Primal Instinct (3 page)

And if she ever saw the brute—Colt—again, he'd punish him, too. And then Ronnie would take what was his.

Taylor's eyes flew open, and she was relieved to see that it was still dark out. She made a point of never staying over, and hadn't meant to fall asleep, but after the marathon sex she'd had with Colt, she hadn't been able to keep her eyes open.

He'd made her come six times. Six orgasms. No wonder she'd fallen asleep.

She blinked and lifted her head from the pillow, glancing at the clock on his side of the bed, glowing red in the dark. 3:58
A.M
. The soft, crimson light filtered over his face, highlighting his chiseled jaw and sculpted cheekbones. She settled back down to the pillow and inhaled deeply, her stomach swirling pleasantly. Colt's arm, flung limply over her waist, tightened, pulling her into him. She wanted to turn around, stick her nose in his neck and inhale. He smelled so good, and it wasn't because of his cologne, or soap or anything. It was his skin. The simple, warm, masculine smell of
him
.

Over the past few hours, she'd never felt more beautiful, more worshipped, more desirable in her life. But it was time to go. He'd provided one hell of a distraction, but it was time to slink back to reality. As gingerly as possible, she started to move his hand from her hip, but his fingers flexed into her, and she knew he was awake.

Shit.

She rolled to face him and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Thank you so much for an awesome night, but I should go.”

His eyes flew open and his arms came around her, pulling her against him. “No. Stay.” He rolled onto her and kissed her, his mouth hot and gentle against hers. Immediately, her legs were around his waist, and she was kissing him back. She couldn't help it. He made her feel so damn good.
He
felt so damn good.

He moved against her, his hard cock rubbing over her thigh, and she knew she should go, that she was treading a dangerous line with him. She already liked him far more than was safe, and she had enough problems on her plate without adding another broken heart to the pile. She was still dealing with the last one.

And she knew, without a doubt, that Colt was a man who could break her heart if she let him get close enough. She wasn't sure how she knew it, but she did. It was like a truth in a dream, an undisputed, unwavering fact. She just knew it, as surely as she knew her own name.

He slipped a hand down between them and gently circled his fingers over her clit. She moaned and he deepened his kiss. His mouth was incredible, no matter where on her body he used it.

Oh, hell. She was going to stay. At least until he fell asleep again. After all, this was her last chance to enjoy that beautiful, talented mouth. Because no matter what, she couldn't see him again after tonight. No way.

He sat up and pulled her with him, guiding her into his lap. Between hot, deep kisses he grabbed a condom from his bedside table—their fourth of the night—and rolled it on.

He cupped her face as he kissed her, the head of his cock nudging against her clit. “I want you to stay, Taylor.” His eyes met hers, and she felt the weight of his words; she squashed down the fear they stirred in her. She couldn't give him what he wanted, but she could give him this, right now. Without a word, she lifted her hips and eased herself down onto his cock. Colt's head fell back against the headboard as he let out a low, deep moan, almost a growl.

A hundred things to say flickered through her mind, but she couldn't say any of them. Wouldn't allow herself to say any of them. They were too open, too honest, and she'd already given him more than she should've tonight. More than she had to give, really.

So this had to be good-bye.

A dull ache took root right in the center of her chest, and as she rocked against him, his thick cock filling and stretching her, she brought her mouth to his shoulder, kissing a path across his collarbones and up his neck, wanting to memorize the taste of his skin. Wanting to imprint the scent of his skin on hers. Her core tightened, lust and need roaring through her like a fire.

“You are so goddamn beautiful, Taylor.” His deep voice rumbled over her, and he pushed her hair off her neck, twining the strands around his strong fingers. With a sighing groan, he pressed his mouth to her neck, his arms tightening around her. “So goddamn beautiful.” He repeated the words, his voice vibrating against her skin. Taylor bit her lip and continued to move her hips despite the thickness gathering in her throat and the mild stinging in her eyes. Everything was coiling her into tight little knots: his scent, the incredible feeling of his body inside hers, his big hands moving up and down her back, the sighs and groans coming from his mouth. She wanted to capture it all so she could keep it, like a memory in a snow globe.

His mouth blazed a trail across her breasts, and then he pushed away from the headboard, moving her onto her back and coming down on top of her. Even though she was nearly the same height as him, with his strong, muscled body surrounding her like this, she was keenly aware of how much bigger he was than her. And yet she didn't feel threatened by the strength and size difference. No, she felt protected. Safe, and cherished. More whole than she'd felt in months.

