Rock Revenge (Rock Revenge Trilogy 1)

When she dropped to her knees and took him in hand, he tried to speak. That was his job now, to make her feel good. But then her mouth closed over the swollen head of him and he stared at the ceiling, dragging in gulps of air as he sifted his fingers through her silky hair and hung on.

She knew just what to do. This was seduction and comfort both, and she was an expert. She drew on him while her hand squeezed and twisted and pulled everything out of him he couldn’t define in words. His bruised knuckles screamed as he fisted a handful of her hair and dragged her closer, needing to see that flutter of her lashes as her lips widened to take him. Knowing she could handle everything he gave and more.

Her deep, dark eyes stayed steady on his as he rocked forward on his feet, chasing that elusive high and the peace that came afterward. That moment where nothing hurt anymore and there was only bliss.

Only his Violin Girl.

He got there too fast. There was no holding it off, no warning her. But her quick head bob offered permission for him to let go. All of the need, pleasure, and pain flowed out of him and into her waiting mouth. The sound of her swallowing, taking every bit, made him bite off an oath and shut his eyes against the kaleidoscope of color taking over his vision.

Her name was a chant.

A prayer.

Even after, when the heat ebbed away and she drew back, she rose up on her knees to brush kisses over his abdomen. Over the marks his brother had brought to the surface but had lived inside him all along.

Permanent bruises that nothing could erase.

She stood and swayed against him and he caught her mouth with his, desperate to taste her mixed with him. To taste them. This was reality. His life. His heart.

Slipping his hand downward, he cupped her mound. She deserved the same as she’d given him. More. So much more. But she grabbed his hand and kissed his palm as she met his gaze with eyes starred with water.

God, he hoped it was only water.

If he’d made her cry—again, since she’d been crying when he arrived—he wouldn’t forgive himself. He already couldn’t.

“I love you,” he whispered, and she nodded, pressing her forehead to his as her soft hands rubbed the soreness away.

She was the only one who could.

Long after the water had run cold, they stood shivering beneath it, halfheartedly soaping, shampooing, and rinsing. Surrounded by the relentless pound of the water, cushioned in a wet haven where no one else could reach them.

There were no names here. No fame and no pressure. Nothing but the love he’d found and would never, ever let go.

He turned off the faucet and reached for the towel to dry her off. She did the same for him, and the muscles in his shoulders finally unknotted.

Until she reached for the first aid kit.

“I’m good.”

She gave him a narrowed-eyed look and got to work with the antibacterial cream and gauze on his knuckles and a few other choice places.

He was probably supposed to keep arguing, but she had the touch of an angel. And he was in a weakened state.

Also, she was still naked. So he couldn’t deny enjoying the view as she did her thing.

Once she was satisfied he was bandaged and taped sufficiently, they went into the other room and stretched out on the bed. Still naked. Still wrapped together.

Fucking heaven.

“He’s not finished with us,” he said after a while, brushing his mouth over her damp hair.

“It’s your choice what you want to do about it. About him.”

“Is it? Doesn’t feel that way.”

“No matter what he does to engage, you don’t have to.” She leaned up on her elbow and placed her hand on his chest, right above his heart. “You’re Simon Fucking Kagan. You make the rules.”

He smiled as a knock sounded on the connecting door between the suites.