Page 126 of Fire

That’s all it takes.

She detonates above me, writhing and squeezing my cock as she cries out my name.

“Hendrix.”

It’s music to my fucking ears. I grip her hips and thrust hard. Heat races up my spine, and I feel my body tighten, and I come, letting out a guttural groan as I empty myself in her just as the sun breaks through the horizon.

Just in the nick of time.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

ZARA

After Hendrix and I celebrated the coming of a new day—literally—we went back inside, and he did what he does best and ordered way too much food for breakfast.

After we were fed and caffeinated, we got to business and started making plans.

I quickly discovered Eric is one of those people who likes to stay up late and wake up early. I was surprised when he called me late last night, and I’m just as surprised when he does it again, five minutes after I send him an early morning email.

“Eric, it’s eight o’clock,” I say, not even bothering to say hello, placing him on speakerphone.

“Actually, in Seattle, it’s five,” he states.

“Do you have insomnia or something?”

“Nah, I’m just a thirty-something single guy who works too much. Does your rock star boyfriend have any brothers? Or a single rock star friend, perhaps?”

I laugh. Hendrix’s eyebrow raises. Guess I forgot to mention that. It was just too fun to see him get so jealous. “Yes, but I think they’re all straight.”

“I think Evans is pan,” Hendrix interjects with a shrug. “And my brother Myles is bi. But he’s only twenty-five and not ready to commit.”

“You sort of just described the male version of Violet.” I joke.

“Too bad they didn’t cross paths at the LA concert. It would have either been a match made in heaven or a total shitshow.”

I hum in agreement before I hear Eric clear his throat. “I feel like we’re getting off topic,” he says. “And nothing about this conversation gets me laid, so…”

We both laugh. I could honestly kiss Eric. Hendrix needed a distraction before we get back into the heavy stuff. During breakfast, we had a very frank discussion. I went over the research I’d done last night, and I told him everything I know about focal dystonia.

After we talked, I suggested he see a doctor in LA since we would both eventually return there after the tour. We could even fly out today. The NYC concert wasn’t for a couple of days, and with Eric’s connections and Hendrix’s ties to the band, I knew we could get him in right away.

But Hendrix didn’t want to go to LA yet.

LA meant telling his family, and he wasn’t ready for that.

So we were headed to NYC. He’d see a doctor there, and if he was diagnosed, we’d arrange to transfer his care to LA after the tour.

“I’m assuming you’re calling to help us out with getting an appointment with a doctor in New York,” I ask, steering the conversation back on track.

Unfortunately.

We only have so much time before we need to head downstairs to the airport.

“Nope,” he answers. “I’m calling to tell you I already scheduled you an appointment with a doctor in New York.”

“What? How?” I check my watch. Yep. Still says eight o’clock. Well, a few minutes past now.

“I’m just that good,” he responds very matter-of-factly. “Now, the appointment is tomorrow at eleven. Does that work?”