The Tour (10 page)

M
y breath comes out in puffs, and I watch it because it’s the only diverting thing I can do while I pout outside. I’m shivering but I’m not going in the house, not yet. My plan is to remain stubborn until I can’t take it any longer. Then I’m going to sleep on the floor in Riley and Deloris’ room. He won’t go in there because of Deloris. At least he has some boundaries.

The door opens behind me and he sticks his head out. “What if I take one of those off the agenda tonight?” he asks, his voice slow.

“What?”

“Talking, spanking, fucking. I’ll take one off the agenda,” he clarifies, coming to stand in all his glory, forearm pressed against the doorjamb, “if you’ll come inside.” He blinks again for a long time, sways a little, and then stares right into me like he’d done the first time he’d ever laid eyes on me.

“I’m not doing any of that shit¸” I tell him, breaking the trance by staring out toward the trees. I’m shaking so hard from the chilled air that my voice sounds like a vibration.

“Fine, you win. Just come inside. My only demand is that you sleep in my bed, where you belong.”

“No.”

“This is my final offer. I’m willing to bend on all the other stuff, even though it would do you some good to get a good spanking. You’d probably like it, which would lead to…you know, the other two in a different order than I’d previously offered.” For whatever reason, he actually makes me smile. It’s a cold-face smile—my lips are numb and my hands are getting stiff.

“Just the sleeping. No talking. No—other stuff.” He nods, smiling, and puts his hand out for me. As I walk toward him, I put my arm out to meet him half way. His hand is as warm as a Christmas evening by the fire. Once I’m inside, he puts his arm around me, his hand sliding down to rest at the small of my back, and walks me down the hall and into his room. Slowly, he pulls down the covers and helps me in like a gentleman helping a lady into a carriage—except he’s in sweats and I’m in mix-matched jammies.

I watch him walk around to his side, and my stomach does a little butterfly flip when he slides in next to me. I cross my legs at the ankle. Off limits.

At first he’s looking up at the ceiling, but then he tilts his head to the side. “You can’t do this, Mia.”

“What can’t I do?”

“What I’m trying to say is you
can
be mad at me, and I
can
be really fucking mad at you,” I try not to giggle when he slurs the word ‘fucking,’ “but you can’t shut me out like that,” he whispers and rolls over so he’s facing me. “I’m not even gonna say that you can’t go to bed angry. I’m just going to ask that you sleep with me every night, even if you’re mad. Can you agree to that?”

“I felt weird coming in here after you yelled at me.” He nods, and looks down acknowledging that he hurt me. He looks up, and tunes into me, looking through me, and runs his finger along my jawline.

“Your place is with me. What’s mine is yours. End of story.” He hums a little, the drugs making him melodious.

I want to protest for the sake of protesting, my immaturity peeking out its little baby head. Instead, I swallow and nod. “Okay.”
Take that, immaturity.

“Hmmm. That wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be,” his mouth bends into the side smirk he gives only me. I move on to my side and wrap my leg over his.

“So I get my way after all,” he laughs as he smacks me hard on the ass, grabbing it and pulling me on top of him.

“No, you didn’t,” I laugh.

“Even in the order I wanted it. Talking, spanking, fu—” he says, before I take his mouth with mine and pull my shirt over my head. As I look down at him, his face is all soft angles. “You dazzle me,” he says.

“Dazzle, who says that anymore?” I laugh and he stills me with his hands on my hips.

“Well, I’m on all kinds of drugs right now,” he says. “Can’t be responsible for what I say or do.”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Take off your pants. I’ll show you some dazzle,” he adds, and I giggle as his finger runs a soft line up my thigh. He knows that I need this just as much as he does. I sit up straight and unstrap my bra. When he sees my breasts, he swallows hard and his jaw tenses.

I push my pajama pants over the curve of my hips, slowly pulling them down. I’m hesitating because I know this is wrong, he’s wounded, and he probably shouldn’t exert himself. “Take them off,” he demands.

I nod and look him in the eye as I push my pants over my hips, move backward so I’m sitting between his legs, and let him take them off one leg at a time. I can see how ready he is, as I climb over him. My heart is aching as he fists his hand in my hair, running his other hand up my outer thigh, and kisses my lips, flicking my tongue once like I am life and he’s ready to live. I rub my panties against his length as it’s pressing into his stomach. The friction is both exciting and breaking my heart. We almost died. What if I’d lost him?

He fingers my nipple, hardening it before he takes it in his mouth. It’s like a direct line to my core as his tongue moves back and forth before he sucks and squeezes me. I feel my heart constricting, pumping the blood through my veins. I feel like I’m glowing.

I know this is what he needs after the fire, after his fear that we were hurt at the mall. But it’s because he’s never known real love. He lost his mother before he could form a real memory about her. In this moment, I’m grateful that our physical closeness eases his anxiety. But, it makes me move my mouth away from his to catch my breath. When I do, I think too much. I see the wound over his heart and remind myself that he’s a human man—not a rock god. “This could hurt you.”

His fingers travel between us and he moves my panties to the side. I bite my lip as his fingers slide into my soft, wet folds. “Does this hurt?” he murmurs, as my mouth opens and my hips start to move in time with his hand.

“No.” I shake my head, and I can feel my chin start to tremble.

Moving his mouth to my neck, he sucks and nips his way up to just behind my ear. He flicks his finger back and forth over my most sensitive spot until I whimper.

“In Tantra they call this the pearl,” he says in a whisper that travels up and down my spine. “Do you like that name?”

