I raise her legs and put them over one shoulder, holding them there with one hand on her ankles, the other reaching for her breast. She clutches at my hand, holding it against her breast tightly, her fingers scratching and pulling at the knuckles.
“You get me so fucking hot, Haley,” I snarl, leaning over her as I start to fuck her to the beat of the distant drums. Her legs almost folded against her, her hands clutching at mine. I’m hard enough to break bricks, horny enough to fuck for hours, but she’s tight and wet enough that I know I won’t last that long. I put a little swing in my thrust, enough to make her really feel me inside, enough to make her scream without worrying who’ll hear her, enough to make her * tighten around my cock with the unbearable sensation of too much bliss.
“Oh my God, fuck, don’t stop,” she gasps, her screams turning into stuttering moans, her fingers digging deep into my hand. I smack her ass as her * clenches, wetness flowing against me, and I know she’s right at the edge, almost there. Instead of thrusting faster I slow down, making sure she can feel every single stroke. “Brando.” Her breasts shiver under my hand as she comes hard, breathlessly, blood rushing to her head.
I can’t hold back any longer. I pump into her again, my need taking over, losing myself in the moment. I cum fast, the ecstatic heat of it slamming through me in groaning waves, and I collapse onto Haley and let her twine her fingers through my hair. After a few minutes of drowsy contentment, I pull out and ease her legs to the ground. She lays on the speaker-stack, arms out wide, catching her breath, even the light that outlines her shoulder seeming fuzzy now with post-orgasmic warmth. Slowly, I lean over her, and kiss her one last time on the lips. So soft she can barely feel it. She receives it sleepily, and smiles when I pull away.
I wait for her at the base of the stairs while she gets dressed. By the time she emerges from the dark she’s back in control, a sly grin on her lips, that knowing sway in her hips. She walks right past me, and I lose myself in her mesmerizing ass as she ascends the steps. A view that makes me immediately ready for a second round. But suddenly I’m full of doubt.
“Haley?”
She looks back at me over her shoulder.
“That meant something, right?” I say, slowly.
Haley chuckles slightly, then turns to face me, looking down at me from the height of the steps.
“No,” she says, with a sense of satisfaction. “It didn’t.”
I freeze on the stairs. “Are you serious right now?”
Haley’s smile gets even more condescending, and all at once I feel like it’s more than just the higher ground making me feel like she’s the one in control.
“It was just sex, Brando. Just a bit of fun, nothing more.” She turns around and walks up a step before adding, “Just like before.”
She continues to walk up the stairs, and I watch her. Half-crazed by that ass, half-stunned by those words.
“Haley!” I call out, causing her to pause, though this time she doesn’t turn. “Maybe you want to believe that, but your body doesn’t lie. That meant something.”
She snorts derisively before continuing up the stairs.
“Just like before,” I add, quietly to myself.
Chapter 8
Haley
We play Portland, Seattle, Salt Lake City, Denver, and Austin. But it turns out that playing the biggest gigs of my life are the least of my worries.
It’s hard keeping my hands off Brando, since he’s a constant presence, and each time I come off stage, flushed with adrenaline, all I want to do is drag him away to a dark corner and fuck all of my energy away. But I don’t. I can’t let that happen again.
We’d already be doing it on the tour bus if it wasn’t for my other band members demanding all of my attention. After a mix-up in Portland where we end up staying three-to-a-room (I declined Brando’s invitation, of course) he decides to start flying out ahead of the crew and the band to make sure nothing else goes wrong with the hotels and venue arrangements. The fact that I can’t see him move any more heavy equipment should give me a chance to calm down, but even during the times when he’s away, I feel the echoes of his touch whenever I’m alone. A post-orgasmic bliss that refuses to fade. Like a drug, I’m itchy and thirsty for another fix of him – however much I insist to myself that I’m not addicted.
Soon, I’m thinking more about the stolen moment at the first show than I am the next performance. I twist myself into knots remembering both how good he feels, and how badly he treated me. I almost break obsessing over the memories of him lifting amps onto the tour bus, his shirt off, muscles bulging, but a cold shower or my daily run-in with Lexi usually helps me get through it. If not, there’s beer.