He picked up his rhythm, stroking hard and deep into her, and she started to unravel, pleasure snapping through her as she came again. “Colt! God, yes!” Propping his weight on one arm, he laced the fingers of his free hand with hers beside her head. Her heels dug into his ass as a tear slipped free, streaking down over her temple and into her hair. She blinked furiously, trying to prevent the rest from falling. “Colt.” She moaned out his name again, her voice cracking slightly. He buried himself to the hilt and came, his deep, growling groans making her want to crawl inside him. His forehead pressed to hers, he sighed out her name and then kissed her, his mouth hot and sweet against hers.

Another tear fell free.

She couldn't do this. Mind-blowing, out-of-this-world sex or not, coming home with him had been a mistake.

Colt stirred and reached for Taylor, wanting to feel her warm body against his. Slowly opening his eyes, he rolled from his back to his side. Early-morning sunshine streamed in through his bedroom window, and he blinked against the pinkish-orange light bathing his bed.

Taylor's side of the bed was empty, and he pushed up onto one elbow, listening for the patter of the shower, water running in the sink, footsteps elsewhere in the house. But the house was silent, the only sounds coming from outside. Birds chirping. The distant rush of traffic. Leaves rustling. A chill worked its way over his skin, and he glanced at the open window. Even though it was April, the temperature was still dipping into the fifties at night. He hadn't meant to leave it open. He sat all the way up and surveyed the clothes and condom wrappers littering the floor.

Taylor's clothes were gone. As was his Led Zeppelin T-shirt.

“Fuck.” He'd broken his own rule, had asked her to stay, and she'd still bailed. Bailed, and stolen his favorite T-shirt, too. He rubbed his hands over his face, anger and bitter disappointment curling through him as he tried to convince himself that her disappearing act was for the best. She'd cracked something open inside him last night, something that needed to stay firmly closed. He began to climb out of bed, but then froze when it hit him.

He hadn't had a nightmare last night. Granted, he'd only slept a few hours, but for once, his sleep had been deep and peaceful. He hadn't woken up, sweaty and shaking, guilt eating at him like a bad hangover.

He climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, making his way to the kitchen. He flicked on the coffeemaker and braced his hands on the counter, watching as the liquid began to drip into the coffeepot. Taking a deep breath, he hung his head.

He'd brought Taylor home so he could spend the night fucking a gorgeous woman and forget about his baggage. But sex, for once, had failed him as a coping mechanism. And he knew it wasn't because of the what, but the who. Yeah, they'd had (a lot of) sex, but last night had been about more than that.

He'd asked her to stay, and he hadn't had a nightmare, and that had to mean something. Now he just had to figure out what to do about it.

T
aylor flexed her fingers around the leather-wrapped steering wheel of her 1970 Corvette Stingray, the late-morning sunshine gleaming off of the pristine cherry-red paint as she drove south down North Fairfax. She squinted against the light despite the black-and-gold aviator-style sunglasses she'd shoved onto her face earlier. Her stomach dipped and swirled before knotting itself into a tiny little ball as she passed the turnoff for Sunset Boulevard, home of the Rainbow.

Colt.

Even the thought of his name sent a dizzying mix of lust, fear, and regret spiraling through her, which was ridiculous. It had been one night, and she didn't even know his last name. She'd never see him again.

That thought was supposed to be reassuring. Somehow, it wasn't.

All she'd wanted was a fun, hot distraction, but Colt had been more than that. It had become clear pretty quickly that he wasn't just a gorgeous bad boy. No. He'd been smart, and funny, and easy to be with. And then there was the sex. Holy hell, but he'd been incredible. Her traitorous brain immediately conjured up the sensation of Colt's tongue stroking into her mouth as his lips moved expertly against hers, the feeling of his hands on her body, the intense sensation of his cock inside her. Last night, her nerve endings had come to life, and it had felt as though every cell in her body had been yearning toward him, like plants following the sun.

God. One night and he'd turned her into a fucking Hallmark cheeseball.

No. It was for the best that she'd never see him again. They'd had a connection, yes, but she couldn't explore it. She couldn't afford to keep giving pieces of her heart away. Soon, she'd have nothing left for herself, and she already felt so empty.

She stopped at a red light and drummed her fingers against the steering wheel. Jeremy had called a few hours ago, insisting they meet for lunch. She knew she couldn't ignore him anymore, and he'd said it was important. Feeling guilty about the hell she'd put him through with her reckless behavior the past few months, she'd agreed. He'd always had her back, but she could sense that his patience was wearing thin, and she couldn't blame him. She knew she needed to rein it in, settle down, and actually write some damn music.

Trying to party away the pain wasn't the best tactic. It wasn't healthy, and it wasn't mature, and it certainly wasn't sustainable. But when she was chasing a high, whether it was from alcohol, or sex, or whatever, her heart didn't hurt. She'd forget, just for a little while, that she'd stupidly given it to someone who hadn't wanted it.

