Rock with Me (With Me in Seattle, #4)(18)

“You wanna f*ck a rock star, sugar?” Before I can react, he plunges his fingers in my hair and pulls me to him. He kisses me hard, demanding me to open my lips and accept his tongue. He licks and sucks my mouth, bites my lips, and takes some more, and I push on his chest, trying to shove him away, but he holds firm. His hands slide down to cup my face and he pins me with my back against the fridge.

“I didn’t f*ck you last night,” he growls. “But I’ll sure as hell f*ck you now.”

He attacks my mouth with more violence than before, yanks my button down shirt apart, scattering the buttons around the room, and pulls it down my arms and tosses it onto the floor. He unfastens my jeans and peels them down to my knees, spins me around the kitchen until I’m bent over the island and gasps when he sees my underwear.

I’m wearing black lace underwear with ruffles on the ass, and he deftly rips them into two pieces and tosses them aside.

“What the f*ck? Those were brand new!”

“I don’t give a shit. They were in my way.”

“You’d better have a condom on you; I don’t know where your dick has been,” I bite out, deliberately trying to hurt him, and I know I hit the target square on when he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

I hear him rip open a foil packet, and the next thing I know, he grips my hair hard in one fist and pushes my face down to the counter top, spanks my right cheek, hard, and plunges inside me, all the way.

He spanks me again and then grips my hip, bruising me, and does exactly what he promised. He f*cks me.

Hard.

Angry.

Hurt.

And I hate myself for loving the way he feels inside me. For being so damn wet and ready for him that had I not already been sore from him earlier, it wouldn’t have hurt me.

But, oh God, it does hurt.

He releases my hair to grip my other hip and pumps himself into me, growling, as he comes, shuddering behind me.

He pulls out, yanks off the condom and tosses it into the trash, zips up and stands behind me, panting.

I can’t look at him. I’m so ashamed, and I just want him to go.

“Now you’ve f*cked a rock star. How do you feel?”

“Like everyone else you f*ck. Used and ready for you to leave,” I respond without looking at him.

“Jesus,” he whispers, and I hear him scrub his hands over his face. “Stand up.”

“Go away, Leo.”

“Sam…”

“Go away,” I whisper and lean my forehead on the countertop. I will not look at him. I will not talk to him.

If I do, I’ll beg him to stay and forgive me, and it’s just better if he hates me.

After a long minute, he sighs and walks to the door. I don’t look up when I hear the door open, or for a few long minutes after it closes.

I just stay here, leaning against the counter top and let the tears come.





Chapter Six


Leo



I shouldn’t have left her.

I shouldn’t have f*cked her against her kitchen island like a complete arrogant *.

She shouldn’t have been such a bitch. How can someone who looks so sweet turn up the bitchiness so fast? Who the f*ck does she think she is?

No woman is worth this bullshit.

I’ve been sitting in the townhouse for two days. I can’t write. I can’t sleep.

I’m f*cking sick of myself.

So I climbed into my Camero and have been driving around the city, windows down, the hard metal sounds of The End of Grace blaring through my speakers, with no destination in mind.

I just need to drive.

I turn a corner and pull through an open gate and stop the car, throw it in park, and cut the engine, the sound abruptly cutting off with it, and stare straight ahead for a few minutes.

Jesus, I can’t even think straight.

I blink and look around and realize that I’ve driven to Meg’s place, and she’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her chest, watching me with a frown.

Shit. She’s going to bust my balls. But I need to talk to someone, and she’s the only one I trust with this.

The guys in the band would razz me for the rest of my life if they knew I was this hung up on a woman.

What is wrong with me?

I climb out of the car, and slam the door. “Why is your gate open?”

“Why do you look like shit?”

“Fuck you.” I push my hand through my hair and glare at her and she smirks back at me.

“You’re not my type.” She loses her pretty smile and holds a hand out for me. “Come on.”

I take her hand and follow her into her house. She moved in with Will Montgomery last weekend. I’m glad she’s happy. She deserves happiness more than just about anyone I know after the shitty way her life started.

But if he hurts her, I’ll f*cking kill him with my bare hands.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“No, mom,” I reply sarcastically, and she sticks her tongue out at me.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

She pours us each a mug of coffee, black, and we grab a stool at her breakfast bar.

“Gonna tell me who she is?” she asks.

Damn, she’s perceptive. She always was. I’d forgotten how much I missed that over the past few years.