Rock Bottom (Tristan & Danika #2)(29)
One of her hands moved behind her, fumbling with the drain as I climbed on top of her. I rubbed our bodies together, my hands gripping her thigh, jerking them wider as I moved between.
I buried myself in her slowly, her tight sheath clasping each inch that I gave her, making my vision blur with the perfect pressure.
“So f**king tight,” I said through gritted teeth. It was too much. Just too f**king much. I could have died like this, delirious with pleasure, and never regretted it for a second. “I swear your cunt was put on this earth to drive me out of my f**king mind.”
Water lapped over the sides of the tub as I stroked in and out of her slowly, leisurely, her nose and lips barely above the water line, her eyes squeezed shut tight and submerged.
I barely made a full lap before I started to come, premature in my absolute, body consuming pleasure. It was just too much sometimes, the utter completeness of it. It was a mystery I ever kept any control of myself, buried inside of her like this. It was sheer dumb luck that she followed me as I shook and groaned with my own death throes.
My mouth stayed glued to her ear even after the water ran out, the tub empty, whispering over and over how much I adored her.
“I shudder to think what kind of action this p**n o tub has seen.” I could hear the smile her voice as she spoke against my cheek.
“Dean has you calling it a p**n o tub too, huh?” I asked sternly, finally pushing up on my arms to look at her.
“Dean? Hell no. I basically hear white noise whenever he opens his big mouth. I call it a p**n o tub because it’s a p**n o tub. You could fit six people in here.”
That had me hardening my jaw and studying her.
“Watch a lot of p**n , do you?”
She rolled her eyes at me, pursing her lips in that adorably bratty way of hers. “I don’t, no, but my ex used to watch it all the—“
I stopped her before she could finish, feeling that now familiar red cloud of rage overtaking my vision. I tried to grasp a handle on it, but it was elusive. “I don’t want to talk about skinny jeans, and I sure as f**k don’t want you to tell me how he liked to get off—“
One soft hand to my cheek had me shutting my mouth, and feeling like a jerk.
“I don’t want to talk about him either. Calm down, okay? I get it. I like to pretend there was never a Nat, so I get it, but you can’t turn into a caveman every time I say the wrong thing.”
I nodded, moving to stand, closing my eyes and groaning with the slow pull out of her before making it to my knees and then my feet in the wet tub.
I stepped out before helping her do the same. “Well, the good news is, I think you get a five minute break before I attack you again, but what will we do with all that free time?”
She laughed, giving me a fond look and a kiss on the chin.
I stayed for an entire week, ignoring my phone, ignoring the world.
“Fuck ‘em,” I told her. “This is what I need. I can’t go back without more.”
She smiled that smile where I saw myself and forever in her eyes, and gave me everything. She was selfless, my Danika, keeping nothing for herself.
I thought that too brief respite would help me. It made perfect sense to me that after a week of filling myself up with Danika, I’d stay full for a while. It would buy me some time, before I started to feel so empty again.
It didn’t work that way, not at all.
It was just the opposite.
The contrast unraveled me faster. What I’d left behind, the constant using, the highs followed by the strung out lows, only the lows were more unbearable than ever. I couldn’t exist as me, couldn’t stand how that felt.
Not without her.
Most days, I needed chemical assistance to even get out of bed. There was always a party, always something to do with our record label, something that lasted until morning. And our studio sessions always seemed to get later and later, and less and less productive.
This is not a good place for me to be, I thought, at least once a day. There were no brakes at our little band crash pad in L.A.
“It’s like I’m watching a f**king gnarly flashback scene from an episode of Behind the Music,” Adair, the replacement lead guitarist said to me one night, as we caught Dean snorting coke off some groupie’s bared stomach in the house’s tiny kitchen.
I laughed. In spite of myself, I was starting to like the guy.
Adair was very tall and lean, with flinty gray eyes, and crazy unruly brown hair that was dyed blue half the time. He wasn’t far behind Dean on the drug and groupie binging scale, but he had a point.
“You have to finish a f**king record to ever get on any damn show, and thanks to that hot mess across the room, that is not happening for us.” I sounded bitter.
I was bitter.
Adair poured us each a shot of whiskey. I’d lost count of the shots I’d had that night, but I grabbed the glass with one hand, my other still holding my cigarette, and clinked glasses. “Bottoms up,” I muttered, downing it. “Here’s to getting out of L.A. as fast as f**king possible, no thanks to Dean.”
“It’s not so bad,” he mused. “Worse for you, since you’re the only one with a girlfriend. But, hell, I don’t feel sorry for you.”
He caught the look on my face and grinned. “Don’t try to kill me or anything. I know the deal. Everyone has warned me not to talk about her. Well, except for Dean. Dean has given me some spectacularly bad advice about telling you…well, never mind that. But you know, I’ve seen her, and you don’t have such a rough deal. Hell, even I would go without pu**y a few days a week for a girl like that.”