Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2)(44)

“Oh, are you referring to yourself as a rock star now?” I grin up at him, feeling whole for the first time since he kissed me goodbye a week ago. “That’s not egomaniacal at all. Is there a club? You guys have rock star meetings? Does one of you take rock star minutes?”

“You are sitting in here listening to my music in the dark.” He leans forward to tug at the zipper beneath my chin. “Maybe you’re actually one of my crazed fans. Or a groupie. I might even find a Mrs. Rhyson Gray t-shirt around here somewhere. My girlfriend doesn’t like those.”

“No, she doesn’t.” I shake my head, eyes never straying from his.

A small frown jerks his brows together. He tugs again at the zipper, but it doesn’t budge.

“Pep, it’s stuck,” he says.

“Sometimes it does that,” I answer easily, enjoying the frustration spreading over his expression as he keeps pulling and it keeps staying.

He places my hand over his cock, hard and poking through his jeans.

“Well, it’s not exactly a good time for it to do that.”

I laugh, grasping my zipper and tugging. Wow, it really is stuck. These are vintage PJs, older than I am and threadbare in places. I’m surprised the zipper hasn’t rusted before now. I sit up, bringing our bodies closer as I jiggle the little hook a few times. Nothing.

“Just how attached are you to this Jackson Five onesie?” His glance burns hot across my subtle curves visible through the thin flannel, telegraphing his intentions.

“Well this is Michael’s original nose.” I release a fake exasperated sigh. “But I do have my sewing kit.”

“All I needed to hear.”

Sorry, boys.

He grabs the two ends of the collar separated by the zip line and pulls until there’s a ripping sound, the panels falling back to reveal my naked breasts and my panties. A wicked grin spreads across lips.

“You naughty girl.” He runs a finger over the writing on the front of my panties, carrying a current that simultaneously hitches my breath and gets me wet. “Wearing Monday panties on a Thursday. My little rebel.”

“Well let’s see what you’re hiding.” I hop off the bed, turning him by the shoulders until he’s facing me, and push him to sit on the edge of the mattress. I grab the bottom of the Bob Marley hoodie he loves so much, pulling it over his head.

“Ah. What every rock star is wearing this year.” I pluck at the shoulder of his t-shirt. “The obligatory wife beater.”

“It’s called layering.” He laughs, hands sliding under my pajamas to push the material over my butt and down my legs. “As much as I’m enjoying all this conversation, I didn’t cross time zones for banter. I need this to go faster.”

“Faster, huh?” I kick the pajamas to the side and shimmy my panties off, stepping out of them and into the vee of his thighs. “Fast enough for you?”

There’s no teasing left in his eyes. He lifts up, sliding his jeans and briefs off, pulling me onto his lap, my knees bordering him on either side.

“Did you miss me?” His hand slips between us, one long finger slowly, deliberately, sliding up and down my hot, wet slit while his eyes lock on mine.

“It’s only been a week.” My words float on a breath. It’s all I can manage with my body begging his fingers to move, to possess me. To penetrate me. “I hardly had time to miss you.”

One dark brow lifts, along with the left corner of his mouth. So damn sexy I want to skip all of this and just impale myself on him right now, but the waiting, the taunting of our bodies heightens every sensation.

He circles my clit, the motion stirring heat in my belly. The callus on his finger from playing guitar brushes over the thin, sensitive skin, erotic and rough. My breath is in a holding pattern, trapped in my throat, waiting for his next move.

“You sure you didn’t find time to miss me?” His voice, always deep and smooth and dark, roughens with the desire written so clearly in his heavy-lidded eyes.

“That depends. Did you miss me, Rhyson?”

My hands wander over the muscles in his arms, over the lean chest and the ridges in his abdomen, down to grip and slide over his thick cock. He’s smooth and hard in my hands, and I’m rewarded by his response. His head falls back, mouth drops open on a gasp. His fingers cover mine, guiding my hand, pacing me to his pleasure.

I lower myself, whispering my love over his chest before taking a nipple into my mouth, rolling my tongue around him. Suckling him hard while steadily gripping and pulling. He braces one hand on the bed behind him while the other cups my neck, his thumb brushing over my lips.

“I missed you.” His eyes open, holding mine. “I missed this. You know I did.”

“I missed the taste of you.” I slip lower until my mouth hovers over him. “Can I taste you, Rhys?”

Without waiting for consent, I take him into my mouth, sliding my lips over him until he pushes against the back of my throat. I’m on the floor, on my knees between his thighs, greedily lapping and sucking at him, my hands gripping his hip, the muscled curve of his butt, the sinewed arm, anything to anchor me when the rich, salty taste of him on my tongue would send me into a tailspin. The longer he’s in my mouth, the more desperate I am to taste him. To take him as far as he can go.

“Pep, f*ck.” He twists my hair around one hand, tugging until only the tip remains in my mouth. “Babe, I’m gonna come.”