Rock Redemption (Rock Kiss, #3)(110)

Sinking into her, he pressed her to the wall and kissed her. She was still smiling and he tasted it as they kissed, as he ran his hand down her stomach to slide two fingers through the liquid-soft flesh between her thighs. He hadn’t lied—he wasn’t very good at the foreplay stuff, hadn’t really ever done it before her, but he wanted to touch Kit, wanted to explore with her.

“Tell me what you like,” he said, bracing his other arm above her head.

She shivered as his fingers brushed a particular spot. “Oh, that’s good. Do that.” There were more whispers after that, more smiles, more kisses.

At one point she gripped his wrist and said, “Noah, oh please don’t move.”

He didn’t move. He just upped the pressure.

Back bowing, her breasts lifted up as if for his delectation, Kit came on a little scream. Noah’s cock was pulsing, but he was kind of addicted to seeing Kit orgasm, so he decided to continue his education in foreplay by pressing one hand to her lower back and bending his head to her breasts.

He licked, he sucked, and after a while, Kit’s gasped breathing turned even more ragged. “Can I touch you here again?” he asked, cupping her between her thighs. She’d pushed him away earlier, saying it was too sensitive.

A moan as he rubbed his stubbled jaw over her breasts. “After that orgasm, you can do whatever you like, Noah St. John.”

Feeling like a damn god, he stroked his fingers deep into her, listened to her answers to his carnal questions, and had the reward of feeling her clench convulsively on his driving fingers as she came again with shocked suddenness.

Yeah, that was hot.

Drawing out his fingers from her possessive grasp, he lifted her up against the wall and entered her with his cock. He was hard as stone, and with Kit so honey slick and sated around him, he could’ve pounded her balls-deep and it would’ve been fine. But Noah found he had an unexpected patience today.

His balls might be turning blue, but damn, his cock liked being inside Kit.

It was a long, slow session full of romantic bullshit, and afterward, when they were drying off, Noah realized he’d made love to Kit. Not f*cked her, not had sex. Made love. He’d always thought that was a dumb phrase, but not today. Today it felt exactly right.

Towel wrapped around her body and tucked over her breasts, Kit came over to him and, linking her hands with his, said, “We’re going to be okay.”

“Yeah,” Noah said. “We are.” He was still going to f*ck up, but since he wasn’t about to hurt Kit, wasn’t about to give her up, the f*ckups would be manageable. And if she kept smiling at him that way, as if he delighted her… Yeah, well, maybe he wouldn’t f*ck up that much after all. “I love you, Kit. I will always love you, and I will never mess this up.”

It was a vow.





Epilogue


Twelve months later and Noah was in Kyoto, Japan, paying up on his wager. He’d even made it a point to learn about the red tape he’d have to clear to get the plant back home. But, though this was his forfeit, he wasn’t alone on his walk to possible humiliation at the hands of a cantankerous gardener. His lover and best friend walked beside him as they went down the narrow and twisting street at the end of which lived a seventy-year-old man with the reputation of being a bad-tempered oni, or Japanese demon.

Dressed simply in skinny blue jeans, canvas sneakers, and a striped blue-and-white tee, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and large sunglasses on her face, Kit nonetheless looked like a movie star. A very famous movie star whose work in Redemption was getting serious buzz even while the movie was still in postproduction.

“What?” she said, turning to him with a smile.

Lifting their linked hands, he kissed her knuckles. “Just admiring the most talented woman I know.”

“Says the man who wrote the megahit song not only of the year but of the decade.” She wore her delight for him on her sleeve, just as she admitted her love for him without hesitation when asked by the media.

In claiming him so unabashedly, in making it clear she was proud to have Noah St. John as her man, she’d healed things inside him that had been broken so long he’d thought they’d stay that way forever.

“Yeah, that little sparrow’s doing well.” It was a song that still made him hurt, but alongside the pain, he felt a quiet pride—in a way, in setting “Sparrow” free, he’d set himself free too. “There, isn’t that the right place?”

They looked carefully at the kanji the hotel concierge had written out for them, compared the characters against those on the gate. Taking a deep breath when they proved identical, Noah raised his hand to knock.




Three hours later and Kit had never laughed so hard in her life. The little old gardener had turned out to be a fan—not of her, of Noah and Schoolboy Choir. Over the moon that Kit wanted one of his plants, he’d invited them to stay for dinner with him and his utterly sweet wife. After which he’d offered Noah not sake, but an alcohol so potent it smelled like paint thinner to Kit.

Then the gardener had proceeded to drink the bad boy of rock under the table.

Grinning as she poured a thoroughly drunk Noah into a cab while carefully handling the plant, she got them back to the hotel and up to their room.

“Love you, Kit,” Noah mumbled, nuzzling at her as she keycarded their door open and put the plant safely on a little table nearby. “Got your plant.”