Ripped (Real, #5)(56)
When I slip back into her room, she’s lying in bed and quickly rises up onto her arms when I arrive. You could never fall asleep when you knew I was coming, could you, baby?
“Hey,” I say, struggling with the sensation of carrying a grenade inside my chest. Grenade about to go boom!
Holy shit, I feel powerful things for her.
I feel everything for her. Anger and protectiveness. Possessiveness and pain. I feel f*cking good with her. I feel . . .
“Come back to bed,” she whispers, lifting the sheets.
God, I’m not f*cking it up this time.
FIFTEEN
A ROAD TRIP WITH A ROCK GOD
Pandora
“Mackenna, I’m not getting in that car.”
“I see two choices for you, Pink, and two only. It’s either the jet or the Lamborghini. Your pick.”
“The door doesn’t even open right! What’s with that, Kenna? You have a big dick—you don’t need these gadgets to feel like a man.”
“Stone, seriously, get in the f*cking car.”
“Jones, you want the entire highway to look in your direction as we go to the airport? Is your rockstar status not enough to make you feel good about yourself?”
He laughs. “Babe, we’ll be passing by so fast no one will get a glimpse of our faces. Come on.”
He slams my suitcase and a small duffel into the trunk, then comes around and yanks the door open. “What are you waiting for? Get in.”
I edge inside and when he leans over, my insides stir, as if my stomach is in a blender. “Why are you doing this?” His eyes hold mine as he reaches for the belt and slowly starts strapping me in.
“Easy. Because I want to. I want to be away from those bozos . . . and alone with you.”
His scent reaches me, and it annoys me that I sound breathless—even if I have been f*cked ten ways to Sunday already. “You sure woke up chivalrous today. I never thought you’d grow up to be such a gentleman.”
“I can be gentle, just not with this car.” He settles down in his seat, then snaps the belt on with a cocky smile. He strokes the wheel almost with the same loving care he strokes me with, then sets the GPS, his arms bulging, the flex of his muscles causing an uncomfortable tickle between my legs. He starts the car with a big roar and presses the pedal, and the engine roars even more.
“So, is there an ulterior motive for us driving to the airport?” I ask.
“We’re not heading to the airport.”
He smirks and zooms us out of there with a screech of tires only fast, scary cars with expert drivers in movies make. Before I can demand specifics, he drops our windows and the sunroof, and the wind presses his shirt to his chest, every muscle grabbing my attention. I take in the buildings that we pass, then nothing. Every couple of minutes, my eyes drift to him. I can’t stop. The wind is the only actual sound, but in my head, there are a thousand.
Why did he leave? What does he want with me now? Does it matter? Do I want to take his love, just so I can fling it back in his face? Or am I trying to prove to myself that I’m loveable? Or am I doing this—this thing with him—simply because it’s the thing I’ve wanted most, my whole life?
“So what’s the plan?” I ask.
“We road trip to Dallas, spend a night at a hotel, then arrive for practice before the concert. We’ve got to beware of the f*cking paps, but I’ve got my lucky cap for that.” He looks at me, raking his eyes up and down. “Want to stop for a couple of disguises?”
“I can always wear your mohawk.”
He smiles and reaches out to take my hand, bringing it over to his thigh, keeping his hand on mine as he hums a Mozart song. I swear it’s so f*cking sexy when he hums that I almost wish he wouldn’t. It’s sexy because he likes real music and can play piano and guitar like a devil. All because of the way he listens to the melody, then repeats it, but with his own twist.
The wind doesn’t even touch his buzz cut, and it’s sexy. How it stays in place. He’s holding my hand, and that’s sexy too.
And dangerous.
Danger! I pull my hand away. “Let’s keep it real, okay? There’s no point in pretending shit if we’re just f*ck buddies.”
“Really now?”
“Absolutely.”
“So, what am I supposed to do? What’s my role?”
He’s amusing himself; I scowl.
“Nothing. You be yourself—an *—and I’ll be me.”
“Charming as always?”
“Wow, seriously, what did you have for breakfast today?”
“You’ll be my woman.”
“The way you say it like I have almost no choice is irritating. But yes, fine. And we just . . . f*ck. On occasion. And on that day when I have to kiss you, I’ll dance, making a complete idiot of myself. Then we finish with whatever terms, and I leave.” I stare out the window, but I hear him laugh, like I’m hilarious.
“I happen to hold my f*ck buddies’ hands.” He grins and stubbornly takes my hand back. I groan, and he laughs.
“What have you got to lose? I know you haven’t been with a man since me. I know that guy at the hotel parking lot was a friend.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know,” he dismisses. “What do you have to lose, letting me hold your hand? I’ve held it tons of times before.”