Page 21 of Wild Infatuation (Rebel Rockstars #3)

Chapter Twenty

Terrance

EVEN THOUGH THIS HAS happened once before, it’s a hell of a thing to wake up beside a rockstar.

And this time he’s in my apartment, in my bed, completely naked beneath the sheets.

I come to with an arm draped heavily over my body and a gorgeous man pressed against my back.

His deep, even breathing tickles the nape of my neck, but I don’t dare disturb him as he sleeps wrapped around me.

Shawn’s arm lies limply over me, and I trace his long, elegant fingers.

They’re rough from his guitar playing, and I long to rub the callouses on the tips of his fingers until I’ve memorized them.

Those are the fingers that make the music that drew me to Baptism Emperor in the first place, and now here they are for me to touch.

His hand twitches. I withdraw my touch, but he sighs against me, groaning as he wakes.

Rather than rising, he snuggles closer, arm curling more tightly around me, and I bask in the sensation of him holding me close.

He’s only half awake, but apparently all he wants is me more firmly against his body.

Warmth seeps through my chest like the first rays of sunlight rousing the world …

and that’s not all that rouses. With both of us warm and naked and close, it isn’t long before something is poking at my ass.

I shift my hips experimentally. Maybe he’s too asleep to react and he’ll ignore me, but I have to try while I’ve got him in my bed, don’t I?

He grumbles from the contact, and the poking gets more insistent.

I try moving my hips harder, deliberately rubbing against him, and Shawn hugs me and peppers my shoulder with warm, sleepy kisses.

We grind our bodies together amid the hazy, lazy lust that blooms as we wake, kicking at the sheets to get closer.

We stay on our sides, Shawn crushing me against his body, as though he can’t bear to leave an ounce of space between us.

His chest presses against my back, and I shove my hips at his hard cock.

He groans deeper, and those kisses on my shoulder sharpen as Shawn nips lightly.

Our fingers slot together, hands locked like we’ll slide off the bed if we don’t hold onto each other.

“Fuck,” Shawn breathes against me, “you’ve got me all worked up already.”

He says it like a statement of fact rather than some kind of sexy talk. He’s too honest and blunt for sexy talk. That only makes the admission burn hotter as it sizzles its way through me.

He curses again, frustration breaking through.

For a moment, he lets go, twisting to reach for my nightstand.

He guesses correctly when he rifles through the drawer for the lube.

I tremble as I lie on my side waiting for him.

He doesn’t have to ask me to open my legs after I hear the pop of the cap; I simply do it, and sure enough a second later he’s smearing lube on my skin.

He hugs me against him again, this time fitting his cock between my legs.

I squeeze my thighs around him as his arms wrap around my body.

One goes around my torso, but the other is under me, hand pressed lightly against my neck.

I bow into the touch, back arching, my ass pressed against him and head thrown back.

Shawn groans, clinging to my shoulder with his teeth as he starts rocking his hips.

His cock grinds between my thighs, but I’ve always been slender and have to squeeze hard to draw out the sweet burn of the friction.

Shawn’s breathing deepens, puffing against my shoulder.

I squirm, trying to help, trying to work my thighs around him, yearning for more contact even as he holds me tight.

He picks his head up from my shoulder. My neck tingles when he peppers it in sloppy kisses.

My cock juts at my belly, beaded with wetness.

He hasn’t even touched it, but the beat of his desire crashing against me is enough to send me soaring.

I add my voice to his scratchy rasping, groaning shamelessly, heedless of my poor neighbors.

Shawn’s hand sneaks down my body. He slides down my flushed skin until he finds my aching cock, then grabs it roughly.

I moan from the very first touch, squirming as pleasure sings through my whole being.

It’s not unlike the music Shawn and his band make, loud, huge, filling me up until I’m vibrating from the noise thundering through my head.

During his shows, I often feel lost in his guitar solos, swept away, carried on the music, but it’s nothing compared to how out of control I am while helpless in his grasp.

I moan and groan and fling myself at his body, losing my mind from every stroke of his hand down my cock.

“Shawn.” I strangle his name, unsure if it’s a plea or I just want to taste that sound as my body tenses toward climax.

He grunts. “Squeezing me so tight.”

I stopped noticing, in truth, too caught up in the way he makes my body feel every single time he touches me.

He might be reserved and quiet most of the time, but in bed, a new side of him breaks loose, a hungry, aggressive, assertive side that holds me in thrall with the simplest brush of his hand.

The way he’s stroking me is far more than a simple brush of his hand.

He’s picking up speed, going harder, the friction edging toward too much but far too sweet to stop.

At the same time, his hips slap against my ass as he plunges between my thighs, and every breath blows out of him with a grunt.

