Page 32 of Naughty Dreams
When Roy broke the kiss, he gave DJ’s throat one last possessive squeeze before he sat back, his legs still stretched out to hold DJ in their secure boundary. When DJ pulled himself together, he lifted his gaze to meet Roy’s.
“No other Dom, Roy,” DJ said.Yes, I’ll submit. But only to you.
“You don’t set the terms.” Roy’s jaw set with the reminder. “I do. Let me know what you decide.”
“I just did.”
Gray eyes held brown, a silent tug of war. Then Roy’s expression went smooth and impassive. “That’s that, then. If you change your mind, let me know.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Roy was a bully and an asshole. That was what DJ decided. Roy had left DJ in G’s company before heading out, as unperturbed as a frozen steak. G watched him go with an unreadable expression before turning to DJ. “Where to next?” she asked.
“Back to the hotel,” he said, and found the nearest exit. He couldn’t bear to see anyone else indulging in what he wanted to do so much with Roy.
The ache was in his heart and soul, the confusion in his mind. Whereas his body was one big achy, throbby mass of hormones needing relief. Once G saw him safely into his hotel suite, DJ headed to his shower to handle the one thing he could control.
Except he got there, and he couldn’t. He kept thinking of what Roy had said he wanted from his sub.
He bet Roy knew his dilemma, and was having a good belly laugh over it. No. Maybe not. For one thing, if Roy indulged in a belly laugh, the universe might come unraveled from the shock.
He wanted to yank Roy’s chain, be an ass. Taunt him when he came on shift. He'd write a song about it. It wouldn’t befuck me, fuck me, fuck me. It would befuck you, fuck you, fuck you. He’d do a retro throwback, side A and B of a 1980s vinyl 45.
But if he behaved that way, it would point right back to why a bodyguard shouldn’t get involved with a client. DJ couldn’t handle having a Dom be this close without acting on it.
He thought about what Roy had said about that money clip, his testicles twinging in response. Was Roy into pain on a normal day, or was he organic, just following where the dynamic between him and his sub led?
How many subs had he had? As a regular, ongoing relationship, not just hook ups? DJ knew he couldn’t be jealous, not with how many orifices and hands had taken his cock in his stupid early days.
The better question was how many submissives had given Roy everything hereallywanted?
The next day, the shrieking fans outside the rehearsal space they’d booked, waiting for a chance glimpse of band members, made his nerves jangle. When he got to the live room, Pete was going on and on about some girl he’d hooked up with after the show. DJ snapped at him, then apologized and retreated to an isolation booth to work on vocals and guitar riffs he was working through in his head.
He brought an older guitar with him. Steve called it his emotional support guitar, since DJ didn’t let anyone touch it, even Shaun, who routinely re-strung his guitars. Given how the day was going, it shouldn’t have surprised him at all when, during his aggressive warm up, his damn B string snapped. It struck the outside of his right hand, cutting the shit out of it.
Fucking hell.There must have been a sharp edge on the bridge that had worn out the string. DJ wrapped his other hand over the cut to put pressure on it. At least it wasn’t where it would affect his playing. He could play through pain, but particularly intricate sequences didn’t care about his determination. They needed the right touch, speed and dexterity.
Eddie Van Halen had said a guitar was like a woman that way. But probably men, too. He thought of how Roy had looked at him when DJ slid a finger inside his shirt, between those two buttons, and felt the give of chest hair beneath the soft T-shirt, plus the resistance of solid flesh.
And when he’d knelt between his legs at the club and thought of taking Roy in his mouth…
The pressure of his fingers on the strings was sending odd tones through the amp.Stop this shit.He needed to get his head on straight.
“Hey.”
He’d apparently been stewing in his own head long enough for Warren’s shift to be up. Opening his eyes, he found Roy standing in front of him, wearing his dark suit, silk tie and perfectly ironed dress shirt. The way he was standing revealed the hint of his gun’s shoulder harness. The whole look was sexy, in charge. Intimidating and authoritative.
Even with him holding a band-aid and a wet wipe.
“Do you carry a first-aid kit somewhere in that jacket?”
“Never know when a client might get a boo-boo.”
DJ showed his teeth and reached for the band-aid. Roy shifted to hold it out of reach.
“You’re a piece of work,” DJ muttered.
“You’re acting like a child whose toy was taken away from him. Did you not let yourself play with your toy, Dory?”
