I glued my back to the door, the room coming into my vision in fragments behind the wall of unshed tears.
Three.
Two.
One.
I wanted to open the door and hurt him. To tell him he was a world-class asshole for doing this to me, for making me feel all these things. Even though he’d made it perfectly clear I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell at ever being with him the way I deserved. Because Alex Winslow didn’t do love. He only did hate. I wondered if he knew that. That he wasn’t capable of giving his precious Fallon half the things a person you love should be given. Security, unconditional support, and kindness.
I knew what I needed to do. I needed to march over to his room, knock on the door, and tell him to stop. Stop hitting on me, stop trying to make us happen, stop seducing me with his goddamn lips and lyrics and buckets of rugged charm. My lips throbbed from another kiss that had never happened, and I was irrationally angry at the world. Steam. I needed to get rid of it. Now.
With those things in mind, I turned around, about to swing my door open and give him a piece of my mind. That’s when I heard someone hammering on it from the other side.
Blinking, I pulled it open and peeked through the slit.
Alex stood there with red eyes and a mist of sweat covering his forehead, like not kicking down the door left him labored and sticky. He pushed the door the rest of the way open, silently walked in, cupped the side of my face, his thumbs on my cheeks, and kissed me.
Hard.
I stumbled back, off-guard and unprepared, but that only made him more aggressive in his kiss. I sucked in a desperate breath just as he darted his tongue out, stroking mine. Our tongues rolled together, hungry and vicious, in a wild dance without rhythm or pace. I moaned, and he groaned, sucking on my lower lip and digging his teeth into it on a warning bite. Do not disobey, the bite said in his English accent. Or you’ll be sorry.
Admittedly, I didn’t think. Not about how he’d managed to corner me deeper into my room in a lust-filled haze, and certainly not about the consequences. That’s why when he cupped both my ass cheeks and pushed me, my back slamming against the antique dresser, I let him. He bit my lip again, this time harder, and I winced. I wanted him to know I wasn’t surrendering to him—I was surrendering to my own needs. It was different. And selfish. And mine.
“I always wondered, you know.” His lips ghosted mine, wet and drenched with dirty intentions. “What it feels like when you do that, gnawing on that sexy, fat lip of yours.”
All I could do in response was sigh into his mouth. He tasted of the virgin lemonade he had after the show and the bitter bite of his last cigarette. Delicious in a hardened, unapologetic way. My fingers found the silk of his wavy, brown hair and I twisted it, my hips grinding against his abs. He grabbed the back of my thighs and brought them up to circle his waist, crashing his groin into mine. I clenched around nothing, desperate to feel him inside me, but knowing better than to unzip him.
He took my hair in his fist and pulled hard, forcing me to stare at his face. My scalp tingled, but he didn’t hurt me. Not too much.
It felt like I was dipped in cold fire and caressed by a thousand feathers. My whole body tingled, and I’d never felt so awake in my entire life. He laid me on the queen bed and hovered on top of me, much like he had earlier on the sofa, and it reminded me I’d already lost the battle. The one where I drew lines and lived comfortably within them. Because—and this was the really sad part—I’d already crossed so many limits when it came to Alex Winslow, and not one of those decisions was conscious.
He rolled his hips between my thighs, his erection sliding along my thin leggings and his jeans.
“Look at me,” he said. I didn’t. Couldn’t. This moment was mine. The fact he was in it was completely irrelevant, or so I tried to tell myself. I kept my eyes closed, kissing him fiercely.
“Look. At. Me.” He took my hair in his fist and pulled hard, forcing me to stare at his face. Whatever he saw in my expression made him loosen his grip on me, but the intention was there. Alex Winslow played rough, in and out of bed.
“I apologize in advance.” He cocked his head to the side.
“For?”
“Ruining you for any other man on this planet. I’m going to fuck you, Indie. So hard you’ll think about me years from now, when you lie under your boring, missionary-loving husband. I will own every orgasm, every shiver, every wave of pleasure inside you. From here on out, it will be me. Just me. And for that, I truly am sorry.”
“You’re so cocky.” I ran my lips down his neck, and he did this thing, where he ground his jeans against my sex through our clothes fast and rough, creating so much friction my clit swelled and screamed for release.
“That doesn’t make me any less right.”
“Are you going to make me sign an NDA before we go to bed together?” I grinned, and for that, I got my chin bitten.
“When I fuck you, Stardust, you’ll scream so hard, the whole city will know I’m finally inside you.”
I raked my fingers along his broad back, and it felt good, marking him back. After all the times he’d taunted, teased, and messed with me, finally, it was my turn. He scarred me. I decorated him. But at the end of the day, we were both tainted by each other. “We’re not going to have sex. I’m not…super experienced.”
He pushed up from me, running his hand through his lightly stubbled jaw. “Are you a virgin?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Just…I haven’t been around much.”
“How many?”
That again? Ugh.
“One.”
“When?”
“High school. Junior year.”
“Give me his address when we get back to L.A. Promise, I just wanna talk.” He cocked one eyebrow up.
I laughed and swatted his chest, and he locked my wrist in his palm and brought it to his lips, breathing hard against it. I shivered again.
“Okay.” His tone was low. “No fucking tonight. We’ll take it slow.”
A kiss on the lips. The nose. The forehead.
Jesus Christ, heart.
I’m trying my best here, heart.
Enough, heart.
“I’m tired,” I said, even though it was a lie. I was buzzing and high and in need of a release. I wanted him to get the hell out so I could run to the bathtub and release the ache between my legs with my fingers.
He pushed off me without an argument. It shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Alex Winslow was an accidental rock star. I knew it when I watched his bigger-than-life figure moving in the luxurious hotel room, and knew he didn’t belong there. He belonged in some dingy underground pub in the bowels of London, screaming to the microphone about anti-fascism and anarchy. He’d lost his soul somewhere along the way, and I was just another piggybank he shook, trying to see if what was inside resembled what he was looking for. And at that moment, I knew I’d take it.
He was going to break the pig, and I was going to let him.
“I found my well in the middle of the desert,” he said from the threshold of my open door. “Now it’s time to drink from it. Every. Single. Drop.”