Page 3 of Hot Shot Rock Star
Chapter 2
Jazzy
The spark of guilt and fear at his words gets doused when he deepens the kiss, and I sigh. I do have him, don’t I?For now. But if I need to make a choice between him and singing, what would I do?
Singing and writing songs isn’t just some starry-eyed dream for me, it’s who I am. I can’t give up a piece of me. He may as well be asking me to rip out my own tongue. It would be like me asking him to give up hockey.
Except I have this darkly satisfying feeling that he would give up hockey if I asked him to. Heat floods me, either from shame or passion or both. He clamps his hands onto my ass and pulls me hard against him.
“Let’s start over and pretend I just walked in the door, and you were going to welcome me home.” He nibbles my earlobe, sending sparks dancing along my nerves.
“A girl would be nuts to turn down that offer.” I catch his mouth with mine and savor his lips, the delicious meaty plumpness, the minty taste, the give and take of his tongue with mine. “Though I have been known to be on the crazy side.” I murmur into his mouth as I spread small kisses, relishing the deep reverberation of his chuckle.
“Only one of the many things I love about you, crazy girl.” Only he can get away with calling me crazy. But then he’s earned the right, hasn’t he. I let out a deep sigh as he grips my ass and lifts me. I know what this means as my tummy flutters with excitement and my blood rushes to my head. I swing my legs up and wrap them around him, clenching them in place and holding his shoulders as he moves us from the entryway through the open living space without slowing, without moving his mouth from my face, from my ear where he whispers, “You drive me crazy. Not sometimes. All the time. I want you so much, to show you—”
“How much? Tell me, Bennie,” I whisper back as my face heats up and my heart beats hard. I barely hold back a hiccup of wild nerves as the solid muscles of his arms and back ripple under my hands. It would be hard to say if it’s his tight ass or his massively strong thighs carrying us into the bedroom that excites me more.
“More than anyone else ever has or ever will, Jazzy. Because you’re mine and you always will be. We belong together.” We reach the edge of the bed and I let go, falling onto the mattress, giddy with the sight of him as he stands in front of me, his cock obviously hard in his pants. But I don’t need to use my imagination to picture his tantalizing shaft in all its diamond-hard glory, because he unzips his pants and drops them as he kicks off his shoes, then lifts his shirt and tosses it across the room.
“What are you waiting for, Jazzy?” he kneels on the bed in front of me, raking me with his eyes, missing nothing, making me feel naked though I’m fully clothed. I touch the buttons on the front of my blouse, rubbing my hand across my raised nipples because they’re waiting for attention, feeling it coming.
“You mean you want me to... strip?” I rip my blouse open. His eyes go wide, and he laughs as he leans into me, helping me pull free of the blouse and burying his face in my cleavage as he does. “Your face is rough.” I’m not complaining, and he knows it. I relish every speck of contact from his skin against mine, every bit of his warmth, the heaviness of his body, the bulk of his muscles, the scent and taste of his breath against my mouth, and the scrape of his stubble against even the most sensitive skin on my body.
As he rewards me with a rake of his teeth across my nipples over my bra, I moan, then bite down on my bottom lip to stop myself. Or try to. I want to hold back, to resist the vulnerability because I want him to be vulnerable first, to need me more because I’m still not convinced I deserve him. Lifting his head, he gazes at me, his eyes dark and dreamy and more vulnerable than I could imagine being, than I can imagine deserving. I almost want to scream at him and tell him he’s crazy for trusting me, for needing me.
But all doubt, all guilt, and all thought disperses when he pushes himself up to kneeling in a quick move and then, with the kind of power that makes my heart skip a beat, he rips my bra open.
“Fuck.” The word leaves my mouth in awestruck breathiness. He chuckles, too satisfied with himself until he touches me, lifting my breasts in each hand, pressing them together until they look like two bowling balls on my chest, round and glistening. Except my chest is heaving because I’m totally and completely captivated by him and anticipating what he’ll do with me, wanting him to do more, wanting to touch him.
Reaching my hand to find his cock is automatic, instinctive, like going home, like finding the place, the refuge, where I belong. Going to strength to fill my need, to touch him and hold him and reassure myself that he’s mine, truly. And that I have control, most of all.
