Page 14 of Starstruck
I pull my thumb out of her mouth. Squeezing her throat a little, I fight the urge to kiss her. I feel her throat work as she swallows, her tongue darting out over her bottom lip.
She glances at my lips before looking back up at my eyes, and I know she’s fighting the urge to kiss me, too.
But that’s not going to happen. I never kiss the women I fuck.
Taking a step back, I clear my throat. Her face falls slightly, but I look away, bending to help her out of the tights I destroyed. I toss them in the garbage and then lean down to place her heels back on her feet—they must have fallen off when her legs were swung over my shoulders. Then I lift her off the bathroom counter and pull her dress back down.
“Thanks.” She brushes her hands over her dress and looks back up at me with her hazel eyes.
I take a step toward her. “Do you want to get out of here?” I ask, not ready to end our time together yet. I don’t know what it is about this girl, but something about the way she looks at me feels like she sees deep into my soul. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and it makes me want to know her for at least a little while longer.
She hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
“Did you drive yourself?” I ask, taking her hand and leading her out of the bar.
“No.” She shakes her head as we amble down the sidewalk back toward the courthouse. “I came with my siblings. They left when I did.”
I nod my head once, relieved that she’ll come with me.
As it comes into view, I unlock my cherry-red Porsche parked on the side of the road. Her brows furrow, and I know she’srecognizing my car from the day of her parents’ funeral.
After I left the church that day, I called my manager, Kevin, to ask where the reception was being held. He informed me it was for close friends and family only, and I told him I just wanted to stop by to pay my respects directly. It seemed like the right thing to do.
But as soon as I saw Lennon on the front steps, I couldn’t get out of the car.
She looked so sad, so cold, sitting there alone. I could tell she was desperate for a moment away from the chaos and apologies, and I didn’t want to interrupt, so I just sat there, watching her.
I watched as she pulled out a cigarette and lit it. I watched as she ran her delicate fingers through her chestnut-brown hair, pulling it into a ponytail. I watched as she buried her head in her hands, her shoulders beginning to shake.
I sat there and watched her as she cried for what seemed like the first time since her parents died a month earlier.
My heart cracked a little bit as I witnessed that moment. It felt like I was intruding, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. She was so vulnerable, looking devastatingly beautiful and absolutely broken all at once.
It was then I decided if I ever got the chance, I’d get to know her.
Which is how I ended up here, holding her hand as we leave the bar where I made a meal out of her, after witnessing the asshole who killed her parents plead not guilty.
Part of me feels like I should tell her what I know about him, but I can’t find it in me to make her day worse. At least not before I make it better.
When she doesn’t say anything about the car, I rush ahead to open the door for her, resting my arm on the top of the frame as she approaches.
“Who would’ve thought Baxter James could be such a gentleman?” she teases.
As she moves to get in, I grab her by the waist and pull her inclose, our faces inches apart. “I can be anything you want me to be, Trouble,” I growl, my eyes moving to her lips.
Her eyes track mine before she shifts out of my grasp, smiling, and gets in the car. She buckles her seatbelt, and I shut the door, the stupid-ass grin on my face not fading for even a moment as I move around to the driver’s side.
I shift the car into drive, a comfortable yet tension-filled silence filling the air. I live on Lake Shore Boulevard, close enough to the courthouse that it isn’t long until we’re pulling into my driveway and I’m shifting the car back into park.
We make our way inside, and I appreciate the way Lennon so obviously admires my house.
The house is fairly modern and totally not what someone would expect when they think of me. It’s made of solid white stone with grey accents on the outside, lots of sharp edges and big windows to let in the natural light. It’s right on the water, and the view from any window, but specifically the master bedroom, is incredible. There were seven bedrooms when I bought it, but the one in the basement has been converted into a recording studio and another a home gym—I don’t let many people in my space, so I had no use for that many bedrooms.
It also has four bathrooms, two on the main floor, one upstairs, and then an ensuite in the master. The inside matches the outside—the living spaces are painted in shades of greys and blacks, but I’ve used different natural woods in my furniture and decor to give it a bit more of a “homey” feeling.
My walls are covered in abstract art and albums—my own and those of all the people whose music inspires me. I’m pretty sure I own at least one copy of every single one of Thorned Roses’ records.
“Your house is stunning,” Lennon states, looking up at the massive chandelier hanging in the living room. “Who decorated?”
