Page 44 of Reverb

Stone

“Wait.”

I stopped what I was doing. Sienna was pressed against the wall in my apartment, her legs wrapped around my waist, her arms around my neck, her glasses off, her lips ruddy from kissing me. An overnight bag had been dropped at our feet. She’d barely made it through the door.

I was losing my fucking mind.

I paused, but I didn’t let her go, didn’t drop my hands from where they cupped her ass, holding her up. “Talk,” I said.

She licked her lip. She was so close that I could see—was that makeup? Some dark eyeliner, mascara. Sienna didn’t wear makeup often. I’d seen a couple of well-used pieces on the bathroom counter on tour, but she had naturally dark lashes, those perfect lips, flawless skin. Had she worn makeup tonight for my benefit? I had no way to know.

“We should set some ground rules,” she said.

I tried to focus on what she was saying, but she was wrapped around me, and what was that scent? It wasn’t perfume. Some kind of Sienna smell, soft and warm, like a lit candle. I remembered, with the full clarity of a man haunted, what she’d looked like naked, and I needed to see it again.

“Ground rules,” I said stupidly, nuzzling along the warm, perfect line of her neck, brushing my beard along her skin.

She shivered so hard I felt it everywhere. The blood rushing to my dick was clanging like a fire alarm, but Sienna kept talking.

“We keep this between us,” she managed to say.

“Fine with me.” I had no desire to swap gossip with anyone anyway.

“I mean, I’m not ashamed.” Her grip on my neck and my waist stayed tight. “That isn’t why. We’re grown adults. But until the story gets turned in, it’s simpler this way.”

I kissed up her neck, nipped her earlobe. She was talking about this being an ongoing thing, at least for a while. Fuck, yes, I was in.

“And this doesn’t affect what I write in the story.” Her voice was admirably calm, considering I was making her shiver again. “I’m capable of objectivity, no matter what you do to me.”

I smiled against her skin. Did I think she was going to write some moony story about me, just because I planned to make her come as many times as she’d let me? No, I did not. This was Sienna. “Write whatever the fuck you want,” I said. “Write that I’m an asshole. That I’m a shit guitar player. That I’m ugly and stupid. It’s all fine with me. I won’t even ask to read a draft.”

“Stone, you are none of those things,” she chided me.

“What else?” I was getting impatient. I squeezed her ass. The jeans she wore were frustrating, but she looked sexy in them. She wore them cuffed at the ankle with Doc Marten boots, topped with a black sweater in some kind of drapey cut. I could see her collarbones, and her dark hair was down, brushing her shoulders. She looked fuck-hot. I pressed my mouth to the tender spot just below her jaw and sucked gently, running my tongue along her pulse.

“Oh, my god,” she breathed, her nails digging into me through my tee.

“Rules,” I reminded her, then sucked on her skin again, just enough to make her feel it, not enough to hurt. I could sense already that Sienna was not the kind of woman who liked rough. What she did like, I planned to find out.

“You still have to do the interviews!” She forced the words out in a near-gasp as I let go and nipped gently, making the skin of her neck go red. I’d stop now, because I didn’t want to leave a mark. But that red was exactly what I wanted.

“I already said I would,” I told her. “Now. Anything else?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I can’t think—”

I shut her up by kissing her, long and deep. She kissed me back, her fingers digging into my hair, her legs squeezing, her center pressing against me in an unconscious move. She thought she was ready. She had no idea what ready was.

I went slow, kissing her for a while longer. Then I carried her through the apartment to my bedroom, where I dropped her gently on the bed. “I did it for you last time,” I said. “It’s your turn. Strip.”

Her lips parted, but she unlaced her boots and kicked them off along with her socks. She sat up and put her hands on the hem of her sweater.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said, because she was Sienna, and she had to talk through just about everything. That was fine with me. Lately, Sienna was the only person I was interested in listening to.

I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t usually take your clothes off?”

“You know what I mean. I don’t usually do a strip show. For a guy.” Her cheeks flushed. “I mean—oh, screw it. You’ve already seen everything.” She pulled the sweater off and tossed it aside, then unbuttoned her jeans. I watched her lift her hips and slide them down.

She was wearing a black bra and matching black panties. Nothing too over the top, but I still stood there like I’d never seen a woman in her underwear before, like some kid in the 1950s with his first Playboy. I could think of nothing to say.

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