Turned out that getting snowed in at a cabin in the mountains with Ash Black, the sexiest, hottest rock god on the planet brought out the naughty side in me.
A month ago, I never would have believed any of this would happen. Sure, I’d fantasized about the lead singer of my favorite band. Plenty of times. But I wasn’t alone in that. Last year Ash Black been on the cover of People magazine, sexiest man alive. I think he’d starred in more than a few late-night fantasies.
But even my fantasies hadn’t taken me this far. A month ago, I never could have imagined this scene. I wouldn’t have recognized the naked woman, bound and blindfolded on the bed, writhing and whimpering beneath Ash’s large, powerful body.
Suddenly, I felt wet heat on my aching, erect nipple. I cried out as he sucked me, licked me, pleasure rocketing directly to my sex.
“You need this, Ana. Don’t you?” he whispered, husky. I could feel his stubble, rough along my soft breast as he circled my nipple, slowly, teasing me again.
“Yes!” I cried out. “Please!” I begged for release, not from bondage, but from the intensity of the building, cresting orgasm I could feel quivering up inside of me. I needed to let it out, and I needed him to free it from me.
“Oh! Please!” I begged, shameless.
“I knew you had this in you,” Ash whispered, up at my neck, licking, sucking me there at my sensitive flesh. Moaning, I tossed my head back, baring my skin, giving him full access. “From the second I met you, all buttoned up in that library, I knew.”
“You couldn’t have.” Even in my frenzied state, I knew it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. I hadn’t even known I’d had this wild, wanton sex goddess within my prim and proper exterior. A children’s librarian, I was the daughter of a strict, older couple of Russian immigrants, raised through generations of sacrifice and hardship to work and then work some more. I’d never cut loose before, not once. My largest act of rebellion had been to move to Brooklyn, an hour and a half from my childhood home in upstate New York. And listen to Ash Black’s pure, driven rock music late at night.
Now I had the man himself, the literal poster boy for bad boy rock stars. Or more accurately, he had me. All alone. In a cabin shut off from the world in the epic storm draught-stricken California had been waiting for for years.
“You can scream, Ana.” Ash licked at my collarbone, trailing fingers along my outstretched arms. “You can yell at the top of your lungs. No one will hear you.”
“Ash!” I cried out as he sank down once again, capturing my erect, aroused nipple between his teeth. He bit down just enough to make it burn so good. He palmed my breast, feasting on me, sucking hard, then light, just a whisper of a lick around my nipple as I panted and quivered. All the rumors about this man were true, every single one of them. He was an arrogant, rich playboy, a heartthrob and a heartbreaker, a panty-melting bad boy who had dozens upon hundreds of women throwing themselves at him night after night.
But he’d chosen me. It was me he’d tied down to his bed, me he had nasty, dirty plans for all night long. Me, alone with him, snowed in and at his mercy.
“You can scream when you come, Ana,” he whispered, trailing his tongue down my stomach. Slowly, so slowly. I moaned, wishing I could move, wishing I could bring my sex up to him and make things happen faster. I’d never felt so desperate, so crazed. Sex before Ash had always been blah, mostly forgettable, slightly regrettable. It had never felt anything like this rush of a roller coaster ride, this wild, heady plunge straight into the unknown.
“It will be our little secret,” he continued, down now at my hips. Large fingers over my smooth skin, he worshipped my curves, feathering kisses down the insides of my thighs. My ankles were bound at either side to the bedpost. Suddenly shy at my complete and total exposure, I held my breath. I couldn’t move. I had nowhere to go, no way to hide my arousal. With his face down now at my pussy, he could see me dripping for him, my swollen clit aching with need, throbbing and begging for his attention.
“Here in this cabin, you can let yourself go, Ana.” His words worked a dark, wicked spell around me, relaxing and surrendering me into the intensity of my pleasure. “Here, you can let me do all the things you’ve always wanted. Everything you’ve fantasized about.” He brought his fingers up, up my thighs, to finally, tormentingly, lightly graze my slick slit.
I gasped at the contact, so eager, so close. “That’s it, Ana,” he coaxed me with his words and his fingers. “Show me how much you need it. It’s just you and me here. No one will ever know. You can be my little slut. You can scream and come and show me how much you want it, how much you’ll beg for it. No one will ever know.”
“Yes,” I panted, beyond reason, almost beyond words. “Yes, please.” His lips were so close now, inches away from my sex. His tongue, so hot, so wicked, so near I could almost feel it, could imagine how good it would feel when he finally feasted on me.
“Ana,” he exhaled in satisfaction, that gravelly voice that drove women wild caressing me intimately. “So wet.” Reverently, he swept his fingers down my slick sex, lightly sliding them along, exploring where I was spread for him, aching and ready. “Surrender to me, Ana. The way you know you want to.”
My head bucked back, my throat bare. A raw groan escaped my parted lips.
“Now I’m going to eat you, Ana. And you’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” I panted, wild with need.
“Then I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you so hard you’re going to scream. You’re going to come when I slide deep inside you. And as hard as I slam into you, you’re going to beg for more. Aren’t you, Ana?”
“Please! Please!” I couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t take any more teasing, coaxing, building me up. I needed to explode. And then, finally, just when I couldn’t take it anymore, he finally brought his mouth down, hot and full, on my drenched, exposed pussy.
Aw, fuck. My head hurt like someone had cut it open with a broken bottle. Maybe someone had? I brought my hand up, tentative. Nope, everything intact. Just my skull in the grips of a massive, relentless hangover. Nothing new. Then why did I feel like something new had happened?
