Flirting with Sin Page 3

“Minas Tirith? As in Gondor, Minas Tirith?” What did The Lord of the Rings have to do with anything?

  She tipped her head back on her shoulders and released a short bark of laughter. “Oh, hell, for real?”

  “Are you okay?” He seriously doubted it. From the incessant babbling and the way she ground her fingers into her eyes, he wasn’t the only one who could use a drink.

  “Uh, no.” She snorted, tilting her head forward. A wry, self-deprecating smile twisted her pretty lips. “I was blackmailed into this whole thing by Hell, only to discover for the short foreseeable future I will be living across the room from a rock god who has been plastered across every magazine, tabloid, television, internet engine and social media outlet in the free world…including my computer wallpaper. Fuck.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, her face screwed up in a disgusted moue as if the implications of what she’d just confessed hit her. Once more, the word “charming” popped into his mind. Two times in a matter of minutes. But between her appalled pout and the verbal diarrhea, she struck him as a bracing breath of fresh air. As fresh as the mountain wind outside these walls.

  Yeah, women had told him how much they loved his music before, but usually they were rubbing their pussy over his dick or trying to sneak a picture of him on their camera phone at the same time.

  But she stood several feet away, still wrapped in her coat like the Abominable Snowwoman, jeans covering her sex and her cell nowhere in sight.

  And still unfuckable and untouchable.

  Hell, if not for Ari’s desperation, Jack would be here in this suite, being delighted, staring at her mouth and hair, wondering how pretty those lips would look parting for his cock. Wondering if her pussy tasted like the French vanilla hot chocolate of her skin. Wondering if she made the same soft gasp from earlier when a man first pushed deep inside her flesh, penetrating her, stretching her…

  Lust clenched his gut in a vicious grip and anger eddied in his chest as images of her and Jack tangled and writhing on the wide, four poster bed in Ari’s bedroom bombarded his brain. The volatile emotional cocktail had him fisting his fingers beside his thighs.

  Goddamn. He tunneled his fingers through his hair again, scratching his fingernails over his scalp. The tiny bite of pain helped center him, reset his focus.

  “Listen, I had a long trip, too, and I’m tired.” Lie. He’d flown from California to England before and had been ready to jump on stage, hyped. “And in about…” he glanced down at his silver, thick Rolex, “one hour I plan to be well on my way to drunk off my ass. And stay that way for at least two days.” Long enough to get through this terrible anniversary.

  “Okay.” She paused. Retreated a hesitant step. “Do you plan on trashing the room?”

  He snorted. Cocked an eyebrow. “I hate to ruin the image of me you have on your laptop wallpaper, but I’m not a raging or even fun drunk. Just a pathetic one.”

  Not waiting for her reply, he turned and headed toward his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Minutes later, he’d dug the several bottles of Vodka he’d brought with him for just this occasion from his suitcase and settled on the bed, back propped against the headboard.

  He didn’t bother with a glass, but drank straight from the source. The burn, the numbing—he welcomed them both. And, after more gulps, he embraced the floating, too.

  Soon, he wouldn’t feel anything. Wouldn’t think. Wouldn’t be able to do anything but sink into an alcohol-drenched abyss.

  And that moment couldn’t get here fast enough.

  Ari weaved and shuffled into the living room area in a one-man waltz. He snickered at the idea. Yeah, he could bump and grind with the best of ʼem, but dancing? So not his forte. Funny, he could only accomplish the two-step and slide while shitfaced.

  Why had he come out here again? He paused in the middle of the room. Hell, I don’t remember. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he aimed his feet in the direction of the couch but, somehow, ended parking his ass on the floor in front of the windows.

  Before him, the moon brushed the mountains, trees and lake with a pearl coat of paint. Stark. Breathtaking. Lonely.

  Quiet. So damn quiet.

  Usually, Vodka silenced the memories, the pain, the guilt. Usually. But not tonight.

  Tonight the memories rattled and clanked in his head like ghosts in an attic, refusing to be exorcised. Or at least hushed for another year. The images—of Caro, of him and Caro together, of her car crushed like a tin can—flashed in his brain. Flashed. Flashed. Flashed. So blinding, he held the back of his hand to his eyes as if he could block their glaring light.

