Fall (VIP #3)(22)

John won’t mind. I’m sure he’d let me in if he could hear me. A cold sweat breaks out over my lip as I contemplate my crime.

“Oh, buck up, buttercup,” I mutter to myself.

Wiping my sweaty palms on my yoga pants, I then press them to the warm top of the wall and haul myself over. I’d pictured doing it with more grace, but after a few fumbles, I manage to get over and hop down on the mirroring bench running along John’s wall. Not giving myself time to chicken out, I stride straight inside.

For a moment, I’m distracted by the fact that, unlike Killian’s urban-retro loft style, John’s place is decorated like something straight off the set of Pride and Prejudice. Massive Oriental rugs overlap each other. There are expensive antique furnishings, overstuffed chairs, and dozens of oil paintings in gilded frames. It’s so opposite to the rocker front John puts up that I gape, wondering if I’ve entered an alternate dimension.

But no, the music is as loud as ever. And I’m trespassing in this Buckingham Palace of an apartment.

To prove I’m not a total creepster, I call out as I slowly walk farther into his place. “John? Jax? Can you hear me?”

No. No, he cannot.

I know this because he’s standing on a faded red Persian rug, completely absorbed in the music, his fingers moving with crisp precision over the strings of his guitar.

And he is completely naked.

Jesus wept, I cannot look away. I. Cannot. Look. Away.

He is stunning. Breathtaking.

His is more of a long, lean body than big and bulky bruiser. Lovely square shoulders, trim hips, well-defined and surprisingly strong-looking thighs, and tight calves. Running clearly does a body good. And maybe guitar playing does as well, because the man’s forearms are pure poetry, ropy with definition.

This all goes through my head in a flash, because really I’m just gaping like a dying fish.

Holy hell, he moves his hips like he’s fucking, the guitar barely hiding his goodies. But then he lifts the neck and suddenly everything is on display. And all that … girth … swings. It fucking sways like a hypnotist’s pendulum. I swear I sway with it, utterly mesmerized.

That is until he whips around and his green eyes lock onto mine. It snaps me out of my daze faster than a bullet, and I fully realize that I am standing in a room with naked Jax Blackwood.

Naturally, I lose it.





John



* * *



It’s her eyes I see first. Wide, deep blue mirrors, reflecting something like horror but not really—closer to shock and mortification, like I’ve slapped her with my dick or something. And “dick” is definitely the theme of the day because, even though eager Little John is well hidden behind the guitar now, she’s staring at my crotch as if the memory of him is burned into her retinas.

“Oh my cock—god. My cock—godcockgod …” She flails her hands. “God. I meant God. Godcock. Argh!”

Her flustered blather ends in a gurgle and a new tide of rapid hand flapping.

Even though her sudden appearance scared the shit out of me—until I realized it was Stella and not some stalker who’d gotten in—a laugh escapes me. “My cock is godlike, so I can see the confusion.”

Her face flames bright red. “Dick.”

“It goes by that name too.” I wink at her because it’s fucking hilarious the way she’s practically hopping around but her eyes are glued to my guitar. “Although, you probably should get a proper look if you really want to be impressed.”

I move to lift my guitar, and her hands thrust out.

“Don’t you dare! You leave that guitar right where it is, mister.”

“You sure?” I hesitate, hand gripping the neck. “You’re staring awfully hard for someone who doesn’t want to see the goodies.”

Her eyes narrow on my face, her glare a death ray. “What the hell, Jax? Who goes around playing guitar naked?”

“It’s John.” For some reason, it bugs the hell out of me when she calls me Jax. “And I do. When I’m in the privacy of my own home.” I grin. “Though there was that one time on stage.”

“Well … put some clothes on,” she hisses.

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s my house. I’m playing naked. Deal with it.”

Stella huffs, which does fantastic things to her breasts. I’m momentarily distracted by the way they jiggle in that little top she’s wearing. Maybe I’ll keep the guitar in front of my junk after all. Because, now that I’ve got a good look at her, it’s hard to turn away.

With that red hair and those pouty lips, she’s a total Wilma. Tiny waist, swelling hips, curvy legs. And her breasts? Great Gibson’s ghost, why the hell does she usually hide those sweet tits behind baggy tops? She has the Goldilocks of breasts—not too big, not too small, but just fucking right. They’re perfect, perky handfuls. And I have pretty big hands.

“Are you staring at my boobs?” Stella snaps, grabbing my attention and making me flinch.

I don’t look away, though. Holy hell, they’re gorgeous. “You stared at my junk,” I say to her tits. “Just returning the favor.”

I have the pleasure of watching her nipples perk up and say hello. A grin spreads over my mouth. Damn, but they look perfect too, like little sugar candies. I want to see them. Now.