Page 49 of Dead Rockstar

“I'm sorry,” I said quietly, stroking his arm. “I'm sorry you had to see him like that. I know it must have been horrible. But I'm glad you at least got your money. And you know he's alive. That's...something, right?”

“He said that to me,” Phillip said, shaking his head. “That's what he said – 'I'm still alive, and now so are you.' I didn't know what the fuck to say. God, he was the last person I expected to see. He's living in my house now. It's too much.”

I rubbed his arm. His skin was warm and soft. I ran a finger over his '7' tattoo and pressed against him. “I'm sorry,” I said again. “I wish I knew how to help.”

“You already are,” he said, looking at me. “More than you know.”

I pulled him backward, and we both laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I nuzzled into the crook of his arm, and it felt as natural as if we'd been doing this for years. He smelled so good. His silky hair brushed against my face, a sensation I was starting to get used to.

He made a move to rise. “Let me get you that money-”

“If you say one more thing about that damned money, I'm going to put my studded Doc Marten in your ass,” I said irritably. “Phillip, for the last time, I couldn't give a fresh fuck about the money. Are you trying to piss me off on purpose?”

“I don't like owing you,” he said stubbornly. “It makes me feel like we aren't on even footing. It makes it hard to-”

“By that logic we'll never be square,” I said petulantly, poking him in the chest. “Since you owe me your life.”

“Believe me, I know it,” he said. “Why do you think I want to at least give you back a couple hundred bucks?”

“I don't want it,” I said. “It means nothing compared to what I've gained.”

I laid there and waited for the inevitable stubborn, pigheaded argument that was sure to follow, or a steady stream of cuss words, but he shocked me by propping himself up on one elbow and planting a sweet, slow kiss on my lips. His dark green eyes bored into mine, a question in them. I reached up and smoothed his hair behind his ears and smiled. “That's better,” I said. “Kiss me again.”

Leaning down gingerly, he pressed his lips against mine, and made a soft humming sound. His voice was like velvet. I ran my hands behind his head, pushing them into his hair, tugging it a little, as his mouth opened on mine. He still tasted like coffee. He was bearing all his weight on his propped-up arm, so I pulled him onto me, wanting to feel him crushing me. He made another sound in his throat and I could feel his teeth against my lips, his hands on my neck, the delicious warm weight of him on my chest and legs.

He felt so good, tasted so good. He didn't seem real. His hair too soft, his skin too warm, those eyes too dark and beautiful. But he was. Real and here and I didn't want the moment to end. Nothing was going to interrupt us this time; I didn't care who knocked at the door, we were not answering. I tugged at his shirt, pulling it upward and over his head, and ran my hands over his warm chest, savoring the feel of him. His breathing was hard and fast.

“Let's see how you treat groupies in hotel rooms, then,” I whispered, giving him a devious look.

“No way.” He shook his head, grinning. “For one thing, I'm stone cold sober. And I'm glad that I am. I want to remember this, to remember you.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I said, looking into his deep green eyes.

“Good.” He placed a rough kiss on my bottom lip, his hands roaming over my stomach. He inched my shirt up, his skin warm and rough on mine. “I plan to be a Boy Scout, on my best behavior.”

“Don't do that,” I said, nibbling on his ear. “I think I like you just a little bit bad.”

“Don't worry.” His hands were still moving upward under my shirt. “That guy's still in there, too.”

“I'm looking forward to meeting him,” I said, and let my hand trail downward, touching him lightly, then harder. He groaned.

“I want you,” he whispered in my ear. “So bad. I don't think I can hold out any longer, Stormy.”

“Me, either.”

“So many false starts,” he said, brushing against my cheek with his thumb, a tender, innocent gesture that made my skin erupt into flame. “Are we really going to do this now? I need to hear that you really want it – that you want me.”

“Yes,” I said firmly, placing a hot, messy kiss on his lips. “I want you, Phillip.”

I didn't have to tell him twice. His mouth brushed against mine as he helped me tug off my own shirt and his long, graceful hands toyed with my bra. His lips trailed down my neck and to my collarbone, and he was making low, gruff noises in his throat that were better than anything he'd ever done on an album. I thought I might combust from the sound.

My brain could always be relied on to poor cold water on any good moment, and it didn't disappoint. As his lips trailed down my collarbone to my chest, a little voice in my head said, You're about to have sex with a dead guy.

Shut up, I told it. I don't care. It's Phillip Deville and he's wonderful and he's mine, and we could literally be rolling around in a coffin and I wouldn't give a flying fuck.

I could feel his lips curl into a smile against my skin and he emitted a low chuckle, his hands still roaming over me, making me shiver and moan. Get out of my head, I thought with a laugh, and he chuckled again and nibbled at my neck.

Every inch of him was alive and warm under my hands. The places where his lips had touched felt like scorched earth; hot and aching. I pulled at his belt buckle, needing him to be free of his jeans, needing to touch him all over. He shook out of them, and instead of removing my skirt, he pushed it up around my waist. His hands were caught up in the material. “Silky”, he murmured against me, and I wasn't sure if he was talking about the fabric or me.

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