  Groaning, he clutched his head and sprawled on the floor, laid out by the weight of the past. Of the burden of grief. Of the shame.

  From the moment he’d glimpsed Caro Roberts in the hallway of their California high school their junior year, he’d fallen in love. Plummeted. Like a fucking boulder. She’d been an angel in jeans and a tank top with her platinum blonde hair and green eyes. All she’d been missing were wings. She’d been the opposite of him, of his world. While he’d grown up in a mansion with material wealth but an absentee father and an emotionally and physically frail mother, Caro had been raised in a Leave it to Beaver sitcom, complete with two very involved, loving parents from a firmly middle-class background. A kind, laughing and caring virgin who didn’t smoke or drink had no business with a brooding, angry seventeen year-old who’d had his first cigarette and shot of whiskey at thirteen, and first fuck a year later.

  Yet, she’d loved him back.

  His mother had just died, and Caro had been his savior, bringing light into a world gone dark with loss and anger. They’d been inseparable. Even when his father returned on a more regular basis once he’d discovered the band his until-then-neglected sons fronted was actually good and could resuscitate his dying career. Even when local fame grew to regional, then national, and finally international fame. Even when touring and appearances and studio time meant more separation.

  Caro had stuck beside him. And he’d repaid her love by being shitfaced in a club when she’d gasped her last breath.

  The two times he’d been most helpless, most powerless in his life had been with the two women he’d adored above all others; his mother and Caro.

  He’d been unable to give either woman what they’d longed for most. Laleh—his father, home being a loving partner. Caro—himself.

  Failure. He’d failed them. Hadn’t been enough for them.

  “Ari.”

  The low, melodic murmur breached the sticky, smothering web of the past. He forced his eyes open. Bleary with alcohol and grief, he stared at the dark figure shrouded in white. He blinked, but the figment remained, so close he could reach out and touch…hold. Wisps of memories still clung to him, but he grabbed for the point of light in the abyss. Clung to it.

  Warmth. Such warmth. He crawled closer to the source, wrapped his arms around it. No, not “it.” Her. The softness of a woman’s breasts and belly. The dip of a woman’s waist and curve of her hips. The scent—God, the scent. He burrowed closer, inhaling deeply. Clean. Sweet as cold, fresh water. Gentle fingers swept a tender, comforting caress over his forehead and stroked his hair.

  Caro. The name whispered across the inside of his head, but he rejected the thought before it could take root in his brain. This woman wasn’t her. As much as he would like to indulge in the fantasy, he knew better. For the first two years after Caro’s death, he’d begged for her to come back. In his dreams. In his fantasies. Just so he could talk to her, hear her voice one more time. If she hadn’t come then, why would she be here now? Besides, Caro hadn’t called him Ari like everyone else. She’d insisted on using his full name, Aristotle. No, the figure whose belly he pressed his cheek against was another…ghost? Angel? Figment of his imagination? He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Just as long as she stayed.

  Even if for only a little while.

  “Stay,” he murmured, tightening his
arms around her.

  Her reply was another brush of fingers over his hair, and he accepted the caress as a yes.

  He shut his eyes. Sighed.

  And let go.

  Four

  Wednesday…

  Neveah cast a furtive glance at the closed bedroom door before returning her attention to the bacon sizzling in the skillet. With deft, experienced movements, she removed the meat to a warming plate and poured three eggs into the pan.

  Her gaze slid back to the closed door across the suite.

  Ari had said two days. Should I go check on him? She frowned. He was probably okay. But it was Wednesday. What if he’d pulled a Jim Morrison in there, and she didn’t know? That would be tragic…and awkward.

  She poked the edges of the omelet with the spatula, scowling as if the eggs taunted her. What if he needed help? What if he was drowning in his own vomit right now? What if…?

  What if he remembered Monday night and realized it was she who’d held him until he’d fallen asleep wrapped around her?

  A-a-and there it was. Her true worry.

