Moscow, Russia
The plane ride was the closest thing to hell ever recorded on planet earth.
Partly because Blake and Jenna were yelling at each other in decibels that threatened to bring the aircraft down—she was on speaker, since Blake had to answer emails simultaneously—but mostly because Lucas insisted on not getting the memo that Stardust was not for the taking and lay beside her on the L-shaped sofa, gazing at the ceiling like a fucking John Green character and talking to her about life. Which was ironic, really, considering the fact I was about to end his if he kept throwing himself at her. Alfie was curled up beside me, playing a video game and making sure I didn’t use any of the laptops or mobile phones around us to go on the Internet. I was bored, and agitated, and fuck, hadn’t I told her she couldn’t hang out with Waitrose? Obviously, I had to put my point across more blatantly.
Because subtlety is clearly my forte.
“Ever seen a cockpit from the inside, Stardust?” I asked Indie from across the room, sprawled on a recliner high and plush as a cathedral.
She looked away from Lucas and at me lazily, putting her patched dress down. She was sewing every spare moment she had. Compulsively. Wasn’t that the only way to make art?
“So many sexual innuendos from this one.” Alfie smirked to himself, eyes still hard on his Nintendo screen.
“You know the answer to that question.” Her scowl warned me not to screw with her unnecessarily.
Fair enough. I did know the answer. The only times she’d ever been on planes had been with me, and I’d never offered to show her anything other than my boot inside her arse as I sent her away. I shot to my feet and sauntered over to them, stretching my open palm in her direction.
“You’ll like it. Lots of buttons to push,” I enunciated the last sentence, in case Lucas didn’t quite understand what kind of fire he was playing with. I wasn’t a match. I was the kind of flame that burned down an entire forest.
“I can show you, if you prefer.” Waitrose looked over at her, still holding the next patch she was meaning to sew. Surely, he couldn’t have been that daft. But of course he knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn’t only pushing my buttons. He was prodding them so hard, they cut deep.
Ignoring him, I turned my head back to her.
“Time is money, Blue,” I used the nickname Blake gave her, for no other reason than to remind everyone they didn’t have exclusivity on anything Indigo Bellamy.
She scooted her perky bum from the sofa and followed me, silently refusing my hand. Which was fantastic, because it only served to turn me on even more. Her defiance was refreshing. She should patent, juice, and give it to the next girl I dragged into my miserable life.
“Thanks for doing that,” she muttered behind me.
“Sure.” I had no idea what she was referring to. My mind was set on one thing, and that was finding out what color her knickers were today.
“Can you take a picture?” We were out of the main space, advancing inside the narrow corridor.
“Of what?”
She hesitated. “Umm, me in the cockpit?”
I’ll show her a cockpit…
She was still mid-step when I pushed her hard against the bathroom door and locked us both inside. I had no illusions about making her a member of the mile high club. She needed more prepping. Still, messing around was part of the process, so I needed to make sure she wasn’t skipping any classes.
Her back dug against the sink as I lifted her thigh up and curled it against my waist, dipping my groin against her clothed cunt without warning. This couldn’t have been a comfortable angle for her, but I had a point to make.
“Feel that?” I was fully hard and strained against my jeans, my balls already swollen and heavy with need. “Feel what it does to me when you go and shit all over our arrangement?”
“There’s no arrangement. Lucas and I are friends.” Strong words, spoken by a woman who sounded almost believable, if it wasn’t for the fact she was grinding her sweet groin against my crotch.
“Lucas wants you.”
“Debatable. And even if he does, he can’t have me.”
“But I can.”
“For a while.” Pause. “Maybe.”
Fuck. Your. Maybe. Lady.
I crushed my mouth to hers so fast and so hard, she stumbled backward, even though there was no space to fall into. Grabbing the back of her neck, I bit her lower lip until I produced the sound I was after—the moan I knew had sat somewhere at the back of her throat since the day she fucking saw me—as I slowly but surely thrust between our clothes, dry-fucking her. My firm torso against her soft everything made both our bodies tremble. She whimpered every time my cock hit her groin, and I inwardly cursed the pretty baby blue dress that separated our skin and matched her hair so nicely.
She pulled her lower lip away and flicked her tongue into the roof of my mouth, dragging it leisurely, making my skull break into goose bumps. The surprise alone made my cock jump in appreciation, and it was already straining inside my tight jeans. Why couldn’t I be a rapper? They had such great attire for erections. I could hide two Indies inside Lil’ Wayne’s trousers and no one would know.
