Consumed (9 page)

“Ah, shit, Sienna.” His voice is full of surprise as the fingers on my neck move up to tangle into my hair. “Do that again.” 

My “yes” is nothing more than a little moan that causes a vibration against his flesh. I drag my mouth back up his length, running the hard tip of my tongue along it, and then draw him deep into my mouth again. 

I don’t want to lose this moment, to lose him, but when I start to repeat, he stops me by tugging roughly on my red hair. “Put your hands down flat.” His tone is dangerously low. “No hands. Just that beautiful mouth of yours.” 

His words send a shiver through me, but I nod, my mouth bobbing against his cock in the process. I splay my palms flat on the bottom step, my movements slow and a little exaggerated, earning a slow smile from Lucas. 

“You beautiful, intoxicating woman.” He guides my head as far as it will go and he’s pressing against the back of my throat. We both release a broken moan, seconds apart. “What are you doing to me? It’s so good. You’re so fucking good.”

Whatever it is that I’m doing to him, he’s done to me times two. Because as I use my tongue and mouth to drive him to the point of breaking—and as he stares down at me with one of those looks that twists the pit of my stomach into a million and one knots—I feel like I’m the first woman he’s ever stared at. The first woman to do this to him. The first woman for him, period.

“You were fucking made for me, Si.” This time, after my tongue traces a path up his cock, he draws all the way back, releasing his hold on my hair. “I’m going to fuck you.” His breath is coming out in uneven bursts but so is mine.

“Upstairs?” I ask, but he moves his head from side to side. 

I barely have time to react before he guides me to my feet. I’m shaking as he hooks his hands behind my knees, urging me to him. I nearly lose my breath when he guides my legs on either side of his body. And as he pulls me down, his thumb gliding beneath my panties to shove the damp scrap of fabric at the juncture of my thighs to the side, I cry out. Because I’m not sure what to do with my hands—my brain is putty right now—I dig my fingers into his taut shoulders while his thick erection presses against me. 

“I’m not going to come in you unless it’s safe,” he promises against the crook of my neck. He strokes my clit once, twice. Without warning, he lifts his hips, easing his cock into the warmth of my body bit by bit, slowly filling me. It’s agonizing. And it’s bliss. Dragging my fingernails across his shoulders, I pull him all the way in, clenching myself around him. He shudders and mutters a curse. “I’ll pull out if you say the word.”

His hands are gripping my ass now, moving my body back and forth, up and down. The sensation is so dizzying that it takes me a moment to clear my head enough to realize what he’s asking. 

“The shot,” I gasp as he buries himself deep inside of me. “Last time was a month ago. I never skip.”

“Fuck, that’s good to hear,” he growls. 

He leans back against the steps, and I follow suit, pressing my face against the tattoos on his chest as I rock my hips against him. 

“Look at me,” he says. When I don’t, shaking my head because the feeling of him has officially fucked with my head, he gives my ass a hard smack. “Look at me, Sienna.”

I lift my head and stare him in the eye. “Happy? Do you see what you do—” My breath catches, and his lips move into a grin. He understands. He knows exactly what he does to me.

He circles his thumb urgently around my clit, causing my whole body to throb, and I cry out. “I want to watch you when you come. I want you to look at me when I come in you,” he says.

“Please,” I whisper, though I’m not sure what I’m begging for. He’s giving me everything that I want right now, everything my body craves. “God, Lucas . . .” 

He moves faster, harder, his free hand making rough contact with my ass once more when I squeeze my eyes together. “Let me see you,” he repeats, and I nod, sweat-dampened strands of my red hair falling into his face. 

“I want to—” I begin, but then the orgasm comes. It doesn’t build slowly so that I have enough time to warn him. It rips through me, making me clench my teeth as my body tightens around his. I keep my eyes trained on his as the waves of pleasure send a painful shudder through my body. He releases a low growl, and I feel him let go. It’s a first for me, but I’m sure he already knows that, too.

Afterward, as we lay against each other at the bottom of his staircase, breathing heavily with the sweat from our bodies intermingling, he finally says that we’re going upstairs. 