  Would he resent her for intruding on one of his most personal, vulnerable moments?

  When she’d left her room Monday night, it had been to escape the restless sleeplessness of an unfamiliar bed and seek out the tea bags she’d spotted in the kitchen earlier in the evening. As soon as she’d opened her door, she’d noticed Ari stretched out on the floor, hands gripping his head as if he were in the throes of agony. Fear had spiked through her, crushing any hesitation about approaching him.

  She’d called his name and he hadn’t responded. So she’d knelt next to his prone, big body and repeated his name. The second time, he must’ve either sensed or heard her, because he’d lowered his arms and turned his head toward her. Bleary, red-rimmed eyes had blinked up at her. But it hadn’t been the sign of his obvious alcohol consumption responsible for driving the air from her lungs. That sole honor belonged to the pain shadowing his green-and-gold eyes to a dark morass of emotion.

  Even as her brain had blared a warning to maintain her distance, to not become too involved or attached, she’d reached for him. Brushed his shoulder and gasped at the heat radiating from his skin even through his T-shirt. She hadn’t been prepared for the warmth he generated or the tingle zipping up her arm and striking out for all points north and south. So wrong to have sizzling body parts when a man sat next to her in such obvious torment. Then that man had suddenly been wrapped around her like a blanket, his face buried against her stomach, his chest pressed to her thighs.

  Not touching him would’ve been as impossible as not breathing. Just a few moments. Then she would return to her room. But, for that moment, she’d stroked his hair, the softness of the thick strands in direct contrast to the striking angles of his face and the hardness of his body. She’d permitted herself to caress his forehead, jaw, the strong line of his back. When he’d sagged against her and whispered, “Stay,” the last of her resolve had crumbled like dust. And so she’d stayed.

  It would’ve taken a three year vacation on the moon in order for her to not have known about the tragic death of Ari’s long-time girlfriend. He hadn’t been the same since then. The music hadn’t been the same either. The smiling, charismatic front man of Sin had morphed into a brooding, eclipsed star, and the charged, powerful, soul-wrenching songs had become pale imitations. The music in the last three years—though good—had been missing the heart, intensity and passion of their previous albums.

  They’d been missing Ari.

  The loss of his woman had wounded him. And the evidence of the depths of his pain had never been as clear as it had Monday night.

  And he hadn’t invited her to witness it.

  The faintly sulfurous stench of burning eggs stung her nostrils.

  “Damn.” She slipped the spatula under the omelet and quickly flipped it. The edges were crisp, but she’d saved it.

  “Morning.”

  “Shit!” She jumped and the kitchen utensil flew through the air, slapping the cabinet before clattering to the floor. Twisting the knob on the stove, she shut off the fire and retrieved the spatula. “Mor—”

  The greeting dried up on her tongue, as did all the moisture in her mouth. Holy Mary, Mother of God.

  Sex. Scorching, dirty, raw, sinful sex.

  The kind that had a woman rushing to altar call and praying for forgiveness for what she’d done, and would do again as soon as she’d left the church doors.

  The kind that made her realize she hadn’t known what true pleasure was until he’d introduced her to it.

  The kind that had her sweating and aching like a drug addict craving the next euphoric hit.

  A bare-chested Ari Sincero was living, breathing, walking sex.

  Lust blazed inside her like a blow torch. A moment ago, the sweater and jeans she wore were comfortable. Now the clothes seemed to strangle her, as if too tight and small. Sweat beaded under her arms and prickled her palms. Hunger twisted and clenched in her belly before unfurling and spreading to her breasts and lower to the pulsing flesh between her thighs. She squeezed her legs together, but the ache only worsened, flared brighter, deepened.

  Turning away, she set the spatula on the counter and reached for a couple of plates, but averting her eyes didn’t solve the problem. Not in the least. The image of him was permanently branded on her brain.

  So much skin. Taut golden skin with a vivid, gorgeous mural painted over his arms and bleeding onto his chest and ridged abdomen. The head of a stunning, red, black and blue dragon rested on the top of his shoulder, its neck, body and wings stretching over Ari’s pecs and stomach. Black, glistening talons curved around his navel, while the thick tail disappeared under the worn jeans hanging low—dangerously low—on his hips. Hips with the delicious, mouth-watering vee only truly ripped men boasted. And, Christ on the Cross, this man was truly ripped.

