Page 39 of Songbird: Black Kite
“What the hell are you doing?” I barked, and she jumped, giving a little shriek as she spun on her knees, hand pressed to her heaving chest.
“Fuck,” she said, those wide eyes staring up at me, and I couldn’t help but picture her there before me, on her knees for an entirely different reason.
My previously half hard dick gave a kick behind my jeans, rising to full mast as I visualized what she would look like, those crimson lips spread wide around my cock, her tears making smoky trails across her cheeks as they dragged her makeup down her face. She’d gag—they all did—but she wouldn’t quit, not my determined girl. She’d take that as a challenge and double down, doing whatever it took to please me.
Letting the fantasy take hold, I imagined my hands in her hair, the dark red streaks dancing as I thrust into her mouth, holding her steady while she let me use her. When I came, it would be fucking incredible, and my girl wouldn’t waste a single drop as she moaned and swallowed me down.
I had no idea where the hell my mind was getting this shit, but between the Molly and her wide eyes, there was no stopping it, I reached for her, my palm resting on her head as she looked up at me, a little fear and a lot of awe in her gaze as she opened her mouth, and I waited for the moan that I was certain would come.
Instead, this girl surprised me once again.
“Is this a 1961 Gibson Les Paul SG Standard?”
Chapter twenty-four
Wren
Fifteen Years Ago
Hewastouchingme.
Hawk Jameson was touching me, and the first thing I did was ask about his fucking guitar?
To be fair, it was an epic guitar.
Turning my head, I tried to look again at the gorgeous beast sitting on a rack behind me, its incredible cherry wood finish gleaming in the low light. The key word being tried, because when I went to look, Hawk tightened his grip, his large palm and long fingers clutching my skull and holding me hostage.
“What did you say?”
Blinking, I licked my lips, and as his gaze darted to my mouth, I was suddenly unable to find my voice.
“Uh.”
“Come on,” he cooed, untangling his fingers from my hair now that he was certain that I wasn’t about to look away. Instead, Hawk gently traced his fingers over my cheek, his eyes focused on the movement as he lightly grazed my skin over and over. “Repeat what you just said.”
I couldn’t deny him.
“I asked if this was an original 1961 Gibson SG Standard? In Cherry Red?”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure he would even answer, but after two more strokes of my cheek, Hawk blinked a couple times and met my gaze. There was something about this moment, something about the way he was looking at me, that had my heart racing. I had spent a lot of time in the last decade dreaming of a time where I might meet the lead singer of my favorite band, but never in my wildest dreams had I imagined he would look at me like this. As though I was some strange and unique creature he’d never seen before.
It felt almost powerful, despite the fact that he was standing and I was on my knees. As though for the first time in my life, I was in control and there was nothing and no one who could stand in my way.
As my heart continued to pound, I curled my fingers into my thighs, digging my nails through the wide diamonds of my fishnets and into my flesh, trying to ground myself. Because as much as I may have dreamed about this moment, I needed to remember that a moment was all it was. Somehow, the universe had spun itself into a position where Hawk and I were in the same space, but I knew that before long it would spin us apart again. I couldn’t allow myself to get addicted to this feeling, because I understood better than most that disappointment was a bitter pill to swallow.
“Nah, babe,” he finally said, and I exhaled, glad that one of us had broken the tension. Taking his hands off me completely, Hawk clenched them into fists and stuffed them into the pockets of his dark jeans, turning his attention to the guitar. “It’s the 2005 reissue. Looks the same, though, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I breathed, my mind trying to wrap itself around the fact that Hawk and I were discussing guitars like it was the weather. I reached my hand out again, just dying to run my fingers over that dark cherry finish, but I paused before I actually made contact and forced my hand back to my thigh. “How’s the sound? Is it as good as the original?”
Hawk gave a quiet laugh, the dark sound rolling out of him, and the way my spine tingled was almost embarrassing. I’d thought hearing him on stage had been overwhelming, but that was nothing compared to experiencing him up close and personal. Being able to smell him, like leather and spice, or see the subtle divot that dipped between his pecs where his t-shirt stretched across his chest. It was utterly surreal.
Still unable to really look at him, I shifted my eyes to the side, watching from the corner as he came up beside me and crouched down, his long fingers—fingers that hadjustbeen touching my bare skin—reaching out and plucking at the guitar strings. The dull twang that the strings made, the sound distinctive to an unplugged electric guitar, had me biting my lip.
Why was everything he did so goddamn sexy? I wanted to convince myself it was just my obsession talking, but there was no denying that every single movement the man made was sex incarnate. The way he moved, the way his thighs stretched the denim as he crouched. Even the way his veins stood out on his forearms, the winding paths like a road map leading to the most magical fingers in the industry.
Taking a breath, I tried to subtly squeeze my thighs together, a useless attempt to relieve some of the hot sensations that were building beneath the hem of my skirt.
I needed to get a grip. Hawk was only here because he thought I had been touching his guitar. Now that he knew I meant it no harm, he’d head back to the half-naked girls scattered around the room.
