Byrne pulled her down toward him and kissed her soundly. His tongue thrust matching the upward push of his cock. He pulled away as his animal growl and clenched teeth indicated his own intense release. Carly sat upright and watched the oblivious desire play out on his face while he bucked and writhed under her. Brogan Byrne was beautiful and magnificent in climax. His eyes stayed fixed on hers, and his forceful gaze seared her soul.
She cupped his cheek tenderly. "Brogan…"
"Have I told you how much I love the sound of my name on your luscious lips, darlin'? I have, I know, but say it again." His voice was raspy, husky, and sexy as hell. He was also out of breath.
"Brogan. Brogan," she whispered, stroking his smooth, freshly shaved cheek.
He smiled. "Off, love. Have to change the rubber."
"More?"
"Oh, aye, much, much more."
Carly lifted herself off Byrne. Wow, he was still hard. So the stamina part of the rumor was true. Byrne swung his legs around the side of the bed, stood, tore off the used condom, dropped it in the trash, and rolled on another. His head inclined toward the plush burgundy armchair. He sat down, and then crooked his finger, his smile teasing and sexy.
"Have a seat, love, right here. Facing me."
The chair was big enough she could easily fit her knees on either side of his slim, muscular hips. Carly moaned aloud at the feel of his cock filling and stretching her as she lowered onto his erection. His hands brushed the sweat-matted hair from her face. Byrne's fingers moved down and brushed past her swollen clit.
"So your hair is brown like mine. Never would have guessed."
"I'll dye mine back when you dye yours, rock star."
Byrne laughed. The sexy deepness of his voice caused her to gush once again. She seemed to be forever wet around this man. The smile left his face as he tenderly caressed her cheeks with the pads of his fingers. Some of them were callused from his guitar playing, and the rough feel caused sparks to roam through her body. His touch was electric, scorching, and blazing her skin in ways no other man's ever did.
"See me, feel me…"
Oh, God. It was a song from The Who. "See Me, Feel Me." He sang to her in such a poignant way tears clustered in the corner of her eyes. He repeated the opening lyric three times, each occasion with more feeling. He managed to sound even better than Roger Daltrey, at least to her. If it was in her power to heal him, she would. Carly got the distinct impression he needed healing. This was not hollow sex, and it scared her but also touched her in ways she didn't think she was capable of feeling. A couple of tears escaped her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.
"Oh, Brogan—" She kissed him with everything she had and with everything she was feeling.
Her unspoken response to his heartrending singing was, I
see you, I feel you, and I touch you. If only I could heal you.
Carly moved her hips. Byrne's hands moved up to cup her breasts. He flicked and pinched her erect nipples. She moved faster, and her tongue explored every inch of his hot, sexy mouth. He lifted his hips to go deeper. It was too much of everything, physically and emotionally. She was building up to a burst-a-vein-in-your-head orgasm. Byrne broke away from her swollen, burning lips and clamped his mouth on her breast. That did it. She screamed.
He was right, the arrogant rock bastard. She did scream his name to the skies and more than once. She squealed in the chair facing him, against the wall, and the icing on the damned cake, on her hands and knees while he pounded his cock into her pussy. She wanted fast and furious, and Byrne gave it to her, everything she wanted and needed from him. He held nothing back. Her groans, cries, and shrieks could shatter glass. Her voice was raw and ragged like it had been pulled across a cheese grater. Hours later when she fell asleep in his warm embrace, she was sure she had died and gone to sexual heaven.
* * * *
The tour was at an end. A week had passed since the concert in Montreal. Luckily, Brogan Byrne was allowed back into the States even though his drug arrest hung over his head like the sword of Damocles. As for his drug charge, he had to appear in Toronto court in November. He would get a record and a fine. He was lucky; it could have been worse. The latest issue of
Rock Reports
all but painted him as the Caligula of the rock world. Overstated to say the least. Truthfully speaking he was embarrassed and perhaps ashamed. Lying low was really the only option.
Nigel Winwood, the British expat who owned Cascade Records, encouraged him to take a long rest. So much for a West Coast tour. The record and promotions companies agreed this was not the time for publicity. Nigel put the brakes on the plans and postponed it until the next year. Nigel also hinted about music for a new album. Cascade wanted it sooner rather than later.
