d come to regard Martine as my closest female friend. She’d been a shoulder to cry on when relations between Mark and I had become strained, and I’d shared secrets with her I didn’t think even my husband knew about. But though I could discuss Mark’s departure with Martine on a purely emotional level, I doubted she would really understand how the arrival of a newcomer—always assuming we managed to find one—would affect the dynamic within the band.
With the water beating down and the glass door of the shower cubicle steaming up, I wasn’t aware of Stefan’s presence till he pushed open the door.
“Room for one more?” he asked.
As he joined me, I drank in the sight of his gorgeous naked body. A couple of years shy of forty, he still had an enviably thick head of chestnut hair and the solid, muscular build that first attracted me to him. He’d been working hard in recent weeks to get in the best shape he could, in preparation for an extensive, gruelling tour, and the results were clearly visible.
Even though he spent most of the set lurking towards the back of the stage, laying down a simple, steady beat on his bass, Stefan still needed to be fit. We all did. We simply had different approaches to fitting the necessary exercise into our lives. I took weekly classes in jazz and contemporary dance at the Pineapple Dance Studios. Stefan went jogging in Hyde Park. Davey rode his horses, Butterscotch and Bonnie, in the countryside near his Rickmansworth home. Paul claimed he kept fit by chasing women.
“Need a backrub?” Stefan joined me beneath the almost tropical spray.
“Mmm,” I replied. His fingertips might be calloused from years of pressing against the thick bass strings, but there was magic in their touch. Martine swore by her aromatherapy massage sessions at her favourite day spa in Covent Garden, but as far as I was concerned there was no better masseur than my husband.
“Wow, these are serious knots in your shoulders,” he commented, working his fingers in hard, circular motions. “You’re tense, Aimee.”
“Wouldn’t you be, after the day we’ve had?” I relaxed into Stefan’s caress, feeling his cock stiffening against the small of my back. “But you know what, the more I think about it, the more certain I am we’re going to find a new guitarist.”
“Really?” Now his hands moved round in front and gently squeezed my breasts, squishing citrus-scented bubbles between his fingers. “Why’s that?”
“I just know someone’s out there. Think about it…we have at least two tribute bands doing the rounds, pretending to be us every night. They must know our songs at least as well as we do.”
“But how would you feel about someone taking Mark’s place who didn’t just sound like him, but looked like him, too? Wouldn’t you find that a little weird?”
“Maybe.” Until Stefan mentioned it, I hadn’t considered that aspect. I turned around to face him, standing on tiptoes as he bent over me, so our faces were almost on a level. My fingers traced the tattoo on his right shoulder, the interlinked letters S and L that made up the band’s logo. “But I could live with it. And anyway, there’s a place in my heart that belongs to Mark. No one else could ever take it.”
“Really?” Stefan quirked an eyebrow. “I thought I did a pretty good job of that.”
Our lips met, softly at first, then with a passion all our years together had never managed to dim. Stefan’s tongue traced the contours of my mouth, probing deeper, tasting me, possessing me intimately. When we finally pulled apart, I threw my head back, exposing my throat to him. He nipped at the skin there, while his thumbs brought my nipples to hard, tight peaks. My fingers twined in his wet hair, liquid heat building between my legs. It had been a while since we’d had sex in the shower, but it had been one of our favourite places when we’d first been together, trying to find places to be alone, away from Mark and all the drama of my failing relationship with him.
“You have all the rest of my heart, Stefan. Now and for always. You know that.” I grasped his cock, pulling at it gently, soft skin sliding over the steely inner core. “But let’s not talk about Mark or the band anymore. Let’s just fuck.”
“God, I love it when you talk dirty.” Stefan pushed me up against the wall of the shower, his long cock jutting up, demanding entry to my pussy. “You look so innocent, Aimee, but you have the filthiest mouth…”
The coldness of the tiles on my back sent a sharp thrill through me. “Take me, lover,” I murmured. “Show me how much you want me.”
He lifted me up, using all his considerable strength to hold me in place while I reached down and helped to guide his cock between my wet, puffy lips. Gravity pulled me down on to his length, and I clung tight—arms round his neck, legs locked around the small of his back—as I welcomed him all the way inside me.
Water poured down on us as Stefan thrust into me, droplets falling from his hair and trailing down his broad chest. Nothing felt better than to be joined to my husband like this, our whole world reduced to the places where our bodies connected. Here, now, I was able to forget about all our troubles with the forthcoming tour and Mark’s unexpected departure. I could lose myself in the feel of Stefan’s cock pumping in and out of my welcoming channel, the sound of his breathing, harsh and heavy in my ear, the subtle male smell of him that even the citrus shower gel couldn’t mask entirely.
Palms flat against the shower wall, he sped up his strokes, pushing me hard against the tiles. Every time he thrust, the friction hit me in just the right place, taking me ever closer to the point where my orgasm was inevitable. I didn’t often come without the aid of something touching my clit—fingers, Stefan’s tongue or one of my favourite toys—but tonight was going to be one of those nights. My body was as taut as one of Stefan’s bass strings, and the sweetest of pleasures was about to be plucked from it.
Stefan stiffened, arse cheeks clenching tight beneath my drumming heels, and with a mighty roar he came, flooding me with his seed.
“God, you’re amazing, Aimee,” he panted.
“Love you so much,” was all I could reply as waves of bliss rippled through my belly, spreading out till even my scalp tingled. Stefan held me as I rode out my climax, then gently helped me to stand.
We shared gentle kisses for a moment, both slowly coming down from the peaks we’d just reached. Eventually, Stefan turned off the water.
He reached for the robe he’d left hanging by the side of the shower cubicle. “I don’t know about you, but I could murder a bowl of cornflakes.” They were his favourite post-sex snack, sprinkled with sugar and drenched with ice-cold milk.
“Sounds good,” I replied. Sitting in our cosy kitchen, munching cereal with my husband, I could pretend everything wasn’t about to change, that our whole future wouldn’t depend on whether or not we could find a suitable replacement for Mark.
The two of us had come through so much together, within the band and outside of it. Whatever happened, nothing would change our bond, our love. We had to treat the audition process as an adventure, and trust in fate to bring the right person to us.
About the Author
Elizabeth Coldwell is the author of numerous short stories and two full-length novels, ‘Calendar Girl’ and ‘Playing the Field’. Her stories have appeared in the best-selling ‘Best Women’s Erotica’ series and Black Lace’s popular ‘Wicked Words’ collections. Formerly the editor of the UK edition of
Forum
magazine, she also contributed a spicy monthly column, ‘The Cougar Chronicles’, to its pages. When she is not busy writing, she is an avid supporter of Rotherham United Football Club and can be regularly found on the terraces at weekends, cheering her boys to victory (hopefully!).
Email:
[email protected]
Elizabeth loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.total-e-bound.com
.
Also by Elizabeth Coldwell
Cougars and Cubs: Something Within Him
Sharing the Billionaire: Everything to Him
Christmas Crackers: The Christmas Box
Haunted By You: The Spirit of Stage 13
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