Page 12 of The Rockstar

I’m still pulling myself together when he chuckles against my mouth. “We’re gonna be late.”

My libido has risen to the surface so fast that my brain has taken a backseat. I stare at him, forehead furrowing, still dazed. “What?”

“Those records won’t deliver themselves.” He brushes one last kiss against my jaw before stepping back and interlacing his fingers with mine.

I’m still catching my breath. “You’re actually the worst.”

“Vivian, if we don’t stop, you’re gonna be stuck in this cabin for the next few weeks, too sore to walk.”

My God.

I don’t have an answer to that, and he notices. The side of his mouth lifts. I swear, if he smirks at me like that one more time, I’m going to forget we have anywhere to be. You know what, being ‘too sore to walk’ doesn’t sound so bad now that I think about it.

5

RYDER

Being alone in a small space with Vivian is a test of patience and self-control. Too many times I’ve entertained the idea of stopping to the side and letting her ride me. Too many times, I wanted to offer to buy all the records so we could go back home and enjoy each other.

Vivian’s in the passenger seat, in her clothes from yesterday, her legs tucked under her. Her slender neck is on display, and I remember how her fingers tightened around my biceps each time I kissed a particularly sensitive spot.

The thing is, every time she smiles or glances my way, my brain short-circuits.

I think about everything except the feel of her pussy around my cock, her breathy little sounds, her tight walls pulsing after she came.

Get a grip on yourself, Ryder. Think about the concept for your next album. Or the taxes for the new property you’re planning to buy. Or your next dental appointment. Or the new couch fordelivery in five weeks. That couch is so big and spacious, you can lay Vivian down and?—

Shit. Abort, abort, abort. My mind should not go there.

“Vi,” I say, adjusting in my seat to accommodate my growing cock and trying not to glance at her legs again. “Tell me about your store.”

She gives me a sideways smile. “It’s called ‘The Book Was Better.’”

I burst out laughing. “No way. Seriously?”

She nods. “Seriously. I said it at a movie once, and while I was trying to come up with names, that popped up.”

“Clever and funny. Tell me about it.”

“It’s small, messy, probably a fire hazard with the way they’re piled on top of each other. We’ve got secondhand books, some rare finds like signed copies and first editions, and a house cat that acts like the owner. Last month, I added a couple of comfy recliners and bean bags for when buyers want to immediately dive into the book they bought. It’s basically a trap for readers.”

I grin. “You lure them in and never let them leave?”

“Exactly. You should meet our cat. He’s an orange tabby I rescued who occasionally pushes off the books from the shelves just because.”

“I’m afraid to ask its name.”

“Edgar Allan Purr.”

“Jesus. You shouldn’t be allowed to name things or pets.” I laugh again, something I’ve been doing so often from the moment we met. “What else do you sell?”

“Book-themed T-shirts, mugs, candles. You know, the usual.”

“Damn. You weren’t kidding about the fire hazard thing. What kind of candles?”

She tilts her head thoughtfully. “We’ve got Mr. Darcy’s Sweat, Vampire Lestat In A Wet Shirt. Like I said, the usual.”

“Oh-kay. What else don’t I know?”

---