Finally, after this last shattering of her heart, she'd woken up. Finally, she got it. “Happily ever after” wasn't an attainable reality for messy, imperfect people like her, and she needed to stop chasing it. If she could just find the right chords, the right words, she could channel all of the hurt, the anger, the loneliness, the feeling of never being fucking
enough
into one hell of an album. It was as though she were trying to reach home, and she could see it, but she was stuck where she was, and didn't know how to get there.

She changed radio stations, landing on KROQ, and her stomach did a small somersault at the familiar chord progression of “Miss Your Misery,” one of her biggest hits, now jamming through the speakers. Even though she'd been in the music industry for ten years now, it was still a thrill to hear herself on the radio. She sang along, harmonizing with herself. Her voice reverberated in the small space of the car, and she was glad she hadn't put the top down. It felt good to belt one out, to hear herself really sing. She needed to get back into the studio, to pick up a guitar again and experiment. For the first time in weeks, months even, she found herself wanting to play.

As the song ended on a punchy C-minor chord, she pulled into the parking lot behind the restaurant, easing the nose of the Corvette forward into an empty space. The DJ's voice came on the air before the final chord had faded away.

“That was Taylor Ross, ‘Miss Your Misery,' on K-Rock. Man, I love that song.”

The cohost chimed in as Taylor put the car in Park and leaned back against the headrest. “Did you see that video of her on the plane? I mean, she's great, but that girl's a mess. And wasn't she supposed to have a new album last year?”

Taylor cut the ignition, silencing the radio, and the buzzing of her phone was extraloud in the now-silent car. The engine ticked, a slow, off-kilter rhythm as it began to cool down, and she fished her phone out of her purse. The text was from an unknown number.

Her vision narrowed for a second as a small wave of dizziness rocked her. She stared at the text, reading it several times, trying to believe what she was seeing. Trying to wrap her mind around the idea that somehow he'd found her. The thought sent her heart racing, and she forced herself to take a deep breath. She debated whether or not she should even reply, but in the end, her curiosity won out. Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed out her response.

Her father replied almost instantly:

She snorted, shaking her head and narrowing her eyes as her fingers flew across the screen, anger pushing out some of her fear. She'd let him bully her far too many times in the past, and while his text sent fear rippling through her, she also felt a surge of resentment. Resentment that he'd have the balls to contact her after everything he'd done, and resentment at the fact that even though she was angry, her hands were still shaking.

Without waiting for him to reply, she blocked the number and made a mental note to change her own ASAP. She didn't know how her father had tracked down her number, and the idea that he even could sent a slight chill crawling over her skin.

Given that the last time she'd seen him in person he'd broken her jaw, she wasn't giving him shit.

Swallowing against the tightness in her chest, she stepped out of the car, locking it behind her and making her way toward the restaurant, ignoring the handful of paparazzi on the sidewalk just outside the doors, just as she had last night at the Rainbow. They called her name, trying to get her to look their way. Whirs and clicks followed her as she kept her head down, not engaging with them. Instead, she took a deep breath, sucking warm, spring air into her lungs. In the past, she might've obliged them, giving them a smile and a wave, but things were different now. They weren't interested in her because of her music, but because of the money they could make off her mistakes, and she didn't want to add any more kindling to that fire.

Stepping inside the safety of the restaurant, she slipped her sunglasses from her face and tucked them into her purse just as Jeremy caught her eye and waved, his immaculately tailored suit clinging to his lean frame. In his midforties, he was handsome in a very elegant, debonair kind of way. Combined with his perfectly coiffed dark brown hair and designer wingtips, his look didn't exactly scream “rock and roll.” But what he lacked in sartorial edge, he made up for with his extensive music industry knowledge and impressive contact list. Jeremy Nichols was the guy who knew everybody, and Taylor was glad to have him in her corner. By the time she reached Jeremy's table, he was standing and holding out her chair for her.

“You look like shit.” His cultured British accent softened the blow of his words, but only slightly. “Did you just do a walk of shame or something?”

She slid into her chair and leveled a look at him, not in the mood for Jeremy's usual dry teasing. He took his own seat and smiled at her, unaware that his words had dug in a little deeper than he'd intended.

“Three things,” she said, holding up three fingers. “First, thanks a lot. You really know how to sweet-talk a girl. Second, none of your damn business. And third, why is it called the ‘walk of shame'?” She made air quotes around the words. “I mean, really. It should be called the ‘walk of victory'.” She sat back in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. She rubbed her thighs together under the table, remembering just how
victorious
she'd been with Colt last night.

“Well. All right then.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him, his long fingers interlocking as his left eyebrow crept up in an unspoken question.

