Ripped (Real, #5)(82)

I glide my fingers up the muscles of Mackenna’s back, slowly, sinuously pressing my body to over six feet of pure, hard male. I feel the supple muscles tense beneath my fingertips, and I feel, rather than see, his sharp inhale of breath when I brush my hand up his front.

Do you recognize me, you f*cking god? Do you?

Pressing my lips to his skin, I graze his shoulder with my teeth, nipping him playfully. Then I can’t take it any longer and I swipe out my tongue, tasting him.

He curls one arm around my waist and tugs me around, not missing a beat as he continues singing. Circling him while making sure the most parts of my body connect with his, I step in front of him. Shamelessly I press my lips to his chest as I move with him.

That’s right, it’s me. And I’m going to rock your f*cking world like you rock mine, Mackenna Jones.

I slowly move my body against his, pressing my tongue to his puckered brown nipple. Circling. Rubbing the hard little point. Letting him know, in front of all these people, that I want him.

I trail my hands over his muscles, thinking how perfect he is. I’m always so reserved and contained, but he’s the one I want, the one I love, and I want him to know it. He pulls me hard against him and rocks me at his side, running his hand down my body. That wasn’t scripted. None of it. The way he squeezes my ass. The way that, between those hot, rumbling lyrics, I feel the heady sensation of his lips against my neck. He’s stealing touches every moment he can. In charge of things. Of his song. The dance. Me.

He swings me around to face away from him, then pulls me back to him and swoops me so my hair falls away and I’m arched with my head hanging back.

Silence falls.

Catching his breath, he lets me straighten and touches my forehead slightly with his. Before he knows what hits him, I anxiously tug his microphone down to his chin and press my lips to his. His mouth—so familiar, so hot, so wanted—was waiting for mine. He kisses me harder than he’s ever kissed me, until my lips and mouth—my every cell—are burning like fire. The lights flare, and there’s a silence as we keep going, our heads slanting to one side, then the other, our kiss only stoking our desire.

Then I pull away and caress his jaw with all ten of my fingers, and whisper into his mouth, “You’re mine. I claim you. I love you. You’re mine.”

The fans roar behind me. Holy shit, I forgot all those people were there. I face the ecstatic crowd, my lips lifting at the corners. When I turn back around and my wide eyes meet his wolf ones, I want to weep with the raw emotion I see there.

How do you tell the guy you love how much you love him and how badly you f*cked up?

I wait a breath or two, until my quickened pulse has quieted. Then I slip a small note in his hand and whisper in his ear, “Meet me at this hotel. There’s a key waiting. Please come.”

I turn to leave, but he spins me around by my wrist, growling out one word: “Wait.”

He plants a harder kiss on me, pushing his tongue in to connect with mine and triggering sparks across my nerve endings and bolts of lightning to my toes. Releasing me, he smacks my rump to send me on my way.

“Now that,” he murmurs in the sexiest, roughest voice ever as he addresses his fans, “was Pandora.”

My smile hurts my face as I hear a roar erupt from his fans. And I carry this smile as I retrieve my suitcase from the roadie and take a cab to the hotel.

? ? ?

I’M SO NERVOUS. So excited. I think this is what cardiac patients must feel like when their hearts start acting “different.”

I’ve never been so nervous or excited in my life.

Even when I stole from my bed to see him at night . . .

Rushed to the window to receive him . . .

Reliving, in my bed, my very first kiss with him . . .

After he saved me from the school bullies. After I held his hand outside court. The night I met him at the docks, where, before we even said hello, before a word was spoken, he pushed away from the column he’d been leaning against and I picked up my pace, and before we knew it I was in his arms and he was in mine, our lips locked and moving, hot and fast, our breath wild, our hands moving. “You came,” he murmured, holding my face and kissing my temple, chin, cheek, nose.

“Always,” I whispered back, clutching his jaw and loving how his hands felt big on my face, like he still had a couple of inches to grow into them.

I loved him like crazy then. But that level of crazy is nothing compared to now!

Melanie would be proud. Hell, Brooke would be proud. Even Magnolia would be proud.

I pace around the hotel room as I wait for him, then I go check my appearance in the mirror. Fuck. Do I look stupid? I put on some earrings and switch my boots for a pair of heels, and I paint my nails pink instead of the dark purple-black I usually wear. I exchange my leather jacket for a soft white silk top too. God, it’s so obvious I want to please him. Because I like it when he calls me “Pink.” I want to look girly and soft, but . . .

Okay, fine. Let it look obvious that I want him. He called me his vampire queen . . . and I want him to be my king. For him to take a chunk right out of my heart, bleed me out, and carry me to his bedchamber. Lair. Wherever he f*cking wants!

I’m pacing around, rubbing my bare arms, when I hear the click! of the door. I swing around, feeling like some stupid eighteenth-century maiden, about to swoon.

Because he’s swoony, swoon, swoon, right here, in my hotel room.