Page 69 of Dead Rockstar

“And I intend to make use of every minute of it,” he said to me, laughing, his green eyes sparkling like emeralds. With one swift movement he'd lifted me off him, placed me on the bed beside him, reared up, whipped off his pants and lay there expectantly, propped on one elbow, his face full of bemused longing. I laughed.

“You're so beautiful,” he said. “I'm so lucky.”

“I could say the same back to you,” I said, pulling off my pants, then my shirt. I unhooked my bra and lay beside him, nestling into his warmth. He caressed my side, his warm, calloused hands like heaven on my skin. “To think I had posters of your face all over my walls.”

“Explain this to me,” he said in a teasing tone, his hands still roaming all over my body. “The teenage girl experience...the rock star thing.”

“Shouldn't you know?” I laughed. “We made you a rich man, didn't we?”

“Be that as it may, I can't say I understand it,” he said, pulling me close to plant another kiss. “I never did then, either. Girls screaming and hollering for me, putting up posters with my ugly mug, throwing panties at me onstage.”

“Your mug is anything but ugly,” I said with a laugh. “But I think it's like... It's a fantasy, like Prince Charming, but with an edge. It's dangerous, because you're the bad boys, you know? But it's also safe, because we'll never attain you.”

“Except you did.” His voice was low and sexy in my ear.

“Except I did.” I wrapped my arms around him and placed a soft kiss on his jaw. “I still can't believe it. I can't believe my dreamboat is right here. And he's done some very inappropriate things to me.”

“I plan to do more.”

“I plan to let you.”

He gave a mock growl and slapped my backside. Then his face turned wistful. “I don't know how in the hell you managed to bring me back,” he whispered, his lips finding me again. “I may never figure out how all of this worked. But I'm so glad you did. Even if – even if I'm gone tomorrow and this is all I ever did with my second chance, was meet you, get to know you, make love to you, well, that's more than I could have wished for.”

“Don't talk like that.”

“It's true.”

“But you talk like it’s goodbye.”

He didn't answer, but his arms were around me, pulling me close to him, far into him, his hair feather-light around my face. I caressed him gently, my hands starting at his stomach then down to his navel, and finally to his delicious warm hardness. He gasped when I touched him, and his body responded, pushing closer and closer toward me, not able to get close enough. He moaned softly. But I pulled away.

I looked into his eyes, seeing desire there, but also something else. Worry. His face was a cold thundercloud, dark and foreboding, his brows furrowed over his eyes, which were misty with tears. It was a contrast against the warmth of him, the wonderful feeling of his hands, which were still caressing my skin, pulling me toward him even as he glowered. I grabbed his cheeks in my hands and pulled him to me, pressing my mouth against his in a kiss that reassured more than words ever could.

He relented against me, softening, kissing me back, exploring my mouth with his tongue. Fervently he pulled me against him, freeing himself from his clothes with one hand, pushing himself inside me urgently, and I moaned against his mouth. My arms locked around his neck and I rested my head against his shoulder, wishing I could be inside him the way he was inside me.

When it was over, I lay against him, both of us sweating and panting. I could hear sounds from the kitchen below. Jason had taken over the spaghetti that we’d forgotten.

I propped my head up and peered into Phillip’s eyes, which were still glossy and sad. I didn't want him to feel that way. Not about me. Not about us. Not when I was the one who had brought him back, brought him here.

I looked deep into his eyes, my hands splayed out on his chest, over his heart, his mouth inches from mine, and whispered, “I release you.”

His eyes widened and he pulled back with a jerk, his hands going out in front of him, grabbing my shoulders, his mouth an “O” of surprise. “Stormy, what-”

“I release you,” I said again, clearer and slower this time.

“Stormy, no-”

“It's okay, Phillip,” I said firmly. “It's done.”

Sixteen

We’d been lying on the bed, silently, for about five minutes. I stared at the wall, waiting for Phillip to say something, anything, but he hadn’t spoken, not since I’d uttered those words. The shocked look on his face had pretty much said it all.

I knew I needed to speak, to explain, to make him understand why I’d done it, but I couldn’t seem to find the words. Anyway, wasn’t he always in my head? Didn’t he know?

So then why did I feel anger and hurt coming off him in waves?

From downstairs I heard the clang of pots and pans and a voice from the bottom of the stairwell. “Phillip, you fuck, you forgot the spaghetti! You guys stop boning and come down and eat!” From the gaiety in his voice, it sounded as if he’d gotten over his hurt feelings.

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