Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Needing to get my fingers into her pussy, I flatten her to her belly and snake my hand under her hips. My hips pump as I ride her ass and sink three fingers into her wet heat.
She moans, wantonly.
The room spins. I want it to go on forever, but I know I have to keep it brief; she’s already breathing hard, starting to babble my name.
I grind the heel of my hand on her clit as I penetrate her pussy. Everything feels so right. So perfect.
My climax simmers, pressuring the base of my spine. I grit my teeth and curse in Italian, trying not to pound into her ass the way I want to. The mattress bounces with my thrusts. “Mio Dio, Pepper. So good.” I come.
She writhes over my hand and comes, too, her anus tightening with her cunt, strangling my cock.
I fist her hair to lift her head and drag my open mouth over her cheek to mate with her lips.
Her tongue twines with mine and another shot of pleasure pushes through me. Dimly, I realize I’m crushing her under my weight and my cock’s still in her ass, and I force myself to pull back. I ease out, biting the butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, kissing the beautiful slope of her lower back, her perfect ass cheek. The back of her thigh.
“Beautiful, beautiful girl. How is it you’ve been so lonely? You should have hordes of randy young men following you from city to city.”
She twists to look over her shoulder—a picture I plan to remember forever—and smiles.
I walk backwards to the bathroom, not wanting to miss a moment of her, wanting to drink in the sight and memorize every perfect line of her body, of this moment.
I come back with a washcloth and clean her up. She’s writing with the Bellissimo notepad and pen on the bedside table. How did you know I was lonely?
I brush her fluff of platinum hair out of her face and trace the curve of her cheek. “I saw it in your eyes, that day you arrived. It made my heart stumble.” I put into words what I hadn’t understood then. That my lonely heart knew its mate. Recognized its twin. From the moment I saw her.
Pepper
The Sores are playing at the Paramount where the venue is about the same size as the Bellissimo, and the house is packed. Tony walks past the long line of concert-goers, queuing up and goes straight to the front. He leans forward and speaks in the usher’s ear, jerking his thumb at me.
The usher looks over, then snaps to attention. “Right this way, Ms. Heart. I’ll show you to your seat.” We don’t have seats—at least, we didn’t, so that means they’re finding me one. Score one for being famous.
My body is languid and warm from the sex, my knees a bit wobbly. I know I’ll have to unpack the rape—because I know that’s what must’ve happened—but I’m not going to do it tonight.
Tonight is too magical. Too perfect.
I keep trying to tell myself it’s not because of Tony. It’s because of me. Yes, he’s giving me something. He’s making me feel again, waking my muse up, bringing me back to life.
That doesn’t mean I’m losing my heart to him.
Because I can’t. We’re from two completely different worlds. I can’t even think about the world he comes from. I don’t want to know the things he’s done.
And when my debt to the Tacones is paid off, I’m leaving Vegas and never coming back. Still, I’m not going to stop myself from enjoying this night. This invigorating experience of living again.
The usher leads us right to the front row, where there are three empty seats on the side. “How will this do, Ms. Heart?”
I nod and smile.
“Right—you can’t talk, can you?”
I shake my head. Tony hands the guy a fifty dollar bill and we sit down in the packed theater. I’m giddy with excitement—like I used to get for my own shows. It’s been forever since I’ve been to anyone else’s concert.
It used to be my life. My dad’s a musician. He supported the family teaching guitar lessons out of our house and playing gigs four nights a week. If he wasn’t playing, he was watching, and he always took me and my mom. From as young as I can remember I was sitting in bars or theaters or stadiums, listening to music and my dad’s commentary on it.
I’ve never been to a Sores concert, though. This will be a treat.
The opening band is rough, but shows promise. A couple good songs, a bunch of shit filler. Even the bad stuff sparks my muse though. I’m changing their chords in my head, rearranging, adding layers. I know exactly how I’d fix. How I’d finish. The lyrics I’d write to go with it.