His triumphant shout rang in my ears as he thrust once more into my still convulsing core. I felt the devastating pulse of his orgasm as he emptied himself inside me.
“Best Christmas
ever,” I whispered.
“Damn right,” Vonn agreed.
It was officially Christmas morning. The dark hours of it anyway. The power had come back on at some point, and we were tangled up together in my bed. Fingers trailing over new skin, lips exploring uncharted territory. We’d put a more than respectable dent into the box of condoms Addison had hilariously given me along with a lecture on safe sex when I’d started dating again.
Vonn’s body was warm and hard, full of unexpected pleasures.
His fingers brushed my tattoo, a musical note on the inside of my right hip.
I felt…wonderful. Lit up from the inside. Loose and warm and ridiculously happy.
He threaded his fingers through my hair, separating the strands and letting them fall. “Why didn’t you ask about him?” His voice was a rumble in his chest against my ear.
“Who?”
“Tommy.”
I shifted to look at him. Tommy Kwik had been the original front man for Sonic Arcade. A punk icon whose tragic death had rocked fans. Vonn and Tommy hadn’t just founded Sonic Arcade, they’d been best friends.
Vonn had driven Tommy to his last stint in rehab. He’d been best man in all three of the lead singer’s weddings. They’d written all of the band’s songs together.
And by all accounts, it had been Vonn to find his best friend’s body in a hotel room in Miami after Tommy had overdosed two years ago.
He’d never once discussed it publicly. Never once talked about what had happened that night. Which had led a rabid public to devour and manufacture a steady diet of rumors and half-truths. The desire to know exactly what had happened to the beloved singer still gripped the music industry.
I remembered the footage of a grieving Vonn leaving Tommy’s funeral. The flashes from cameras, the shouted questions. A disrespectful trespass into territory where none of them had belonged.
I hadn’t asked him. Not because I didn’t want to know. I, like the rest of the public, was driven mad by the unanswered questions. But I didn’t want him to tell me. I didn’t want to make the call whether to keep the secret or to share it with the world.
Hell, I’d already compromised my integrity by having four orgasms with the man. But this seemed even further over the line.
“It’s too personal,” I said.
“I’ve never talked about it.”
“To anyone?”
He rocked his head back and forth on the pillow. “No one.”
We were silent for long minutes. Betty snored indelicately from her dog bed in the corner. A mix of snow and sleet hissed against the windows. His fingers trailed up and down my arm like he was playing chords.
“Been keeping it inside long enough. Might be nice to know that someone else out there in the world is keeping it with me.”
“Vonn, it doesn’t have to be me.”
“You’ve got all my other secrets.”
“I’m writing a story. If this is something you don’t want out there in the world, you need to at least tell me it’s off the record.”
“He’d been clean for nineteen months. Longest stretch yet. Tommy was a partier. Always had been. He loved the stage, the spotlight. When he was offstage, he was constantly chasing that feeling. We all dabbled off and on in the early years. But the rest of us learned our lessons. We got over it. Tommy never did. He couldn’t stand being alone. If he had a day off from touring or interviews, he’d throw a party or show up at some hotspot and make news.”
As Vonn talked, his hands continued to stroke my flesh. As if touching me made the words come easier.
“He thought he was the life of the party. But for us, he was becoming a liability. He didn’t show for practices. He was late for shows. There were a few times when he could barely stand on stage. Every time we shipped him back to rehab. And every time he tried. He fucking tried. But he couldn’t stand being sober and alone.