“Yes.” He’s regressed me to a near-mute with the flick of his tongue on my earlobe and the motion of just one finger.

“We’ll go slow. Do you know how to ride on top?” I feel a blush coming up to the surface of my cheeks before I nod.

He takes his finger and moves it along the hem of my panties before he tugs hard, ripping them from me. I gasp and he discards them somewhere on the floor. “You won’t be needing those,” he quips as he guides me by my hips so I have to rub up and down the length of him.

My eyes roll upward and I’m panting from the perfect friction. He stops, and, when I look down, I see the movement of his hands. “You like it when I touch myself, don’t you? Tell me.”

“I love it,” I answer, as he bites his lip and continues—for me. Because he knows I like it. Because it winds me up.

I’m holding my breath as he moves us close enough that we’re nearly one. “I love watching you when I do this,” he says, as he pulls me onto him, slowly filling me. He smiles with his eyes as his gaze teases my open mouth, my eyes watering in response.

He bites his bottom lip and pulses inside me, but doesn’t move. “I want you to think of the number eight. Do you see the shape in your mind?” he asks, moving inside me in shaky, but slow, tender strokes.

I nod, and press my hand on his lower abs to give myself leverage. With a sure strength, he guides my hips forward and to the side in a swooping motion that comes around, down, and sweeps forward again, just like the number eight he asked me to imagine. I growl in response to the sweet pressure.

Again, but a tighter eight, deeper, as I grind myself into his hips. It’s different. It’s not the normal friction, but more like a sensual dance that’s building tension inside me like a little ball of fire.

“You’re perfect, Mia,” he whispers, his voice adding to the chemistry we have. The flow of energy like a current through my limbs.

As I move in another slow eight pattern, I see his chin lift as if he’s in pain. “Are you okay?” I ask, stopping, even though it’s like asking for a river to stop its flow. He takes my hips and moves me up, and then slams me back down. Hard. Making me cry out.

“Don’t stop,” he breathes out, as he pulls me toward his now sweaty chest, glistening in the bedroom lights like beach sand on a bright day. All I see is him. All I know is his scent and our bodies as they wind themselves together like heated twine.

He pumps himself inside me, driven and beautiful, and he presses his thumb into my pearl, making me push into him for relief. “Look at you,” he murmurs, and presses his palm along my lower stomach, causing an intense feeling to rise deep inside me. “I can feel myself inside you right here,” he says. His words are like a potion, like sparks under my skin.

He presses my breasts into his chest, holding me still as he shows me with each new angle of his hips that I am his. I feel the shadow of my release, and he senses it. I can tell because he speeds up, and tilts my chin up. “I need to watch your face when you come,” he says, his teeth clenched.

His words are enough to take me there. As the release uncoils inside me, my insides clamp down around him. I keep my eyes open and I watch as his deep green eyes dilate. Just as I feel him seize up, the heat from his release fills me as he holds onto me for dear life. The sound he makes is a low moan, like he’s leaking pain. He’s shaking and throws his head back as I wrap my arms around his neck.

He’s pressing my body into his so tightly it’s hard to tell where he ends and I begin. We’re both so hot it almost stings. His chest moves up and down with mine as he moves his hand down the center of my back, just hard enough to let me know he means it.

He takes his finger down the center of my spine and beyond, surprising me. Then he fingers the sensitive place where he and I meet making me quiver in his arms. “I love you,” he says. “Thank you.” He rubs little circles there before pulling himself out of me, slow enough that it makes me ache for him to be there again as soon as possible.

He definitely showed me some dazzle. Now I finally know what that word really means.

*     *     *

“I want to cut down our own Christmas tree this year,” Riley declares as she’s sitting at the long, heavy table, nibbling oatmeal.

“I do, too,” I agree, looking up from texting Kaya. She has been freaking out since yesterday, and she’s perturbed because I won’t tell her where we are. But I can’t—we need a break. I can’t even image how bad it would be if this refuge was suddenly engulfed by photographers. We’d never recover. “I’m completely on board with the tree cutting idea. Can we?” I ask the decision makers in the room, because, obviously, I’m not allowed to make that kind of choice on my own.

“Whatever you want,” Kolton answers. He’s getting scruffy; the gorgeous rock god is being replaced by a tatted mountain man. Yet, he’s still a wounded man who needs to heal.

“Do you want some more?” I ask, nodding toward the stove. He tilts his head, reading me similar to the way Devon did the first night we got here.

“I’m fine, Mia,” he tells me, and he’s talking about more than just his bowl of breakfast oats. I nod, but wonder if he’s only telling me what I want to hear. “Devon, do you know where we can cut our own tree?”

“Yeah. I found a tree lot about an hour away.”

“Already?”

“Yeah, Riley was asking about it yesterday. What do you say, Riley? Want to get hot chocolate on the way?” he asks, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Riley squeals.

“I think that means ‘yes,’” Deloris says, chuckling.

*     *     *

All of us pile into the car and drink hot chocolates from a drive through we passed on the way there. It’s snowing a little—not enough to stay solid once it reaches the ground, but it’s real snow while it makes its way down.

I wonder, if I were snow, would I be the kind that’s only good on the way there, or the kind that stays for the winter. Maybe my career will only last as long as the show did and I’m already on the ground because it’s over. I could end up one of those one-hit-wonders. Or, even worse, a person who’s known for their scandals instead of their voice. I want to be taken seriously. I have to think of the long term, not just the short way down to my destination.