After he reintroduces me to his vivid black and red bedroom upstairs, and as promised, to his kitchen where he actually cooks for me, Lucas takes me to his music room. Just like the “piano room” from the house in Nashville, this room is on the bottom level of the house. But with its butter-yellow walls and light hardwood floors, it’s a complete 180 from the sexy, dark décor in the rest of the house. 

While he sits strumming his guitar on the couch, I pace around the room, studying the collection of guitars—acoustic and electric—hanging on the walls. 

“Kylie’s idea,” he says as I run my fingertips along the smooth surface of a Fender. It boasts a signature across its sleek body that I can’t quite make out, not even when I trace my fingertip along the sloppy scrawl. He changes the key of the song he’s playing. “I would have just left the damn walls bare. And I would’ve left them painted black, but I’ve got to let her win sometimes.” 

“I like her ideas. Do the brighter colors help you write?” 

“Good inspiration helps me write.” He winks, and I feel my skin begin to warm up. “The walls are just there.”

I make my way over to the piano, and automatically, my gaze zeroes in on the notebook on top of it. Lucas’s lyrics. As I absentmindedly tap out a few keys—which ends up sounding like the opening of “You’re So Vain”—I can’t quite pull my eyes away from the notebook.

The Gibson squeaks loudly, and a moment later, I feel Lucas’s body against my backside. I flatten my fingers on the piano keys, not caring that they make an awful screech. “You’re welcome to look through it. You’re welcome to everything I have. I want you to know that, Sienna.”

“I feel like I’m invading your privacy,” I say. He brushes his lips over my temple, back and forth, moving the tiniest strand of hair across my skin in the process. “Even if you do tell me I’m allowed.”

Still, I can’t help thinking about his ex and the hold she has over him. I can’t help the part of me that doesn’t buy into Lucas promising me that I have all of him. How can I when there’s still so much about this man that’s still so secretive?

His rough voice breaks through the toxicity of my thoughts. “I want you to look.” Taking my hand, and the notebook, he guides me over to the couch. For a few minutes, I remain hesitant to look at the lyrics. Clutching the notebook tightly, I listen to him play a song I’ve not heard before—probably something from Your Toxic Sequel or his new solo album—but halfway through he pauses.  “Open the damn book, Red,” he says.

Glaring at him from beneath my lashes, I finally flip the cover over to reveal a full page of his handwriting. “Satisfied?” I ask, and he nods.

Many of Lucas’s songs follow Your Toxic Sequel’s usual style—raunchy, sexy, clever lyrics that make me blush. But there are also lyrics with so much emotion that I feel rusted barbs shoving through my chest. These words are not about sex but about pain and loss, about heartbreak and betrayal. 

And then, several pages through the book, I find the original drafts of “Ten Days.”

These lyrics range from moody and dark to downright depressing, but I read them all and I realize that he was feeling just as screwed up, just as alone, as I was during our time apart. When I get to the version that I’ve heard, I smile softly.

“I’m glad this was the one.” I rub my thumb over the sloppy words on the page. Crazy, heartbreaking, beautiful words written for me.

“Me too. It sure as fuck took a long time to do it.” He starts playing another song on his guitar—“Ten Days.” “As you can see, it was hard for me.”

“Lucas Wolfe admitting that something was difficult for him?” I feign surprise as I flip backward to one of the initial drafts. “Glad you kept going. The other ones are just as beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but a little . . .”

“Dark? Emo? That’s what Kylie called me the entire time you were gone.” I scrunch my nose and shake my head, but he laughs. He inclines his chin down to the page that I’m on right now—one that’s talking about a bleeding heart. “I, ah, wrote that particular one after seeing you out one night.”

Something painful squeezes around my heart. “What?”

“At Sunny’s. Little bar downtown. Cheap beer and shit for lighting.”

I know the place, but I can’t remember the last time I went there. Self-consciously, I close Lucas’s notebook and sit it down on the couch between us. “When?”

“About a month after Atlanta. Wanted to get you out of my mind, and sure as fuck you were right there at that damn bar.”

