Page 511 of Rock Me All Night
Again, I try to convince myself to pull back. It doesn't work. This tiny hint of intimacy feels good. I want more of it.
I stare back into his dark eyes. "Why didn't you enjoy it?"
"Wasn't good sex." Pete moves closer. His fingers brush my wrist. "There's sex where you're there, in the moment, all your attention on your partner, on the pleasure spreading over her face as she groans your name and rakes her nails across your back."
My knees go weak.
"Then there's sex where you show up, close your eyes, and stay in your head, focused on the idea of somebody." He leans in to whisper. "That woman wanted to fuck Pete Steele, famous bassist. She didn't give a shit about the actual guy, what I liked, what I wanted."
I swallow hard.
"I don't blame her. I knew what I was getting into. I made sure she came. But it wasn't good sex."
Holy fuck, can sex really be that good? I'm hot everywhere. I open my mouth to respond but my tongue refuses to move.
Okay. Glasses. Need to pick out glasses before I melt. I move to the next wall and try another twenty pairs. This time, I find three maybes.
"I do see your point." His voice softens. "I saw Miles and Tom fuck their way through fans and I swore to myself I'd never do that."
"Miles?"
"Our singer. But you already knew that."
My cheeks flush. Guilty as charged. Okay. Pete isn't bullshitting me. I won't bullshit him.
Somehow.
It must be possible to have an honest conversation that isn't couched in white lies that properly deflect attention.
"My sister has a crush on you," I say. I try to shrug off the tension forming in my shoulders but it doesn't work. It still hurts. "She talks about Sinful Serenade all the time. She has a dozen pictures of you on her wall."
"Anything good?"
"Good how?"
He cocks a brow and tugs his t-shirt an inch up his stomach. It's quick, a flash, but I can make out the v-lines just above his skinny jeans. Mmm.
"No. You're very modest. In photographs."
"Only in photographs?"
"I've known you for about twelve hours."
His stare is a playful challenge.
"You've mostly talked about what a good lay you are." My cheeks flush but I maintain most of my confidence. "I'm not saying you aren't, but—"
"You'd like to find out." It's a statement, not a question.
"Are you offering?"
He stares back at me. "I might."
My stomach flip-flops. It shouldn't upset me this much, him not offering to sleep with me. "What's stopping you?"
"Haven't decided if you're interested in me or my fame."
"What if I'm interested in your body and the other two don't matter to me?"