“Not yet,” he says and clamps his hand over mine, removing it from his throbbing cock. I watch him clench his jaw, his Adam’s apple moving up and down, mesmerized by his struggle to keep control. It’s like the most potent aphrodisiac imaginable. Anticipation for our ritual, for his attention, his hot wet mouth on my pussy, floods me, forcing me to pull at my leggings, squirming under him as he helps me.
“You know what I want,” he says, and he’s right. He lowers his head and grips the waistband with his teeth and hands and pulls, and I laugh and moan as he growls, as the feel of his teeth and hot breath on my belly sends shivers of pleasure through me. He lets go of my pants with his teeth as soon as he drags the leggings down past my hips and he moves to one side as I kick the fucking tight things from me.
“Oh my god,” I breathe as he lays his cheek against my pulsing mound, the stubble and warmth sending swirls of pleasure through my belly. Then he grips my ass and lifts me from the bed, kneeling before me, tall and hot and sexy as fuck.
“You ready to be my meal? I’m warning you—I’m fucking hungry as hell.” He gives me a smile somewhere between wolf and unicorn, and my belly flips and my heart speeds up even more. He holds me there, waiting for his answer, and I squirm and breathe heavily because it’s a struggle to speak and he knows it. “Are you ready, Jazzy?” He taunts me in the most loving, head-spinning way, so I give him what he wants, a strangled cry.
“Ben...”
“That’s all I needed, baby. My name on your lips. And now you’ll be a feast on mine.” He leans forward as he settles lower on his heels and lifts me at a crazy angle so that my shoulders are all that remain on the bed. It’s a familiar and exciting position, bringing back the first time he exercised his raw strength, breaking free from the harmless image I had of him. Not that he’d harm me, but that he could. It scared the shit out of me, all that strength unleashed, feeling helpless. Right up until his tongue touched the hard, wet nub and I forgot everything, like the way he’s doing now. I scream his name this time, clutching at the bedclothes, unable to reach him, struggling like I’m drowning, like I’m about to die of ecstasy, of exploding nerve endings as his tongue twirls.
But this is only the beginning and I struggle to breathe as I pant and arch into him as he licks and circles his thumbs inside me. I scream and everything goes dark, my muscles clench down hard as my world explodes into blinding white sparks as if I’m staring into the sun, into the galaxy of suns, all while my eyes are shut tight.
“It’s okay, Jaz baby.” He kisses my eyelids and his words, his breath, stir the hairs at my temple and I realize I’m in his arms, cradled against him, sweat and tears mixed on my face and my chest heaving. I clutch him then, grabbing hold of whatever’s under my hands, the muscles of his back, of his arms.
“Ben...” My voice is breathy, barely audible, and I clear my throat. He kisses my lips with a light touch, a gentle, soft possession, a calming connection, and I’m too overcome not to overreact as I latch onto his lips. Moving my hands to his face I hold him and drink from his mouth, tasting myself, tasting him and his mint and his maleness.
Eventually my heart stops tap dancing frantically in my chest and slows to a non-life-threatening rate. But the fire ignited inside me rages, and I want to have everything, knowing what’s there for me, what’s next. I reach for him, and he lets me touch him this time.
My fingers are hungry as they tighten around his hot, silky cock and they squeeze hard until I watch him clench his teeth and hear him hiss out a breath.
“Take it easy, baby, I—”
“I know exactly where you are, hockey boy. You’re on the edge and I’m about to push you off.” He grins, still clenching his jaw, and his eyes glitter dangerously because I’m challenging him for control. Or maybe because I have the control, because I’m threatening to mess up the ritual. But I need to do it, to get rid of that gnawing deep in my soul that’s been quieted for so long I thought it was gone. Now I know it’s not, because tonight’s threat to my dreams, my independence, even though I know Ben would never intentionally do anything to hurt those things, the irrational fear, has returned. Maybe not as strong as before, but scarier because I thought it was gone. I truly did.
He clamps his hand over mine and tries to pry it off him, but his mistake is being gentle, and I hold on and press my body into his. My mouth comes down onto his and I swallow his growlish moan, the headiness of power prickling my nerve endings and tumbling my tummy in that wave of pleasure I would give anything to have all the time. That wave is my addiction, and it comes with him, my Bennie the hockey god.
