Page 19 of Veiled

Pleading with him to let me come. I feel his whole body thrumming with need, just like my own. His teeth graze my neck, and I feel him leaving hard kisses there, sucking hard and leaving his mark.

It’s all too damn much. My body is pulled taut with need. My balls draw up tight as he pegs my prostate and strokes me with purpose. I cry out as my entire body warms and tenses, euphoria taking over as I come. My release sprays the side of the Jeep and slides over his hand as he pushes into me hard, his grip tight, digging in and leaving marks, I’m sure of it.

Marks I couldn’t care less about.

That’s not true. Marks I desperately want on my flesh. I feel him thicken inside me and a rush of heat as he fills the condom inside my ass. His body blankets mine, and I hear his harsh pants in my ear as we both try to catch our breath.

“Fuck,” I breathe, and I swear I hear him chuckle before he pulls out of me. I tug my pants up and fasten them slowly. Not wanting to face what we just did.

I don’t regret it.

It was stupid, and it was a mistake, but I can’t find it in me to actually feel bad about doing it. It felt too good. Too damn right.

One look at him over my shoulder as he pushes a hand through his hair, his pants now pulled up but looking gloriously debauched, shows me he doesn’t regret it either. He’s giving me a devilish grin, which I return before making my way back to the driver’s seat, wincing slightly at the sting in my ass.

Yeah. No regrets.

At least not yet.

Chapter Ten

JUSTIN

Iam a total fucking idiot. I blame the high of performing again. I always loved doing a performance. Being on stage. People swaying to the music I created, but I hated the afterward.

I hated when we were swarmed by fans. When I had to be polite and talk to the news crews. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to be Justin St. James at that time. Only on stage. But last night, playing at that tiny little dive bar. Fuck, it was nice. So damn nice.

I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to celebrate. So like a total dumbass, I chose to do that by sinking inside Waylon’s tight as hell body. And holy shit, it felt good. Way too damn good.

“I can hear you thinking from here.”

Damn him. I grumble and turn my head to look at him. He’s lying in the other bed in this dank hotel we picked last night. It’s two hours away from the place I played, and I’m hoping that will be far enough.

I don’t want to have to deal with anyone today. Except for my annoying-ass ex-manager, I suppose. We didn’t talk after our hookup last night. We just climbed back into the car and drove until we spotted a small town off the interstate.

He grabbed us a room, and we passed the hell out.

But he’s wide-awake now. And he looks as irritated as I feel. “I wasn’t thinking. I just woke up,” I grumble, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sitting upright.

“Right.” He glares at me from his side of the room, not sitting up. In fact, he seems to bury himself further into the bed, yanking the covers over his head.

“I can’t believe you can lie under that comforter, man. God knows what’s on it.”

He makes a strangled noise and tosses the entire comforter off him, glaring daggers at me. “That’s disgusting.”

I laugh. I don’t even mean to, but it’s funny. He looks really pissed off, his hair a mess, his eyes tired from sleep, just glaring away at me like an angry little bird. He’s also only wearing those ridiculously tiny briefs he apparently loves to wear. I try like hell not to stare at his body.

I’ve seen it. I’ve been inside it. I do not need to stare.

“That’s what I was saying. Fucking gross.”

He grimaces and stands up, not making it easy not to stare at his tight little ass as he walks over to the dresser that appears to have a coffee maker on it with a few packages of coffee and sugar. “If this doesn’t work, I may murder you. I can’t be held responsible.”

“Noted,” I say rolling my eyes. The guy is really addicted to caffeine. “Do you think they know where we are?” I have to ask, my heart sinking with the vulnerability of it all. I don’t want to be followed back to the cabin.

It’s my own little oasis, and I want it to remain that way. No reporters. No bloggers. No screaming fans. Waylon starts the coffee maker and snorts as he turns to face me. “You sound like you’re on the run.”

I kind of am, but I don’t say that out loud. I feel like a goddamn fugitive who never did anything wrong. “Ha,” I deadpan.

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