He had not seen Carly since the concert in Washington DC the night after the Montreal show. He stood in his little-used office at Cascade and gazed out the window. It was late summer. A streetcar clanged loudly as it passed by the window. The sounds of city traffic intermingled and created an urban symphony. Brogan heard music in everything, even water dripping from a tap.
Instead of heading home to Dublin maybe he would spend the winter at his private beach house in Ocean City on Maryland's Atlantic coast. Brogan was ready for a little down time. Maybe he would write some music. He had to stay nearby for his court appearance in Canada at any rate.
He had to admit, he felt better than he had in several months. Staying sober was a struggle, but it lessened with each day. Still, how would he handle the next drama in his life? Would he turn back to sex and stimulants? Carly was right. He had to steer his own destiny. However, perhaps a little help of the therapy kind was in order. Everyone seemed to be seeing a psychiatrist, why not him? Now he just had to say his good-byes to Carly. Brogan could hear her in the outer office talking to his assistant.
* * * *
Brogan Byrne never ceased to stun her afresh every time she laid eyes on him. It had been almost a week since they had seen each other, but somehow it seemed longer. They had to part. Carly had thought of nothing else since Montreal. Oh, God, the night in her suite… it never left her thoughts. In fact, what they shared had such an impact on her heart and soul she needed more time to think and consider her next move, if there was one. She pasted a non-committal smile on her face.
"What are your plans?"
"Spend some time with my brothers. Write some music. Stay sober. Not necessarily in that order," Byrne said.
They stared at each other, not knowing what else to say. She would be keeping in contact with Byrne by phone, but it wouldn't be the same. The last month they had been in each other's pocket. She was surprised to find she would miss his cute, tight Irish ass.
Byrne laughed and backed her up against the wall. "Remember this? Maybe you want to put a vise grip on my balls again." His voice was light, teasing.
Carly laughed in return, but his nearness affected her anew. Her fingers lightly touched his arm. "You were a pig that night."
Byrne's voice softened. "Aye, I know. I'm sorry, Carly. I'm sorry for a lot of things. I couldn't have got through this without you. Thank you." He moved closer. "For everything."
It seemed like good-bye, a permanent one. She didn't like it. Her hand trailed up his arm and caressed the ridges of his wool sweater. The muscles clenched underneath her touch. God, she wanted nothing more than to kiss him.
"Carly, what are you thinking about? Are you thinking about our first kiss on the beach, or are you thinking you want to kiss me right now?"
Arrogant rock star bastard. He was right.
"Kiss me. Kiss me now." His voice sounded husky, the invitation too good to pass up.
She gazed up into his eyes. There were swirls of intense passion mixed in with the greenish-brown colors. They were clear, alert, and also swimming with desire. The heat, the need, and the fucking want. He pulled her closer, and her hand went to his shoulder to steady herself, for her knees shook. Byrne cupped her ass through the leather skirt and brought her in tight against him. He was hard. Very hard. He rolled his hips so she got the message. She did.
"Kiss me—"
Slowly she rose up on her toes, and her lips moved closer.
They kissed. Deeply, thoroughly, and it was as earth-shaking as their previous kisses. Except this one had a hint of sadness mixed in as they were parting. Carly tasted every inch of his mouth, caressed with her tongue, wrapped it around his and pulled him deeper. She didn't want it to end. The kiss went on and on. Her lips were swollen and red from his aggressive kisses. Byrne would push, demand, then back off, and the kiss would be tender and gentle, then demanding in its desire again. Talk about a damned roller coaster. Finally, she pulled away. Her lips skimmed his chin. Byrne stepped back. It was over.
"Well. Not bad. Better than a vise-grip to the bollocks."
Byrne wanted to pretend the kiss meant nothing. A part of her throbbed with hurt, but she smiled nonetheless, though she imagined the smile did not go all the way to her eyes.
"It was all right, as kisses go."
"You take care, Carly."
"Yeah, you too, Byrne. Stay out of trouble."
