Ripped (Real, #5)(80)

I can’t deny she’s the best sex I’ve ever had.

But it’s not just because she’s a f*cking goddess, because she is. A dark Medusa, I’m under her spell, and all I want is to be in her. And I love being in her because I love her.

The way she smells.

The way she smiles like she doesn’t want to but can’t help it.

The way she kisses with all that angry passion inside her.

The way she goes to pudding in my arms, but as soon as we’re done puts up her bitch act just to bring out my *, and force him to give her bitch another tumble . . .

She’s been giving herself physically, but that’s not enough for me anymore. I can grind against her, force her to take every inch of my dick. I can grasp her arms by the wrists, keep her pinned, and make her cunt devour me.

And still it won’t be enough.

I think about it happening. How the scene will play out. What I’ll do to her. What she’ll do to me . . .

“Kenna,” she’ll moan. And she won’t be any hotter than she is, because she can’t be. Because she’s perfect.

And still, I’ll want to hear the words.

I won’t be gentle with her, but I don’t think she’ll want me to be. I’ll suck, lick, feel her twist with desire, the ripples of her body around mine.

She’ll tremble as I suck her tit, trembling still as I spread her thighs apart. She’ll thrash under me, rocking up to my body the way she does—greedy, hungry, like she’ll fall apart if she doesn’t get me in her. Like my dick is all that holds her together. Her nipples will grow red and puckered from my kisses, and I’ll give them a rest and go to her mouth, until she’s flushed and gasping too. Saying it.

Saying what I have been dying, for years, to hear.

I will watch her lips form the words.

Three. Only three.

Because I’ll still want them.

Her lovely face, pure white in the dark. Those rounded shoulders, plump breasts, her perfect ass, and hot, wet, delicious * lips. All of that, mine for the taking as she says,

“I love you . . .”

And when that happens, I’ll hold her in place. She’ll toss her head as I hold her immobile, and there’s no way she won’t know who’s taking who. Her nails will rake into my back as I dive into her heat, telling her again and again that I feel the same way. That she’s the only one for me. Showing her with my hands, my lips, my body, she’s the one for me.

“What are you doing if she comes?” Lex presses, snapping me back to the dressing room. I toss the lighter aside and rise to my feet as I slide my bare arms into my leather jacket.

“I’ll be waiting.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll be hunting her down.”





TWENTY-TWO


MY FRIEND MELANIE SAYS NOT TO WAIT FOR PRINCE CHARMING—HE COULD BE STUCK AT A CONCERT


Pandora


So I heed her advice.

The flight triples my anxiety, but I’m starting to become a pro at this. Once on board, I pop my clonazepam and apologize to the guy in the seat next to mine, saying, “If you need to use the toilet, just wiggle past me, ’cause I sleep like the dead,” and he laughs and says, “No need.”

Next thing I know I’m being shaken—rather violently—by the flight attendant, letting me know we’ve arrived in New York.

New York.

Madison Square Garden.

And Mackenna Fucking I-love-you-you-delicious-motherf*cker Jones.

I hail a cab at the airport, lugging my roll-on suitcase behind me. I packed enough for a week, but I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t really know anything except that he didn’t walk away. That he came back for me.

The minutes stretch as we head toward the concert. I drum my fingers on my thighs, fidget with my fingers, my hair, peer restlessly out the windows. We’ve barely moved three feet in the last half hour.

“Oh my god, this traffic,” I tell the cabdriver, my legs aching with some first-time impulse to run. Just run to him, get him back, talk to him. Come clean at long last . . .

“There’s a concert happening . . . hard to get close.”

“I’ll walk from here,” I tell the driver, slipping him a couple of bills and then, regretfully, hauling out my luggage and looking toward the entrance to Madison Square Garden.

The stage is set up and lit with warm light. I spot one of the roadies and rush forward. “I need to get in,” I say, breathless. He instantly recognizes me—I can tell by the twinkle in his eye as he pulls open the rope and ushers me inside. “Head to the back. I’ll take care of this for you,” he says, gesturing at my suitcase.

“Thank you.”

“Opening act’s about to be done,” he says.

That very instant, the wild music playing in the background shuts off, the lights shut down, and I shuffle to the lower side of the stage, holding my breath as I hear a violin playing in the dark. My flesh pebbles as a soft, haunting tune begins, and when the lights turn on, my eyes fixate on the exact figure they illuminate.

Gah, I love him so much my heart aches in my chest.

He’s down on one knee, a headset with mic curled around his jawline, his head down, and as the rest of the orchestra begins to follow the tune of that haunting, slow violin, Mackenna starts singing.