“Fuuuuck.” I bit her shoulder to suppress a frustrated scream. The need to be inside her matched the need for a drink and two lines before stepping onto stage at Madison Square Garden. It justified making out with a girl six years my junior like some sort of a desperate teenager. Only I was a grown-up. No. No, I wasn’t. I was a fucked-up kid with a babysitter. A babysitter I was going to eat alive. She trailed her tongue up my neck, to my chin, all the way to my mouth. I laughed, because it was so unsexy, yet so her.
Real.
Sweet.
Indie.
“You taste so salty,” she breathed into my mouth.
“You taste so innocent,” I countered.
She didn’t smoke or drink or cuss. She didn’t fuck around or try to get back at the world. She was pure and untroubled. Her problems were external—fucked-up brother, lack of money, dead parents. Inside, she was unsoiled. It helped. The idea I was wrecking her.
The act of corruption fed my power hunger.
“Alex.” She rolled her head to the side, giving me access to her neck as one of my hands ran down her ass and squeezed, the other snaking between us and skimming over her pussy. She wore thick leggings. Guess I couldn’t fault her for that. It was close to freezing on the airplane, plus Moscow was going to be a shitshow weather-wise, and she knew better than not to check the weather, thanks to my cunty remark when we’d first arrived in Australia. I hated myself for riding her ass about her clothes. I also hated her leggings and all leggings in general and declared war on them. I rubbed her slit, salivating at how wet she must be under the layers of fabric between us.
“For fuck’s sake,” I groaned, throwing my head between her shoulder and neck. I needed so much more, but she was tiny. There was literally not enough to satisfy my hunger for her. My fingers were pushing so aggressively through the material of her leggings, I was sure I was about to tear them apart or set them on fire from the friction. Neither was an option that would score me brownie points on my way to her bed. “Strip for me.”
To my surprise, she pushed me away, wiggling out of her knitted stockings while standing up, her cheeks so red I did want to take a picture this time. Because she looked like foreplay, and foreplay and music were the reasons I’d been put on this earth.
“God, you’re beautiful.” And oh, was she ever. Like a painfully short, brilliant song that keeps you thirsty for more.
She dumped her leggings on the floor and launched at me. My back hit the glassed shower from the other end—viva la private jets—and we stumbled in together, so turned on we were fighting for each breath.
“Oh…oh…oh!” she screamed in pleasure as our tongues met and danced together, my fingers nudging her panties aside and fluttering over her slit. Shit. She was soaked, and I didn’t even dip one in. I rubbed my thumb up and down along her cunt, feeling my cock growing so impossibly hard and erect, it was reaching the point of painful. But I couldn’t rush her, and I didn’t want to, anyway. This was fun. Fun in the pre-adulthood kind of way, when you actually had to work hard and didn’t wash your hands for two days straight after fingering a girl.
“Oh, indeed.” I found her shy little clit and flicked it up and down, falling to the floor, the showerhead above our heads, while she straddled me, still in her dress.
“I’m going to hate myself in an hour.” She bit her lip, but a loud groan escaped, anyway. She was a moaner. A real one. Not a fake one. Not an I-want-you-to-like-me one, and there were too many of those, especially when your net worth matched Adam Levine’s. Hell, Fallon had put on a West End-worthy show for the first six months of our relationship. It was only after eight months or so that I realized she didn’t even like it up the arse and had just been humoring me so I wouldn’t leave—cheers, Fallon, for the vote of confidence.
But I didn’t want to think about Fallon. Not when I had a perfectly fuckable girl in my arms.
“Shit.” I laughed, our teeth clashing together in another messy kiss. “Moan louder and you’ll take over pirate radio stations in Mongolia.” I only guessed we were flying above it, though geography was not high on my list of interests at that point.
She pulled away, her eyes colored with confusion and embarrassment. “Really? Should I be quiet?”
Why had I said that? Did I have a built-in cock-blocking device along with my huge red button of self-destruction? There was absolutely no way in hell we were going to stop messing around because of those fuckers outside. Even if I had to throw them out—and yes, I was aware we were 35,000 feet in the air. I extended my arm above my head and turned the faucet on. A stream of spluttery, cold water rained down on us with a hiss. I rolled the handle all the way to the left, and steam bellowed over the glass around us as the water heated. It felt good. Forbidden. Crazy, just as we were.
“That’s better. Hit those high notes for me, Stardust, and go to town on my fingers. I wanna watch your face as you come, and you better come, because we’re not leaving this airplane until you do.”
I slipped two fingers into her pussy, studying her closely. She flinched at my rough touch, but there was no mistaking how hot and wet she was for me.
There was a bucket of ice with glass bottles of Coke beside my shoulder—Alfie enjoyed long baths and cool soda when we were flying—and for the first time in a long time I wasn’t an angry piece of shit because of that.
