Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

“I drive a Passat,” Davis says.

“I know. I’ve always said you’re the cutest pussy I know.”

“Fuck you,” Davis says, but he’s laughing as they exit the bus.

Ian stops by his bunk to pull out a packet of cigarettes and his phone. “Ed and I are taking a smoke break.”

“Um, okay. I think I’m going to go lie down. I didn’t get too sleep much on the plane.”

“Uh huh,” he says.

I can’t quite make out the weird tone in his voice and he’s down the stairs before I can ask. Shrugging, I decide to go to the back room.

Back at the rest stop, Adam converted it from the U-shaped seating arrangement into the bed when I mentioned that I’d only gotten about two hours of sleep on the two plane rides to catch up with the guys in Baton Rouge. There was so much turbulence on the flight from Central City to Charlotte that I ended up spending most of my time hunched over, praying for the flight to end. The second leg, from Charlotte to Baton Rouge, wasn’t so bad, but it was such a quick flight we barely had time for beverage service.

The bus is quiet without the engine running and with the guys all gone, it’s strangely silent. I know Adam’s busy trying to fix the bus. They need to be in Houston in a few hours, but I can’t prevent myself from imagining him appearing in the doorway, stripping his clothes off, and ravishing me.

I haven’t seen Adam in nearly two months—and since the new tour started, that’s the longest we’ve been apart. Unfortunately, due to the delayed flights, I wasn’t able to meet the band until right before they had to take off for Houston, which meant that Adam and I had to settle unsatisfactory dry-humping.

Once we reach Houston, we’ll check into a hotel and while everyone else naps before the show, I’m going to assault my boyfriend. Which is why I need to rest up now.

I pull off my hoodie and yoga pants, folding both on the edge of the mattress, and crawl under the lightweight down comforter. Closing my eyes, I try to will my hyperactive body into a more restful state.

After Rudd healed up, the band spent six weeks closeted in a studio. Adam and Davis wrote what seemed like a hundred songs before settling on fourteen. Some of the best songs were ones they wrote on the back of napkins or, in one instance, in Sharpie on a beach towel.

Two of the songs were sold to tech companies for commercials that aired a month before the album’s release. The singles hit the Billboard top twenty and that was that. FMK was a success.

I went on the East Coast leg of their tour, but had to return home to help take care of Dad, who supposedly broke his leg taking salsa lessons with Mom. I suspect, based on the grins they keep exchanging, that it happened while they were horizontal. Dad blames it on a slippery floor. Mom can’t stop giggling when he brings it up. Mortified, I’ve stopped asking questions.

I sigh and roll over, pulling the blanket up over my head. It will be easier when we get to Europe. It’s all private jets and hotel rooms. No buses.

A solid thunk has me sitting up.

Adam walks in and presses the button to close the door. I watch with wide eyes as he toes off his boots and pulls off his T-shirt. His gorgeous tattoos, a veritable garden of delight, shift and contract as he moves around.

He nods toward my pile of tidily folded clothes. “You got anything else on?”

I pluck at my T-shirt. “This?”

“Take it off,” he orders. His hands busily undo his jeans.

I tuck one arm through a sleeve and then the other, but can’t bring myself to pull it over my head lest I miss even a second of this delicious striptease Adam is performing.

“Get busy, babe. We’ve only got”—he glances behind him—“twenty minutes at the most.”

He shoves his jeans down and his thick, heavy erection falls out. I lick my lips with greedy anticipation. I cup his shaft, holding the back of it so that I can run my tongue along the entire length, from tip to base and back again. The first taste of him inside my mouth is delicious. I can’t keep the moan from escaping.

I close my lips around the broad head and then take him in as far as I can. He stares at me with lust-drunk eyes. His right hand reaches around to pull my hair away from my face while he strokes my cheek with the fingers of his left.

The rough callouses abrade my delicate skin, but his touch is so tender, so loving. I love him in return, fluttering my tongue against he thrusts lightly inside my mouth. His cock is a beautiful weight in my mouth. His flavor rich and deep. I don’t want to let go.

I whimper my disapproval when he pulls away.

“Baby, it’s my turn. You have to let me taste you.”

How can I refuse that. His broad shoulders muscle between my thighs and then it’s his tongue licking me from one end to the other. It’s my hands gripping his hair tight as he delivers stinging bites followed by sweet caresses.

My heart races and the air in my lungs empties out. He leaves me gasping, full of longing and want and need.