Page 30 of Love on the Tracks
Despite being ready to go, I take my time. When I’ve finished going through a half dozen of our biggest crowd-pleasers, she squeezes, hands so high up on my thighs I can imagine her gripping me in another way, urging me on, and—
“Will you play the other song?”
There is no title yet, so of course she doesn’t know it, but she doesn’t need to. I know exactly what she’s talking about. I won’t deny her that either, because it’s as much her song as it is mine. So I play the first few notes and then she’s singing along with me. Not in a way any professional musician would, but it’s all the sweeter for that. She’s memorized all the words and only falters a couple of times on the simple harmonies she’s made up, correcting herself quickly. Even though I’ve had the pleasure to jam and perform with some of the greatest musicians in the world, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever felt in my life.
When I’ve strummed the last chord, I lean us forward to set my guitar on the coffee table, and then kiss behind her ear before murmuring, “Can I take you to bed?”
Rowan
I should say no. I should say no, go back to the village, go back to my room, and get some rest. Be surrounded by other people facing the same thing I am tomorrow. But the truth is, there’s no place I’d rather be than between Zane’s lean thighs. Well, okay, maybe having him in between my thighs. And what, honestly, would be the harm in an hour of stress relief?
An hour will still get me back to my hotel by ten, which is a perfectly respectable time for a grown woman to go to bed. If this time is anything like the last time, I’ll leave well and truly fucked, which is as good for inducing sleep as any other legal substance.
“I’d like that, but I’ve only got an hour. I’m telling you now so you don’t think I’m all fucking and running.”
Zane laughs, and I wish I could see his face. His hands come to rest at the inside of my knees and slide up, up, and oh, for the love of all things holy, up.
“Got it,” he says between kisses on my neck as he teases me through my pants. “I promise I will not take you splitting as a commentary on my performance. Nor will I mope for the rest of the night and feel abandoned.”
“Okay . . .” Zane has probably snuck out of his fair share of beds after nights or hours of passion, and I’ve been up front with him, so I shouldn’t worry I’m going to, I don’t even know, hurt his feelings? Especially when there is precisely zero evidence he has feelings for me. Beyond sexy feelings, which are obvious in the form of his erection against my back. “Or if you do, promise you’ll write a song about it.”
He laughs again before sinking his teeth into the tendon that runs between my neck and my shoulder. “You got it.”
There. I have fulfilled my obligation as a responsible, sexually active adult. Therefore, I will not feel bad about riding Zane Rivera like I’m at a rodeo.
I break his grasp on me and stand, but only long enough to turn around and straddle him, settling over him and rubbing up against him, his thick hardness making an incredible friction at the apex of my thighs. Gripping the back of the couch, I rock against him. Zane grabs my hips but doesn’t try to change my rhythm or the pressure. It’s more like he’s trying to hold on for dear life.
When he looks up at me, his dark eyes are glossy and his mouth is parted. Sinful, really, for someone to be that good looking. I release the back of the couch with one hand and grab a fistful of his hair that I use to drag him to me to kiss. His mouth is delicious, and I don’t bother warming up to it. We don’t have time for that.
Zane makes this choked, needy sound, and when I grip my handful of his hair harder, it turns plaintive, but he ruts up against me all the same. I separate us, and we’re both breathing hard already. This bodes well. Very well.
“What do you want, Row? What do you need from me?”
“Wear me out. Exhaust me. Please.”
He blinks once, and then somehow I’m suspended in mid-air, heading toward the bedroom I remember quite fondly. Zane has picked me up with seemingly no effort at all, and is carrying me across the room. I’m not a small woman. It’s beneficial for lugers to be dense, and I’m fortunate I’ve got a build that allows me to put on muscle.
While I’ve fantasized about a man carrying me—haven’t a lot of women?—I’ve never believed it would happen. He’s breathing hard by the time he tosses me on the bed, and while some girls might be insulted, I’m not. He should get his own medal for even trying, never mind hauling me over here successfully.
I’m on my back, and he crawls over me like a panther, taking his own turn above me. “How would you like to be exhausted, my lady?”
“I guess it depends on how long you’re good for.”
“Well, I’m not saying I could go all night, but I’m not some minute man either.”
“Then I’d like to be exhausted on your cock.”
There’s that choked noise again, and his color goes high. “Okay, then. I like a girl who knows what she wants. Speaking of what you want, do you prefer top or bottom?”
I smirk at him. “We’ve got almost an hour. I bet we could hit several of the highlights. But on top, to start.”
We don’t waste any time stripping ourselves and each other, clothes dropping to the floor like the snow outside. Then Zane is rolling onto his back, head and shoulders propped up against the pile of pillows at the head of the bed. He links his hands behind his neck and then looks up at me, cocky as can be.
“I’m at your service.”
He is certainly standing at attention. There’s a strip of condoms in the bedside table and I rip one off and cover him quickly before I settle over his hips and work myself onto him. I’m wet, but there’s still some resistance as I sink down and it makes us both hiss air through our teeth. When he’s fully seated inside of me, I start grinding on him. Soon, he’s reaching for my hips, but as ever, I feel like it’s to touch me, not to control me. Chivalry is not, in fact, dead.
I spread my hands across his ribcage, dig my nails into his chest enough to make him arch off the bed and hit some ridiculously awesome spot inside me. For which I reward him by scratching my nails down his pecs, purposefully scoring his flat, brown nipples.
