Diva (Ironclad Bodyguards Book 2) (20 page)

He thought he’d take the assignment with the actress, because it would get him back to L.A.

Yes, and Lola lives in L.A.

Ugh. More push-ups. He needed more push-ups. He hit the floor and banged out another dozen, then looked up and saw Lola watching him from her door.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” He did another couple push-ups, then paused with his arms extended. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Mr. Olympia.” She passed an avid look over his arms and shoulders, that impish, appreciative look that always hardened him to stone. Rain pattered on the bus’s roof, filling the silence between them. “Don’t want to interrupt your exercise,” she said after a moment. “Proceed.”

He sat back on his heels as she disappeared into her room. He could do a thousand push-ups and it still wouldn’t chase the kid out of his mind. She
was
just a kid. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Young adults didn’t mature until their mid-20s, and hell, he’d been a mess well into his late-20s. She had so much growing up to do.

He watched and waited on his knees. She’d left her bedroom door open. Was that an invitation? He’d told her no more sex, but she surely understood that as long as she offered herself to him, he wouldn’t be able to resist. A moment later he heard her guitar, and sweet, muted singing, broken up by occasional mutters and repetitions of a musical phrase.

He lay back on the floor and stared at the bus’s ceiling.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Maybe meditation could heal him of this affliction, this willful and damaging descent into madness. She was a client, and he wasn’t allowed to sleep with her.

But her voice was so clear, so melodic. She was a siren calling him, and he couldn’t stay away even though he knew he’d end up dashed on the rocks, or unemployed, at the very least. He sat up with a sigh and went to her bedroom door. He could hear Don in the other room, snapping at someone on the phone.

“Keep playing,” he told Lola when she looked up at him.

She played, but she didn’t sing. Now and again she hummed a bar or two. He wanted to push her back and mount her, because she was so rumpled and beautiful. Her small hands were spiders skittering over the guitar strings, and her hair stuck out in unruly tufts. He could see the blonde growing out now, the hint of true color under the fuchsia. She bit her lip and looked up again as her ditty twanged to a close.

“That’s a good tune. Better than a lot of the shit that’s out there. It’s like…” He thought a moment. “Kind of like a chill Alanis Morrissette.”

“Who’s Alanis Morissette? Someone from the seventies?”

He facepalmed and shook his head. “I forgot you were a fetus. Never mind. So how many of these songs have you written? You must have enough for an album by now.”

“No one buys albums anymore.” A blush reddened her pale cheeks. “And this music, it’s not…”

“Not what?”

“Not going to come to anything.” She put her guitar in the case and sprawled back on her pillows. “People don’t want that from me. They want EDM music, electronic shit they can dance to.”

“Just put a beat under it.”

She laughed and crossed her legs, which were even paler than her face, despite their constant exposure to the elements. Even now, on the bus, she wore booty shorts. “Listen to you. Just put a beat under it. I’m proud of you, Ransom. You’re learning how things work.”

“I’m serious. You could turn that into one of those songs you play during the sets.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to.” She crossed her arms over her chest, so everything looked crossed and defensive. Ransom would never get used to her puzzling mood swings. The women he gravitated toward were low key, self-assured. Rocks. Since he left porn, he’d only been with women who were rocks, because he thought that kind of woman would save him. But here he was, tumbling head over heels for Lola, who was as changeable as the moon.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “What did I say?”

“This music is
my
music. I don’t want anyone else to hear it. Why are you listening at my door?”

“Because you left the door open. I don’t really have a choice whether to hear you or not, and anyway, I like when you play your little songs.”

“My little songs?” She stared daggers at him.

“What?” He threw out his arms. “Why are you getting touchy? I complimented you.”

“I told you, no one wants that shit. They want the electronic stuff.”

Slow, Ransom. You’re so slooow sometimes.
Lola loved playing her folksy, angsty songs, but the money was in EDM music. Her fame was reliant on sound consoles and throbbing beats.

But her heart was tied up in lilting guitar strings.

“Are you sure no one wants it?” he asked. “Have you ever played it for anyone?”

“I’ve played it for you.”

“And I liked it. Who else have you played it for?”

