Play (Stage Dive, #2)(52)

“Son,” a deep voice said from the other room.

“Hi, Dad.” Mal rested his forehead on my shoulder. “Don’t come in.”

“No, no. We won’t do that.”

“There’s a lot of water on the floor,” his mom said, matter-of-factly. “Aren’t you a bit old to be splashing around like this? What on earth were you doing? Where does Anne keep her mop?”

“Kitchen cabinet,” I whispered.

“Ah, kitchen cabinet, Mom. Thanks. Guess I got carried away.” Mal rested his head against the back of the tub. He rolled his eyes to the side, checking out the floor. “Look what you did, young lady.”

“You’re the one that climbed into my tub,” I replied quietly. Sure enough, the bathroom was pretty much flooded. Water had spread across the floor, a stream of it leading out beneath the door and into the living room. “What a mess. We better clean this up.”

“Sorry, pumpkin. I don’t mind picking up my shit and all, but I’m a rock star. Rock stars don’t mop. It’s just not done.”

“You help make the mess, you help clean it up. Boundaries, Mal.”

“You don’t understand.” He shut his eyes, face tight with fake despair. “These are the hands of an artist. Would you expect Bonham to mop?”

“Who?” I asked in confusion.

“John Bonham.”

“Right. Well … if John Bonham got water on the floor, yes, I would expect him to mop.”

“Well, he can’t. He’s dead.”

I cocked my head. “What … who are we even talking about?”

“You don’t know who John Bonham is?” Mal asked, his voice rising.

“Shh. Your parents are going to hear us.”

“Sorry. But c’mon, pumpkin, you have to know who Bonham is. You’re f*cking with me, right?”

“Sorry.”

“Ah, man,” he sighed, shaking his head slowly, mournfully. “I’m not sure I can stick my dick in a woman who doesn’t even know who John Bonham is.”

“‘Stick your dick in’?” I asked, my brows probably touching. “Did you actually just say that?”

“Make love. I meant make love … of course. I would never just stick my dick in you. I would make mad, passionate love to this sweet, sweet body of yours for days, no, weeks. It would be beautiful, pumpkin. There’d be little angels, and birdies, and you know … all just hanging around, watching. Perverts.”

“Right. You are so full of shit.” I smiled, cautiously, climbing to my feet.

“What about Kerslake, you know him? How about Wilk, never heard of Wilk?”

“I know Grohl. He’s great.”

“Oh, no. Fuck, honey. Not Dave Grohl. I mean, he’s a good guy and there were flashes of definite genius back in the Nirvana days, sure.” His hands slid from my waist down the sides of my thighs, holding me steady. “Whoa, where’d they go?”

“Hmm? Mal, stop.”

He stared straight at my sex, studying it. A little line sat between his brows. Deep down inside, I could live without him doing that right now. The man’s parents were on the other side of the door. The woman who’d given birth to him was busy cleaning up the mess we’d made. So not the time to be getting familiar with me. Quizzing me on famous drummers could probably also wait.

“Can you not, please? And where’d what go?” I threw a leg over the side of the bath, stepping down carefully onto the slippery floor. Getting the hell away from his overly intrusive eyes. My robe hung on the back of the bathroom door, fortunately. I hadn’t thought to bring in a change of clothes and my work wear sat in a soggy heap in the corner.

“Your pubes,” he said, angst filling his voice. “Where are they?”

“I wax.”

His nose wrinkled up in obvious disgust. “Well, stop it. I want cute carrot-colored pubic hair like on the top of your head. I deserve it.”

I bit back a smile. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”

“It’s been almost a week. I had to have something to beat off to.”

“You’ve been masturbating to the thought of me?” I asked, thrilled. Clapping would probably be uncool, plus his parents might hear.

“Do I have a dick, Anne?” Mal climbed out, water running out of his soaked jeans, flowing out of his Chucks. What a beautiful wet disheveled mess.

“Given the size of the bulge in the front of your jeans, I’m going to answer yes to that question, Malcolm.”

“Then, yeah, of course I’ve given this a lot of thought. I’ve been thinking about your * constantly, what it looks like, what it tastes like, how it’ll feel.” He towered over me, half naked and dripping wet. The dripping-wet part was definitely going around. “Why do you think I was on Ben’s couch last night? No one else I wanna f*ck. It’s gotta be you.”

“Wow,” I whispered.

“You gonna give me shit about not being romantic like you did last time?”

“Nope.”

“Nope?” His fingers toyed with the collar of my robe. Not undoing it, just hanging on.

I gripped the waist of his jeans and lifted my face, pressing my lips to his. “All I heard was blah blah I’ve been thinking about you constantly. Blah blah it’s got to be you. It was perfect, pure romance.”