“Your cunt is so warm.” I sucked in a breath, still watching her. Our clothes were heavy and drenched. Indie moved her hips to create more friction between my hand and her pussy, and I tried hard not to grin like the perv I was.
“Oh, God,” she croaked when I pushed my fingers in and out of her. “I don’t even want you.”
To this, I curled my fingers, burrowing in her wetness, and pulled them out slowly, sucking her warm juices into my mouth. She tasted like a thousand orgasms, and like a fucking liar.
“No?” I asked, holding her gaze.
“No.” At least she had the decency to try to look away.
I jerked her by the back of her neck in one movement and shoved my tongue into her mouth, forcing her to taste herself. Our tongues collided and danced, and she drank herself up on a loud moan. I pulled away and held her face.
“Your cunt begs to differ.”
I grabbed an ice cube. She protested, grinding her pussy into my cock and making me want to grab her by the hair and fuck her on the floor.
Not yet. Soon, but not yet.
“More.” The pain in her voice made pre-cum gather at my tip.
I shoved the ice cube into her pussy and she shrieked, her entire body coming even more alive on top of mine as I sat on the floor, my back pressed to the Jacuzzi. I clasped her chin between my fingers, guided her back to my mouth, and silenced her with a kiss as I fucked her with the ice cube, feeling how it melted inside her sweet, warm folds. Pushing in and out, I made sure I stretched her good. She was too innocent to just drive into, and I was an arsehole, but not a sadist.
“Such a decent girl.” My breath was hot against her skin.
She relentlessly chased my fingers and ice cube, looking drunk, on the border of shit-faced. All I needed to do was touch her clit once and she’d explode like I’d pushed a red button. Which was exactly why I didn’t do it.
“But you’ll be dirty for me,” I added.
To that, she didn’t reply. I slipped my hand into the bucket again and shoved another ice cube in, and she winced, arching her back before rubbing her pussy and clit all over my abs, wanting a lot more than ice and fingers inside her.
“Answer me,” I growled.
“I’ll be dirty for you,” she rasped, riding my hand like she did it for a living.
“Take my cock out,” I ordered, my voice dripping chill almost as much as her pussy. She stopped grinding against me for a second, staring at me through dreamy eyes, the droplets coming down from the tips of her eyelashes and plastering her hair onto her forehead.
“There’s an orgasm at the end of this journey.” I smirked.
She reached between us and unbuckled me, taking my cock out with shaky fingers. She spent a few moments gaping at it, just as she had when I took a piss in front of her the first day we were on tour.
“You’re uncut.”
I wanted to laugh, but was too aroused to function. Her eyes were big and wide. Did it really matter? It never did to any of the women I’d been with before. Then again I was Alex Winslow. I was told by Blake and Alfie, though, that sometimes American women were a bit iffy about the blanket on the piggy. I took her palm and wrapped it around my shaft, squeezing my hand around hers and feeling the pearl of pre-cum between us dropping onto my clothed thigh. “Problem?”
She shook her head. “It’s just…different.”
“You’ve only been with one guy.” The fucker.
“I know, but still.”
We weren’t going to talk about the benefits of circumcision today. I moved her hand back and forth, showing her how to rub me off rough, the way I liked it. “Make me come, and I’ll do the same to you.”
“I don’t come on demand.” Her eyes met mine.
I slid three fingers into her needy pussy and curled them, hitting her G-spot at the same time I pushed my callused thumb just above her clit. “New game, new rules: you come when I tell you to.”
“Ohhh…”
Yeah. Ohhh was right, with extra fucking foreskin.
She gave me a wank while I fingered her delicious cunt. The water pounding between us was a constant reminder that people were probably asking questions, and even more importantly—that we were going to walk out of here soaking wet or worse, wrapped in towels, giving them the answer they didn’t want to hear. Not that I gave a toss. Actually, it was better if everyone knew once and for all who she belonged to. Because it definitely wasn’t Waitrose.
Stardust gave a terrible handjob. She didn’t use enough pressure and treated my cock like it was about to fall off my body. But I was so high on what we were doing—and where we were doing it—I got off anyway. And when I felt the climax pressuring the base of my spine, climbing up like a ladder, I finally put her out of her misery and gave her clit some TLC, rubbing the swollen thing in circles while shoving my tongue into her mouth like I wanted her to choke on it.
“Jesus! Shit, oh, wow!” she exclaimed. She sounded surprised, and that made everything so much hotter, even though Jesus got the credit for all my hard work.
“Say my fucking name when you come,” I hissed.
