Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Fuck. That's almost enough to send me over the edge. Almost, but not quite.
I need a different pressure. A different posture.
I bring my hands to his shoulders and push him away. My body whines from the loss of him. The feeling of his skin against mine, his cock in my sex, his breath on my neck.
It's torture, flipping onto my stomach, waiting for him to lower his body onto mine.
He gets into position, and he teases me with a brush of his cock.
Again.
Again.
Until I'm dizzy.
Finally, he slides inside me with a steady thrust.
I arch my back to take him deeper. To make room for my hand.
I stroke myself as he drives into me again and again.
The two of us work together, in perfect harmony, driving each other to the edge, bringing bliss closer and closer.
A few brushes of my thumb and I'm at the edge. All that tension winds tight, so tight I can't take it, then it unravels. It rolls through me in waves of pleasure.
My sex pulses. My toes curl.
Pleasure overwhelms me. It takes over my body. I move faster, taking him deeper, taking more of him.
That pulls him over the edge. Then he's groaning, pulsing inside me as he comes.
It's music.
No, it's better than music. It's raw and real and completely in the moment.
All of him and all of me.
We spend the next forty-eight hours in a haze of bliss. We work on the new songs, we talk, we have sex, repeat, repeat, repeat. In his bedroom. In the den. Outside, by the pool. On the beach.
Okay, we don't have sex at the beach, we just kiss until we're too achy to take it anymore. Then we run back to the house and have sex against the wall in the foyer.
For two days, we really are in the perfect work, friend, sexual relationship.
Then we pack for the weekend of torture, slide into the car, drive to Bryce's house, and prepare for war.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Cassie
When we arrive, Bryce, Frederick, and Tinsel are already in the backyard, on the deck, sipping Aperol spritzes as they pick at charcuterie plates.
Bryce proclaims the greatness of the Italian concept of aperitivo—the time before dinner to snack and drink, all to stimulate your appetite—as he leads us to a guest room.
It's a nice size, twice as big as my bedroom at home, and it's decorated with a Y2K theme. A tie-dyed pink and orange comforter and matching sheets sit atop the California King bed, which sits on top of a minimal metal frame. Neon lights in kitschy shapes and framed posters of late nineties and early two-thousands artists adorn the walls.
Plus, the framed vinyls and a shelf full of awards.
The room screams look at how well I did twenty years ago.
Bryce explains the lay of the land. Our room is next to Frederick and Tinsel's. The walls are thin, so we should all agree to quiet hours—he suggests two a.m. to noon—or at least to playing good music if we're going to get busy.
His room is at the end of the hall, and it's strictly recent hits of the producer's. All the rooms are decorated like this, so guests can see the guy's glory on the walls.
It's surprising. He seemed more down to Earth.
But I really shouldn't be surprised by this kind of thing anymore. The male ego is the most dangerous force in the world.
Bryce nods a goodbye for now. "I'm going to freshen up before dinner. Lisa is going to be late, but she'll be here for drinks. She's looking forward to another solo with you, Cassie." He winks. "Enjoy the alone time, kids." He steps into the hall and closes the door before either of us can respond.
"He's flirting with you." Damon sets his overnight bag on the sleek silver sheets.
"He flirts with everyone," I say.
"Not me," he says.
"He flirts with Tinsel." I think. It's hard to tell with someone like Bryce. He's like so many celebrities. Mercurial about everything except everyone knowing how mercurial he is. "Are you jealous?"
"If I am?"
My cheeks flush. I shouldn't like it, but I do.
Damon notices and smiles. "You have a jealousy kink."
"Since when is that a kink?"
"A cuckolding kink?" he suggests.
"Don't even." That's beyond ridiculous. A laugh spills from my lips. "Don't distract me. I have to unpack."
He unzips his duffel. I unzip my small suitcase. For a few minutes, we settle into the room.
Damon takes the top drawer of the big silver dresser and offers me the bottom two. We arrange our toiletries on top of the dresser—we're all sharing the bathroom in the hall, tragically—and I take ten minutes to freshen up in said shared bathroom.
Apparently, when Bryce said every room was decorated with an era, he meant every single room. The small bathroom is all eighties new wave, with electric blue frames, bright pink towels, and photos of happening concert venues.