  And sexy. And beautiful.

  With silver barbells piercing his flat, dark-brown nipples, the hoop in his lip and corner of his right eyebrow and earrings in both ears, he seemed like this wild, carnal creature. And the green-gold cat eyes—even slightly bloodshot—only enhanced the impression.

  The man was lethal to her senses…to her resolve.

  “Problem?”

  Forcing a smile, she glanced at him, keeping her attention focused squarely on his face. Any lower—especially to the nipple piercings—and she might dissolve into a slobbering hot mess incapable of holding a conversation.

  “Nope. Would you like some breakfast?” She set the plates on the counter.

  He shoved a hand through his unruly dark-brown curls before rubbing a palm over the stubble covering his jaw and chin. With a sigh, he settled on one of the stools lining the kitchen bar. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  She nodded. Seconds later, she slid a plate heaped with bacon, potatoes and more than half the omelet toward him, along with a fork. He murmured his appreciation and immediately dove in as if he hadn’t eaten in years. Setting her own plate on the breakfast bar, she stood across from him, her fork clutched in her hand.

  “Um…” She hedged. He lifted his gaze from his breakfast to meet hers and she flicked a couple of fingers in his direction. “You don’t want to put a shirt on or something? I’d hate for you to, uh, burn yourself if food fell on you.” She shrugged. “Or, you know, it’s kind of chilly in here.”

  Her cheeks flamed at the flakey and so damn transparent excuses but, shit. She was fighting for sanity here. How did he expect her to sit next to him, shirtless, and do something as mundane as eat breakfast? Nope. Not going to happen.

  Those amazing eyes fixed on her, studying her with an intensity she struggled not to shrink from. God forbid he caught even a hint of the riotous need playing havoc with her body like some groupie who trailed him from city to city. How humiliating would that be? Uh. Very.

  “I’m good,” he finally answered, biting off a piece of bacon. Damn, the man should be
charged with violating a hotness criminal code just for the way he chewed food. “But if you have a problem with it…?” An eyebrow arched along with the pierced corner of his mouth.

  “No, of course not,” she lied, adding a small, chuckle for good measure. Too bad the laugh sounded as if she were choking on her eggs, completely ruining the nonchalance she’d been aiming for.

  Folding his arms on the top of the bar, he leaned forward, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Are you sure? Because if you’re really bothered, I’ll go put on a shirt.”

  “I said no.” She stabbed her omelet with her fork, wishing she’d just shut the hell up and hadn’t mentioned the damn shirt in the first place.

  He lifted the dragon-head shoulder in a shrug. “Okay. Actually…” His eyelids lowered, the mock sincerity from moments ago melting under the heat of his hooded sensual gaze. Her breath snagged in her throat. “I find it kind of warm in here. If you wanted to get rid of your sweater, I wouldn’t object. Whatever you need to feel comfortable.”

  Like a physical caress, his intent study of her lowered, and damn if her nipples didn’t bead into rigid points under her bra and top. Jesus, one look. One. Freaking. Look. She gripped her fork tighter, the silver pressing into her fingers.

  Get a grip. She wrestled her stubborn—and obviously sex-deprived body—back under control. This is what he does. Flirt. Make a woman feel like she’s special and wanted. It was how he sold records, for God’s sake.

  Disgusted over her lapse in common sense, she ignored his question and the look. Men like him—famous, gorgeous, hot rock stars—didn’t go for women like her—ordinary, more super nerd than supermodel loan officers. Only in romance novels and hooker-turned-Cinderella movies did people from totally different worlds fall in love. She hadn’t even been able to hold onto the conservative, average investment banker she’d dated for two years.

  Boring. Frigid. Those had been the words Troy had tossed at her as he’d strode out the door of their apartment without a backward glance. In what world would she capture the interest of someone as fascinating and exotic as Ari Sincero?