I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe she would call me Winslow, as she often did, like I wasn’t a person but a brand.
But when the name “Alex” rolled out of her lips, I shot my load onto her baby blue dress, groaning and pushing her to the floor, on her back, to finish the job. I didn’t let her come on my fingers. No. I pressed my knee between her thighs and let her come on nothing, empty and deprived, with just a little taste for more.
I bent down, kissed her lips—thumbs on cheeks—and watched her squinting under the drops. Her face was rosy, her lips puffy from my abuse on her mouth.
I stood up and left her on the floor, thinking, for the first time in years—this is better than alcohol. Better than the champagne I smuggled.
“Don’t give yourself a hard time, darlin’. Especially as next time I touch you, you will be on your knees for me.”
The minute I came down from the high, I realized how low I’d gone.
And once I did, everything became clearer, just like the steam that had dried off of the glassed shower. My feet felt like a thousand hornets had stung them, cold and hot all at once, and I shivered quietly.
It wasn’t so much the shame of letting Alex finger me—finger me!—in the shower, although that was grossly out of character for me. We were both single and weren’t hurting anyone. It was the fact I’d allowed him to do that on a plane, with people right outside, and now they were all going to know what had happened.
I’d never be able to live it down. Even if his friends didn’t care—which I’m sure they didn’t, I wasn’t the first girl to fall into Alex Winslow’s trap. He was made for legends, almighty like an angry god. Too bad he knew it.
Alex yanked his jeans down, kicking them through his army boots and wrapping his waist in a clean, dry towel.
“All right?” He threw me a glance down his nose, his thick eyebrows drawn together.
I was still sitting on the edge of the Jacuzzi, combing my hair through wobbly fingers. Maybe I was stuck up, and a goody two-shoes, and a prude. But life had taught me a valuable lesson, and that lesson was that sometimes, the people you were attached to don’t come back. With my parents, I hadn’t had much choice. But with Alex—I did, and I’d knowingly let him in. Into my thoughts, and now my panties.
“Sure.” I rose to my feet with the intention of squeezing my clothes dry. He turned toward the door, forever blasé.
“There’s a blow dryer in the left cabinet. Step out of your clothes before you dry them, unless you want third-degree burns. I’ll go bullshit your way out of this one.”
“Do you think they’ll buy it?” I munched on my lower lip again.
“I’m a recovering drug addict. At this point, it’s easier for me to lie than say the truth.”
“Oh,” I blurted. Apparently, I was not the most eloquent human being after getting fingered by a rock star. You live, you learn.
He left the room, and I immediately glued my ear to the door in an attempt to hear everything outside. It was pitiful, but no more pathetic than everything else I’d done so far on this tour.
“You’re in a towel,” Blake observed matter-of-factly when Alex reemerged from the bathroom. “Why on earth are you in a towel?”
“Stardust dumped her coffee all over my crotch.”
“For fuck’s sake. Why?” It was Alfie’s turn to speak.
I grinned to myself, my heart thrumming in my chest wildly.
“I don’t know. Who knows why women do anything? She’s probably on her period.”
“Your shirt is gone, too.”
“She dumped my cup over my head.”
“Damn, mate, she really hates you.”
“Clearly,” Alex’s voice dripped sarcasm.
I covered my mouth, suppressing a laugh. That was my problem with Alex. He was too charming for his own good. Beneath the cliché of a tortured rock star who escaped to the arms of drugs and booze and had enough ink on his skin to print an entire edition of War and Peace, he was a lost boy. A fantastically witty lost boy. A lost boy who was incredibly lovable, even though he may not have thought so.
“Where’s Indie, anyway?” Lucas’ voice was different from the rest. He sounded annoyed rather than amused.
“Bathroom, last I checked.”
“How come?” Blake grumbled.
“She’s suffering from massive diarrhea. This may or may not have to do with that beef fried rice we had before takeoff.”
“I knew it! My stomach’s been feeling funny, too.” Alfie slapped his thigh by the sound of it.
I. Was. Going. To. Kill. Alex.
My hands balled into fists, and I used every ounce of my self-control not to waltz out and tear my vocal cords yelling at him.
Then he continued. “I think it’s gonna get loud in there, so I suggested she use the blow dryer.”
I tried to tell myself he was protecting my dignity.
In his own twisted, backward, exceptionally uncultured way.
“Brutal,” Blake mumbled.
“Bullshit,” Lucas spat out.
I pressed my forehead to the door and squeezed my eyes shut. My cheeks hurt from the huge smile on my face. My heart squeezed for an entirely different reason. I turned the blow dryer on and heard them laughing.
Damn you, Winslow.