She gazed at him, her lips in a tight line.

He crawled onto the bed and kissed her, kicking the door shut at the same time. He wasn’t going to sleep with her, but she looked so vulnerable and conflicted, and so goddamn kissable. “Only me?” he whispered when they parted. “You’ve only played your songs for me?”

“I used to play them for my father. We used to write songs together. Now I feel like my songs aren’t good enough.”

“I think they’re good enough. I think they’re great. You should put them out in the world.”

“I can’t, because of that whole contract thing Don is always yelling about.” She squirmed from under him and turned away as she latched her guitar case. “I’m locked in with my label, and they’re not interested in my vocal stylings.”

“How do you know? Have you asked?”

“I just know. And the EDM is easier. There are no words, no emotions. Just…” She waved a hand. “Adrenaline. The songs I write on my guitar are my feelings, and it’s too scary to put that side of me out there for everyone to look at, and possibly ridicule. I mean, they might hate them and make fun of them.”

He pulled her back into his arms. “I have news for you. Tons of people make fun of rave music. There are people who make fun of country music. There are people who make fun of opera, but you know what, some people fucking go nuts over opera.”

“My songs have too much of me, though. Doing a rave set is a skill. It’s almost mathematical. It’s definitely not based on my sad little feelings.”

“And your guitar music is? Then I like your sad little feelings.”

He wanted to see her smile. She did smile, and then she tucked her head under his chin. “It’s a long way to Barcelona. I wonder what we could do to pass the time.”

“We talked about this. Please don’t make me defile you any further.”

“I want you to.” She pressed closer and ran her hands over his hardening shaft. Damn thing betrayed him every time. “It’s a stormy night, yeah? Perfect for
lightning
, Ransom. If you don’t want to do it dirty, we can do it soft and sweet.”

He groaned as she teased the head of his cock through his pants. “You don’t know the meaning of soft and sweet.”

“Yes I do. I mean, I’ve never had sex that way, but I bet it’s pretty nice.”

He let her take his cock out, then she was the one pushing him back, crawling over him.

“God, no,” he said, not because he was a prude and didn’t want a blowjob. He just didn’t know if he could survive a blowjob from her. One more thing to fantasize about, one more thing to miss when he had to leave her.

“Lola, don’t…” he began, but he lost the rest of the words as she opened her mouth over his bare cock. All he could produce was a long, guttural groan.

Shit, she was fucking amazing at this. Enthusiasm counted in blowjobs, and she had enthusiasm in spades. The responsible bodyguard wanted to lecture her about condoms, but he knew he was clean, and he didn’t want her lips and tongue to stop. She traced up the zig-zagging lightning bolt, then licked around the head with soft hums of pleasure. A moment later, she took him deep, right into her throat.

He groaned again, louder this time, and buried his fingers in her hair. He tried to be civilized, tried not to grab her face and jab even deeper into her throat the way he wanted to.
Lola, please. You’re killing me.
He forced his fingers to uncurl, and surrendered himself to the pleasures of this epic blowjob, given by a pink-haired vixen in this goddamn tour bus somewhere between Italy and Spain. When would he have another chance…?

Never. He knew he’d never have anything this fucked up and conflicted and gorgeous again. He’d never get work as a bodyguard again either, but he didn’t care, because she was nuzzling against his shaft, teasing him with magical strokes of her tongue.

“I know I’m horrible at this,” she said, pulling back a few minutes later.

“No. Not. God. Jesus.” It was all he could do to force out single words. “You’re amazing, babe, but you’d better stop if you want to get some too.” He pulled her up and shoved his tongue in her mouth, tasting her excitement and intensity as he peeled off her clothes. “Look at what you’re making me do now,” he said as they parted. “I said no more sex.”

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

He put a hand over her mouth. Damn her, making him feel old and horny at the same time. “No daddy bullshit, you little pervert.” He accompanied these stern words with a couple wild spanks on her ass. “I guess you need to be taught a lesson. Again.”

“Teach me,” she crooned against his fingers. “Or spank me. Either one.”

He turned her over and arranged her on all fours.
Fuck.
“Where are the condoms?”