She pressed a hand to her temple and closed her eyes, exhaling slowly through her nose as guilt ate at her. “Sorry. I'm just…” She shook her head and cleared her throat, knowing she needed to get it together. She'd tried to use sex to forget about everything last night, and it had failed. Spectacularly. Because now, she somehow felt worse. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Ah.” He took a sip of his water and refolded his hands in front of him. “I've recently had a meeting with Ernie Glick.”

“Ernie Glick as in the CEO of Pacific Records?” Her heart sunk into her stomach, joining the swirling contents there. She didn't know what was coming, but based on the tense line of Jeremy's shoulders, she wouldn't like it.

He nodded and took another sip of water. “The label is worried about…well, about you.”

“You get booted off one plane.” She pushed her menu away, no longer hungry.

“It's not just the incident on the plane. It's…they're worried about you actually making this album and fulfilling the contract you signed.” He shrugged. “You're a bit of a loose cannon right now, and if you don't give them some new songs within the next week, they're threatening to drop you.”

She shook her head, her hair swishing around her face. “I know I've been a bit crazy lately, but come on, Jer. You know I've been trying. And this whole ‘ticking clock, we're running out of time' thing isn't really helping my creative mojo.”

“I know you've been trying. But they're not willing to take any more chances on you.”

Her mouth went dry, and she took a sip of her water, trying to brace herself for the shit that was surely about to hit the fan. “So what, then?”

“They're concerned about…” He paused, clearly searching for the right word. “Well, a lot of things, really. So they're going to hire a bodyguard for you, to make sure there are no further incidents like the one on the plane. They want you focused on writing your album.”

She shook her head again and dug her fingernails into her palm, anger radiating through her. “Let me get this straight,” she said, dropping her voice and trying unsuccessfully to unclench her jaw. “Because I've been less than perfect lately, the label's going to hire a bodyguard to babysit me? To somehow save me from myself?” She sucked in a deep breath, her face hot, her fists clenched in her lap. She looked down for a second, trying to focus on her white knuckles so that she didn't start flipping tables. “Do you have any fucking idea how insulting that is? ‘Oh, let's save the poor, helpless, dumb woman from herself. If only she had a big strong man around keeping her in line, all of her problems would just go away.' Fuck that. Would they do this to me if I were a guy?” She stared at Jeremy, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

He simply looked at her, unable to disagree with anything she'd said, which somehow only made her angrier. She snorted out a breath.

“Go back to Glick and tell him it's not necessary. I promise to behave. Scout's honor.” She held up three fingers. “I don't need a bodyguard to write my album. That's fucking ridiculous.”

Jeremy gave her a look laced with something that almost looked like pity. “It's too late. You've run out of chances to behave. They want someone in place as soon as possible. Whoever they hire will be keeping an eye on you 24/7.”

Her eyes went wide as a fresh wave of anger flashed through her. Anger tinged with helplessness and humiliation. “Twenty-four/seven? What am I? A fucking prisoner?”

He pursed his lips. “The alternative was that they drop you today. Luckily, they want that album enough to give you one more shot, Taylor.”

A helpless sense of defeat weighed her limbs down, and from the serious line of Jeremy's mouth, the set of his shoulders, she knew there was no way out of this. Not if she didn't want to lose her record deal and what was left of her music career in the process. She sighed, leaning forward on her elbows and dropping her head into her hands.

“You get that this is meant to help you, right? We're all concerned about you, and we only want you to succeed.”

“Because it's not like you make money off of me or anything.”

“Taylor.”

She glanced up and her stomach lurched at the genuine worry etched into Jeremy's features. Softening with guilt, she nodded. “Whatever. I mean, even if I hate this, I'm pretty much stuck, right?”

He twisted his mouth to the side and shrugged, tilting his head. “Pretty much. But maybe this is a good thing. We all need a kick in the pants every once in a while. It's good for us.”

“Right.” She sighed again, her shoulders heaving, her leather jacket suddenly feeling way too heavy. “So when does my freedom end?”

“You needn't be so dramatic. Really, you'll barely know he's there. Because you'll be so busy writing and recording songs.” He arched an eyebrow, giving her a pointed look.

“Of course.” She managed to shoot him a smile, hating that she now had to pretend to be grateful for this when all she really wanted was to smash things. “Thanks for talking them into not dropping me.”

“I work hard for my fifteen percent.”

She pushed up from the table, and he frowned. “Aren't you going to eat?”

“Nah. I'm not hungry. Thanks again, Jer.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and made for the door. As she pushed outside, the sunlight felt too bright and she squinted, shoving her sunglasses onto her face. Scowling at the photographers' cameras, she stalked back to her car, ignoring the baiting comments they hurled at her, trying to get a reaction. But she'd given them enough over the past few months, and she wasn't going to feed the vultures anymore.