She watched him stride away. Carly wanted to call him back and throw herself in his arms, but she wouldn't. Her pride wouldn't let her. The time wasn't right for them, and she knew it deep in her heart. Maybe it would never be right, and that was what hurt most of all.
Chapter Eight
November, 1974
Carly headed toward Ocean City. The drive was a little over three hours from her apartment in Baltimore, so she left at the crack of dawn. She sat behind the wheel of her brand new 1975 Mustang II, a bonus from Nigel for her work with Brogan Byrne. The car rode like a dream and seemed easy on gas, a plus during this energy crisis. It was a cool, late fall day and slightly overcast. She had the heater turned on low as she headed to the coast. The radio played top forty rock softly in the background.
She was nervous as hell. Carly had talked to Byrne exactly twice since their kiss good-bye in the Cascade offices in September. Both conversations were polite and professional. He'd called three days ago to inform her he was back from his court appearance in Toronto. She had offered to go with him, but he had politely refused.
Byrne wouldn't have a record, and she was relieved. He was on probation and had to pay a small fine. The judge also issued a stern warning. Byrne said he would tell her more when she arrived. She had packed a small overnight bag, wishful thinking perhaps as he had given no invitation for her to stay. There were lots of hotels along the highway, and she didn't fancy a three-hour drive home in the dark.
"(I've Been) Searching so Long" by Chicago played on the radio. The ballad was perfect background music for her thoughts. She had been searching for an answer. Just what were her feelings toward Byrne? Carly had thought of little else since they parted. Maybe it meant more to her than it did him. He was a man, after all, and a rock star. She'd never had these feelings before, the need to be with someone always and to protect them and to care.
Fate could be cruel. The next song was Byrne 'N' Flame's rock ballad "I'm on Fire." She had purposely avoided Byrne's music since they parted. His crystal clear voice soared and cut her heart clean in two. She wiped the tears from her eyes. Damn him for making her feel.
"The time is now, how I need you, love…"
A sob escaped her lips. She reached to snap the radio off, but she couldn't. His voice had her in a trance. How many women did he do this to? It certainly explained why he was famous, why women fell at his feet, and why she had walked away. She had to protect her heart. As soon as he called and asked her to come to his beach house, Carly found she couldn't say no. He had things to discuss. He wouldn't elaborate. Damn her curious nature, but she had to know.
She picked up the piece of paper she had scribbled directions to his house on. After a multitude of twists and turns she was on a private drive sitting before an imposing wrought iron gate. Carly turned off the motor, climbed out of the car and hit the buzzer on the intercom.
"Yes?"
Oh, there was no mistaking his sinful, melting chocolate voice. "It's Carly—Carly Montgomery." She cringed, like who else would it be unless Carly Simon came to call. Wouldn't be surprised.
"Come ahead."
The high-pitched buzzer nearly burst her eardrum, so she scrambled back into the car and started the motor as the gates rumbled open. She drove up the hill and gasped as the house came into view. The home wasn't overly large but was very impressive. The two-story building had a light gray brick exterior. Floor-to-ceiling windows surrounded most of the lower level. The structure had a sloping white roof, and overlooked the ocean. The grounds were immaculate. Obviously a landscaping crew tended to the property. She pulled in next to a dark green MGB and turned off her motor. Carly took a couple of deep breaths, and then slowly exhaled. Yeah, she was nervous. Maybe he'd called her here to dump her as his manager.
She shook her head, grabbed her purse, and climbed out of the car. The sounds of the ocean and the bracing salt air breeze slammed her senses as soon as she opened the car door. God, she loved the sea. She headed toward the double door entrance, her heels clicking on the marble walkway. Before she could even knock, one of the white wood doors swung open. Carly gasped aloud. She hardly recognized Byrne. The shoulder-length white and black hair was no more. He had it cut into a long shag that stopped at his collar. The hair was a glorious deep brunet, the color of freshly brewed coffee. He wore crisply pressed dark brown slacks with russet dress boots. A white shirt lay open halfway down his chest, while a beige wool cardigan sweater completed the neat, casual appearance. His signature Celtic cross dangled between his impressive pectorals. He had put on a few healthy pounds. Gone was the haunted, gaunt look he'd had on tour.