Page 5 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar
“Here.” Jett swigs from his beer, then starts digging in his pocket for his phone. “Show me.”
“Wait!” Before I can think straight, my hand snakes out to clutch his wrist. We both stare down at my pale fingers wrapped around his tan skin. “Wait,” I say again, breathing hard, because I’m not ready to be caught in this lie just yet. “I just—I don’t want to talk about work right now.”
Ashamed, I drop his wrist.
Jett nods slowly, then holds up both hands in the sign of surrender, his beer bottle tucked behind one thumb against his palm. His storm cloud eyes are so serious as they watch me, and the distant roar of the after party seeps through the brick wall.
“Okay, I hear that. What do you want to talk about, baby?”
Really?
He still wants to get to know me?
The famous rock star, the lead singer of Wishbone, still wants to chat after I’ve been so freaking weird all night?
It’s not a conscious decision. It’s not like I weigh the pros and cons; not like I plan it out in my head. One minute he asksme that, blocking the rain with those broad shoulders, water slicking down his bare arms, and the next—
My glass shatters against the concrete, and his bottle clunks down beside it, glugging beer into the puddles. Boots scrape against the ground. There’s a low grunt and a muffled whimper. And Jett Santana doesn’t even acknowledge the fact that I’ve wasted the drinks he bought, because he’s tugged up against me, our bodies flattened together and leaning against the damp brick, and I’m kissing the rock star with everything I’ve got.
“Shit,” Jett mutters against my lips before slanting his head and kissing me back. Kissing me so deep my toes curl in my Docs. “Holyshit, Tamsin.”
I let out another whimper, clawing like a wildcat at his leather vest. Trying to get him closer, trying to climb the sturdy cliff face of his body. Trying to commit every sensation, every little sound, every scrape of his stubble to memory.
That safe feeling is back. It makes me warm to my fingertips, despite the wind and the rain. It makes me reckless.
“Take me back,” I gasp against the rock star’s mouth. “Take me back somewhere.”
Jett Santana makes a low, pained noise, like I’ve just kicked him in the gut. He bends down a little, snags the back of my thighs, and lifts me against his chest. He doesn’t take his mouth away from mine, not even to say, “Hotel.”
My nod is frantic. “Uh-huh.”
Honestly, he could take me to an abandoned storage container and I’d be down. An actual hotel room with bed sheets and a shower sounds downright magical.
Jett Santana turns, cradling me against his chest, and strides out into the night.
* * *
Shortly before dawn, I wake with a jolt. For a long, dizzying moment, I don’t know where I am. In a strange room, by the looks of things, with unfamiliar bed sheets and the weight of a man’s body beside mine. There’s a telltale ache between my thighs.
Oh, god.
Horror claws at my throat, then I remember the VIP pass. The after party.
Jett Santana.
The horror fades, and all that’s left is numbness and misery.
Not because last night wasn’t freakingincredible, with Jett making me come so many times that I lost my voice. And not that he wasn’t a perfect gentleman, bringing me snacks and water throughout the night and fussing when I bled a little the first time we screwed.
I didn’t tell him I was a virgin. Just let him clean me up, then went in for round two.
It’s not the sort of thing you confess to the hot, older rock star who brought you back to his hotel room, you know? Because he’d probably freak out and feel guilty or some crap, and that’s so not what I wanted from my make-believe night.
Besides, I’d lied enough already. What was one more little fib for the pile?
The bed sheets rustle as I sit up, head pounding. We barely drank anything last night, only a few sips each, but it turns out that staying up all night wrestling with a hot, muscly rock star really takes it out of a girl. My throat is parched, and I squint against the weak light seeping around the edges of the curtains.
The room is ghostly in the gloom, with clothes strewn everywhere and spare pillows tossed onto the floor. The bathroom door hangs open, with more light coming through the window inside. The air smells like laundry detergent and warm bodies.