We writhe together, twining around each other as the tension gathers to a delirious peak.

I whimper from the delicious strain as my whole body clamps around the pleasure, condensing it into a white hot burning point inside me that only gets more unstable as it shrinks.

Then it can’t squeeze any tighter. The need is too much, and it comes exploding back out of me, blooming first in my chest and crackling and sparking through the rest of my body.

I cry out as I gush over his hand. Seconds later, warm cum paints my thighs in spurts, wave after wave splattering on my body and dirtying my sheets.

I couldn’t care less. The sheets are damp with sweat. The cum won’t even ruin them that much more than we’ve already ruined them. Besides, the tangible evidence of how good I can make Shawn feel is anything but a burden.

Shawn apparently draws a very different conclusion.

“Shit,” he groans. “Sorry about your bed.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll do laundry every single day if it means I get to have you in my bed.”

He goes still, and with him at my back, I can’t tell if it’s surprise or fear or something else.

We haven’t talked about what this is. It’s all happened in fits and starts, random and shocking and unplanned every time.

Besides, “rockstars tend to like discretion,” that PA said.

I don’t know what you call frantic hookups that have to be kept secret because of eager fans and nosy paparazzi, and apparently neither does Shawn.

“Do you want to clean up?” I suggest to push past the awkwardness.

“Probably should,” he says. “I have a meeting later. Band stuff.”

“Band stuff.” As though he’s any old guy in any old band and not a famous rockstar in the hottest new band in the entire fucking country. The way he describes it, he could be an accountant going to an HR meeting.

We slouch out of bed, stripping off the sheets and heaping them on the floor for me to deal with later.

The bathroom is attached to the bedroom, and it contains a tall stall shower.

I show Shawn how it works, but when he climbs in, he surprises me by holding out his hand and dragging me inside with him.

It’s cramped, but I wouldn’t dare complain.

We have no choice but to touch each other in order to navigate the stall.

Shawn finds my body wash, but instead of using it for himself, he pours it into his palm and rubs it on me , sliding his hands up and down my body, groping my chest, dragging his nails down my back to pull me close.

When he kisses me, my whole body tingles with delight, but a little piece of my mind spares a couple brain cells for being utterly confused.

I know the second he gets dressed this will end.

He’ll retreat, leaving me in the dark. Maybe he’ll go silent again, and I’ll have to sit around and wonder until I work up the courage to reach out.

No matter how important discretion is, I think I deserve a little better than that.

I ease away, but it’s distracting standing under the spray with a naked Shawn.

Tattoos cover his arms, his chest, his shoulders.

One snakes up his side. They curl around his legs as well.

And all of it is accented by the piercings in his lip, his eyebrow, his ears.

I shake my head, struggling to believe this is real, incapable of pushing a man like this to give me clarity and answers when the circumstances of his charmed life might demand otherwise.

“What’s wrong?” he says, setting a finger under my chin.

The water pounds against his back, striking me where it sneaks past his shoulders. Worry swirls in his dark eyes, and I have to work hard to focus on that and not my hands against his slick, bare, tattooed chest.

I could press him. We’re naked. We’re alone. We’re at our most vulnerable, our most open. If ever I might drag the truth out of him, it would be now.

But I could also let it lie. I could let him go on clinging to discretion, accept these scraps, give in to the fear that pushing might make him run. He’s a rockstar, and I’m no one.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” I say eventually. Then I gather my courage and add, “I wasn’t sure, after the whole thing in New York…”

From this close, I can’t miss his flinch. Last night, he said the fashion show sucked, that Olivia was cool, but just a friend, but I can’t help but wonder what I am. I’m certainly not his boyfriend. If this got out, would I also be “just a friend?”

“Don’t worry about New York,” he says. “It was a publicity thing.”

He looks like he wants to say more. His lips press into a hard line, face stern as he wars with himself.

In the end, however, he says nothing. Those words locked behind his lips stay there, discretion prevailing over disclosure.

I tell myself I understand. He’s famous.

There are things he can’t say to a guy he’s fooling around with, but it takes an effort to ignore the ache in my chest as we finish cleaning up and get out of the shower.

We towel off, and Shawn dresses in what he wore last night.

The casual hoodie and jeans might look ordinary on anyone else, but on him, even those are the height of fashion.

I shamelessly drink him in as I show him to the door.

There, he pauses, cupping my face to kiss me.

For a second, it looks like he wants to speak, like the words he held back in the shower might slip free at last. I wait, breathless, trying to convey with my eyes that whatever he has to say, he can trust me.

But in the end, he doesn’t. He thumbs my cheek, offers a smile and his thanks, and slips out my door, leaving me wondering.