And instead of coming to talk to me, instead of ending both of our misery a few months in advance, he’d come back here and wrote about . . . angst?

He plucks a flat note and gives me a grim look. “You were with another man—some blonde mother fucker—and a few of your friends. And as much as I wanted to beat the shit out of him simply for being with you, going after him would have made me a douche.” He thumbs a few additional notes and then lifts his eyebrows in a look that screams guilt. “Well, a bigger douche than I already was.”

Some blonde guy? Facing the piano, I squeeze my eyes together. Who the hell is he talking about? The only men I’ve had continuous contact with who could be a match for Lucas’s vague description would be my brother and my former roommate’s boyfriend. Micah. 

Of course.

Laughter bubbles from my chest. Before I have a chance to explain, Lucas leans forward.

“And now you’re laughing at me, Red?” he asks. “I should turn you over my knee right now.”

I force the breathlessness down as I turn my head to the side, skimming my lips against his. “The blonde you saw me with is Micah. Tori’s boyfriend.” And I remember the night now. They’d coaxed me out of the apartment because I spent the better part of a month moping around over Lucas. To him, I say, “We went out as a group. And I sure as hell didn’t go home with Micah, nor have I ever slept with him.”

Lucas’s mouth parts into a silent “ah,” as he leans back on the couch and begins to pick at his guitar again. I can’t deny the look of relief and satisfaction on his handsome face. 

While the rest of our night goes smoothly, with Lucas playing me song after song on his Gibson, the next morning is a little chaotic. He wakes me up after sunrise, dressed in nothing but a pair of navy blue gym shorts that hang low on his hips. He’s sweaty from working out and looking down at me wearing his typical cocky grin.

“Get up, Sienna. It’s day one.” 

“The show isn’t until late tonight,” I point out, but Lucas yanks the sheets that I’m desperately trying to hold on to off of the bed.

“We’ve got a lot of shit to do today.”

His words remind of my short-lived days (eight in total) working as Lucas’s personal assistant. He had—and I’m not even kidding—mandated that I be up at seven a.m. unless otherwise notified. 

Sure enough, when I turn over to glance at the black Bose alarm clock on his nightstand, it’s 7:03. “You’ve got to be screwing with me.”

“Get used to it.” He goes to the window and opens the darkening blinds, allowing the light in. “Our road manager gets our asses up much earlier than this.”

Groaning, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and place my feet on the floor. As I stretch my arms over my head and shake out some of the stiffness in my muscles, I ask him sarcastically, “Should I call you Mr. Wolfe and sir?” 

He doesn’t give me an answer until I walk across the room to the adjoining bathroom. “Only in private, Red.”

I shower quickly, wondering if he was serious about calling him Mr. Wolfe, which had been another stipulation of the old contract. Once I towel off, I return to the bedroom. He’s nowhere to be found, but I can hear a shower running in the bathroom down the hall. 

Humming softly—an incredibly offbeat version of “Rill Rill” by Sleigh Bells—I rummage through my suitcase. Since I’m limited by my lack of shoes, I dress in a fun multi-colored Betsey Johnson sundress, which is the only item of clothing I have that matches my yellow flats. By the time Lucas returns, I’m leaned against his dresser, my face close to the mirror as I wrap my hair in a messy bun. 

“Leave it down.” I look past my reflection, dragging in the sight of him with beads of moisture trickling down his muscular chest. He grins. “You know what it does to me.” 

I do. And despite the fact it’ll just get in the way, I release my grip on my hair, letting the up-do down in one swift motion. I start to rake my hand through the tangled mess, but Lucas shakes his head. 

“Just like that, so I can think about fucking you while I go through bullshit all day.”

The first order of “bullshit” turns out to be a meeting here with Your Toxic Sequel’s tour manager—a short, strawberry blonde guy with one of those tans that makes me envious. Dressed in a citrus-colored polo, Tyler looks like he’s about to head into an office instead of on a rock tour. At first, he stares me down with undisguised curiosity, taking every opportunity to study me as we go through the house and out to the backyard. Once we’re on the patio overlooking the pool, though, Lucas introduces me as his girlfriend.