With a groan, I shifted my weight on the bed and swung my legs over the side. Slow and steady, that’s how you won the race. Or moved your aching, hard-partying body the morning after an epic night of tearing through Vegas. Much like the night before and the night before that. People expected nothing less from hotter-than-hell rock god Ash Black. Trashed hotel rooms, run-ins with paparazzi, X-rated scenes with starlets, I did it all while strutting around in leather pants and no shirt, my world-famous muscles and tats on full display. I always delivered.
But something else had happened last night. My mouth tasted like soot and my head felt stuffed with cotton balls, the scratchy, cheap kind. I couldn’t remember. What was it?
Behind me, a feminine grunt emerged beneath wrinkled sheets. Strands of dark hair splayed across a pillow. Mandy Monroe, America’s sweetheart aka my plaything at the moment, had blonde hair. Huh. I thought we’d been hanging out last night.
Like a goddamned chainsaw, my goddamned phone buzzed with an incoming call. All the goddamned way across the hotel room. No way was I going to make it that far.
Down on the floor between my feet I spotted a tied-off used condom. So there was that. Wasted as I got, I used protection on autopilot. The world already had its hands full with just one Ash Black. No one needed any little Ashes running around. My cock got out and played each and every night, but procreation? Not going to happen.
The mystery woman next to me snorted in her sleep. What was she doing still in my bed? I liked my fun over and out—as in out of the room by the time I woke up. I pulled the sheet down.
Ah, yes, I remembered those tits, as big and gorgeous as only a plastic surgeon could shape them. I remembered them bouncing up and down as she rode me last night. I usually liked to dominate, play games of contro
l, but last night I’d been too wasted to do more than let her climb on and ride me like a rodeo bull.
Tugging the sheet down some more, I swatted her on the ass. “Up and out, Buttercup.”
Groaning, she opened her eyes. Her mascara had smeared down like a Halloween costume of a zombie prom queen. “You got to get going.” I pointed toward the door. I didn’t even try to make up an excuse, something lame about needing to take care of something. I didn’t ask for her phone number as she fumbled around and found her skimpy dress, pulling it on and zipping into her thigh-high boots. I was Ash Fucking Black. I didn’t give out my digits.
“So, thanks,” she mumbled. “If you ever want to, you know—”
“Yeah.” I gave her my signature wink. Class dismissed. And what did she do when I was such an asshole? She giggled and blushed, like they all did.
I could get away with anything. And I took full advantage of it. I was 26 now, but I’d been famous since I was 19 and my band charted its first number one hit. People called us the harder-driving, U.S. version of Coldplay. We had some Green Day in us, some Fun once you cranked them up. Some compared us to the Sex Pistols or Guns ‘n’ Roses. Whatever you called it or compared it to, we made music that made you jump up, dance your ass off and bang your head against the wall. No ballads, no whining, we made screw-the-consequences, fuck-it-all-I’m-going-for-it RAWCK.
There were lots of benefits to my status. Touring the world, VIP access to anything anytime, but at the top of my list had to be the constant supply of pussy. It wasn’t as if I’d been hard-up before I’d gotten famous. My father was Richard Kavanaugh, billionaire real estate mogul and investor. I’d learned early that being rich and handsome opened up all kinds of doors and legs. But it was when I picked up a guitar as a teenager that girls really started getting crazy. Waiting for me naked in my bed. Texting me videos of them making out with their girlfriends or playing with themselves as they thought of me.
By now, I’d gotten so used to the whole sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll routine it was almost boring. I was almost tired of it. Almost. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t playing a tiny violin of pity for myself. I was having the time of my life. Every night.
That was it, though. With the exact same shit every different day, every now and then in the midst of the wild and crazy carnival I’d have a whisper of a doubt. I’d look around and think, is that all there is? Then I’d do a show and get wasted and fuck groupies and nothing would matter all over again.
I’d been the bad boy for a long time now, my whole life really. I’d started off the black sheep in my family, doing nothing right in my father’s eyes, dark in my perfect older brother’s chip-off-the-old-block’s shadow. Then as the rocker, I’d become the poster boy for devil-may-care defiance. I’d spent years riding that long wave of adolescent rebellion while I proudly held up my middle finger.
Sometimes I wondered what it would feel like to stop. Get off the crazy train. Be still and silent for even a moment.
When media darling Mandy Monroe and I first got together a couple months ago, I’ll admit it, I’d been curious about her. Everyone knew her story, the daughter of a coal miner from West Virginia discovered on American Idol. Seventeen years old and singing her heart out with those big, brown eyes and long blonde hair, the world had fallen in love with her. I’d wondered, maybe it would be different with her? She’d certainly grown up outside the bubbles I’d lived in my whole life. Maybe she’d be real?
I didn’t know what kind of person Mandy had been at 17. But at 22, the Mandy I got to know was as vicious and shrewd as they came, always angling for the right PR shot, constantly scheming about how to stay on top of the headlines. It hadn’t taken me long to realize her sugary image had nothing to do with her sour reality. The only reason things had dragged on as long as they had between us was we were never in the same place at the same time. Until last night. We’d gone out to dinner here in Vegas. Hadn’t we?
My phone buzzed again. With a deep down-to-the-bones groan, I stumbled across the room to retrieve it. I still didn’t get there in time to pick up. The screen announced that I had 15 missed calls, 10 from my agent, four from my PR firm, one from my older brother.