Rock All Night(21)

Unh.

He kicked off his boots (Mark Nason, my favorite for guys), peeled off his socks, unbuckled his belt –

“You’re taking a shower?!” I asked, my panic rising just as fast as my arousal level.

“I get the Lakers locker room – I always have that in the contract. Ryan gets the Clippers, Killian gets the Kings, and Riley gets the women’s. If she actually uses it.”

The pants came off at the same time his boxers did.

Oh my GOD.

He was standing there, five feet away, completely naked, beads of sweat dripping down his perfect body –

I tried not to look, I tried, but I couldn’t help myself: I glanced down at his cock.


UNH.

I’d only seen it by candlelight four years ago. In the bright light of the locker room, I was struck by how big it was, even when soft. Thick and full and heavy, swaying between his legs as he moved. Perfect and hot, framed by a thatch of dark curls, slick and damp from his sweat.

FUCK I wanted to touch it so bad. Like I had four years ago.

Instead I darted my eyes up at his face and tried, tried so hard, not to look down below.

But it loomed quite large in my peripheral vision, that’s for damn sure.

He smirked at me – probably because I was blushing furiously.

“Relax… you’ve seen me naked before.”

“Not in quite this much light.”

He broke into a full-on grin. “That is true.”

“Do you… have to do this?” I asked, getting a little angry – if only to camouflage how turned on I was.

“What, talk to you?”

“NO.” I gestured helplessly with my hand, careful not to stretch out my arm too far. “…th-this.”

“Take a shower?” he asked, toying with me.

“Stand here naked,” I snapped.

“That’s usually how I stand around before I go take a shower,” he said, grinning. “I’m not shy – I figure I’ve got nothing to be shy about.”

That much was certainly true.

Then he grew serious, and his tone turned seductive. “Why… does it bother you?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes. It does.”

The naughty trickster smile flashed back onto his face. “Too bad.”

Asshole!

“Oh, I got some new tattoos – I didn’t know if you noticed.”

“Um… no,” I squeaked.

He grinned even harder. He was sooo enjoying this, damn him.

“Remember how I said I was going to get tattoos for every album I did?”

“Yeah…”

I locked onto his eyes, trying not to look anywhere else, holding onto his gaze like a drowning person might onto a piece of wood.

Maybe that’s a bad choice of words – ‘piece of wood.’

Either way, it didn’t work.

He lifted up his arm and pointed to his side, just below his ribcage.

Less than two feet from his crotch.

Unfortunately, I darted another quick look down.

His cock was bigger now.

Thicker.

Standing out slightly from his body – and growing heartbeat by heartbeat.

Not hard yet, not fully erect, but definitely getting there.

He was getting turned on by being naked in front of me.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

“I got this one for the first album,” he said, and pointed to the tattoo.

It was a realistic reproduction of the cover of Bigger Than Yours, which featured a .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson Model 29 – the revolver that Clint Eastwood used in the Dirty Harry movies. Opposing it, and shrinking down under the eight-inch barrel, was a tiny little Walther PPK – also known as the gun James Bond uses.

Subtlety was not exactly the band’s strong suit.

Obviously sexual, it seemingly contained other messages, too. Like the guns, conflating them with masculinity – playfully? Or just blatant machismo? Then there was the whole class aspect of the Smith & Wesson versus the snootier Walther. And some music critics had suggested there was some sort of dig in there about Americans versus Brits (Dirty Harry versus James Bond). They spun it into a huge rift between Derek and Killian, about how they had fought during the making of the album – all without a single shred of evidence, since the band never talked to anybody in the press.

That was a good question – I would ask about that, the whole supposed fight with Killian –

But right now I just was trying hard not to look at Derek’s package.

“Um, yeah, nice,” I said, straining to keep my eyes on the tattoo of the revolver and the tinier pistol.

“And then this one for Bigger Is Better,” he said, turning around and pointing over his shoulder.

With his back turned to me, his dick wasn’t visible, which was good.

But now his ass was.

Oh Jesus.

It was gorgeous. It had been gorgeous under his jeans back in Athens, Georgia. It had looked even better naked by candlelight, and now it was absolutely mouth-watering. Smooth, perfect, sculpted, hard, big without being too big, muscular, no tan lines, with streaks of sweat gleaming across his flesh. It looked like he was posing for some sort of hyper-sexualized perfume ad. Obsession by Calvin Klein.

My hands felt magnetically drawn to reach out, to cup it with my palms, to squeeze each cheek and feel that firm, hard, glorious ass –