She pointed toward a chest of drawers beside the bed. He ripped open the closest drawer and found what he needed. “No, don’t move,” he said when she turned toward him. He gave her a couple more spanks before he remembered the bus’s thin walls and Don in the opposite room. Instead, Ransom grasped her hips and thrust deep into her pussy. Her moan was almost as loud as the spanking.

“Yes, give me the lightning bolt, Ransom. Give it to me hard.”

“You want it hard?” he teased, stroking a hand up her back as he lazily withdrew. “I think I’d rather do it soft and sweet.”

She collapsed on her stomach in a fit of frustration. He yanked her back into position and spanked her again. “Ass up. All fours. I said not to move.”

His naughty little sex goddess was on fire, trembling with anticipation. He covered her with his body, held her and surged into her from behind, banging her so hard she emitted a little
umph
every time he drove inside.

“You like this, baby? You like getting drilled?”

“You’re so big,” she moaned. “You feel so big. You’re so deep inside me.”

She made him feel big and destructive, and tender, and excited, and emotional, far more emotional than he’d ever felt with anyone else. He was so hooked on her, so fucking addicted to her. When she looked at him over her shoulder, desire jolted through his body. His balls ached from pleasure, and his cock throbbed from her tightness and warmth. So hot, so wet, so soft. So sweet.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, he was fucked.

He reached beneath her to pinch her breasts, to arouse her even more so her hips would keep up their frenzied, delectable motion. “Yes, baby. That’s my girl. I know you like this. I know you need it.”

He lengthened his strokes and trailed his fingers down to her pussy. He knew how to make her come, how to pound her and possess her, and manipulate her clit until her whole body shuddered to completion. But first, he’d tease her, just to hear her moans and groans. Ransom didn’t care if Don heard them.

“You’re so bad,” he said, to egg her on. “You’re such a dirty, naughty girl.”

He made her come three times, so he could watch her toss her head back in ecstasy and feel her pussy clamp around his cock. She shared so much sexual energy, and that energy healed him in some way, because it allowed him to be wild and porn-y and not feel guilty about it. When they finally came together at the end, there was nothing in his orgasm but pleasure and bliss. He huddled against her, his nose pressed to her nape so he could breathe in her scent.

This has to be the last time.
He opened his mouth to say it, then shut it again. It was hours to Barcelona. They were going to fuck again, that was just basic math, even if it would lead to their ruin.

She smelled like heaven. He kissed along her hairline, and when she shivered and whispered his name, he forgot everything else.

Tidal Wave

B
y the time
they arrived in Barcelona, the festival grounds were an epic mud field. Thanks to the rain, the heavy trucks and buses that brought the equipment and performers had pummeled the grass to a slimy, squelching mess.

Lola told herself it didn’t matter. People would still show up and dance, because these festivals went on, rain or shine. The ground backstage was covered in straw to soak up the mud and moisture, but her shoes were ruined. So were Ransom’s, not that he complained. He had gone from being the primary irritant in her life to a cherished source of sanity. And, well, her only source of sex.

And Don knew it, judgey bastard. Since he’d overheard their noisy tour bus hookup, he knew they were fucking and he didn’t like it. He’d argued with Ransom in the hotel lobby, then barked at her on the way up in the elevator, “I won’t report your stud to his boss, but I hope you two are using protection.”

“Fucking awkward,” she’d snapped back. “Mind your fucking business.”

She couldn’t wait for the tour to be over, so she could say goodbye to the dour, grouchy manager, but then she’d have to say goodbye to Ransom too.

Ugh, she couldn’t think about that. She needed to get in the right headspace to do her set, and she refused to use drugs to get there, so she had to use her own powers of intention. Ransom had taught her about that in the past few weeks, about self-discipline and mind over matter. So much better than almost dying. He’d made her life better in so many ways.

Okay, headspace. Adrenaline. Positive visualization. She jumped in place, elevating her heart rate and bringing a flush to her skin. She thought through the intricacies of her set, what songs she’d play, the drops she’d create, the happiness she’d provide to the kids who were coming to this party to take a little break from life. Ransom hovered nearby, turning away gawkers and crew people who might disturb her. Finally, it was her time to head onstage.