Peyton said, “Jason, grab her tits.”
Hands reached around from behind her while Peyton clutched her hips.
“Stroke,” he said, and Calista’s tits hardened to taut peaks in Jason’s fingers.
Peyton said, “Pinch her.”
The fingers tightened on her nipples, and her skin turned rosy pink as she moaned.
He moved Calista’s hips, lifting her body and pressing her down like he was fucking her with two cocks and four hands. Inside her, the movement of Jason’s cock against his own felt like he was fucking Calista’s ass, too.
Exquisite.
Afterward, the light theme that represented Calista had floated through the music, so small, so submissive to the dark, bass melody from the lower end of the piano that dominated both her part and the baritone harmony notes. Her orgasm had been a bright sunburst near the end, and then the bass melody overwhelmed all the other music, drowning it.
Her interpretation had turned Peyton on so much that he’d flipped Calista onto the bed and fucked first her mouth, then her pussy with her flat on her back, then her ass from behind while Jason watched.
Calista’s musical compositions had taught him a lot about women, and he had listened carefully to every one of them.
They had lasted for ten months as a couple until Calista’s compositions became two different themes that jarred and ignored each other. It took Peyton a while to get the hint, but he eventually broke things off gracefully. They were still friends.
When Raji was panting and squirming under him, Peyton slid backward off the edge of the bed and held her legs apart to tongue her clit and folds. Her natural scent filled his nose, and her skin was smooth under his tongue with a hint of feminine salty-sweetness.
Everything about this woman was driving him out of his mind, and he had to tamp himself down or he wouldn’t last. His jeans were constricting his stiff dick. He almost stood to take his pants off, but he waited, sucking on her.
Her fingers slipped through his hair, and she massaged his scalp. Within minutes, her hands stilled on his head as she arched under his mouth, nearing a climax.
Not yet.
Peyton stood, and she cried out, reaching for him.
He grabbed her hips and flipped her over on her stomach, buying himself some time so he didn’t lose his mind. More black ink on her back curled in the form of a single snake crawling up her spine and writhing around a staff, an eerie, stylized form of the Rod of Asclepius, the symbol of the Greek God of healing.
Inked bat wings covered her shoulder blades and over her shoulders.
That gorgeous art on her delectable skin made his hands itch, wanting to stroke her, and his dick swelled harder.
Damn, she looked a lot more like a rock star than Peyton did. Xan had been trying to convince Peyton to get some ink, but he hadn’t decided on anything so far.
Peyton snagged a condom out of his pocket, unbuckled his belt, and shoved his jeans down his legs. He slapped on the condom and, with his pants still around his ankles and Raji on her stomach, grabbed her hips and slid her onto his straining cock.
Her slick heat and tightness rocketed through him, and his fingers dug into her flanks as he fought for control. He hadn’t had a woman for months. He hadn’t forgotten what it was like, but damn, she felt so good. Staring at the ink on her back as his cock slid into her made him breathe hard, fighting for control.
Raji was panting, her sides heaving, and she was trying to get her knees on the bed.
He pulled her back so she couldn’t rise up, so that she was bent over the bed. “Do you want me to stop?”
“God, no! Don’t you dare stop! Do me!”
Now that was enthusiastic consent.
For Peyton, if he didn’t get some seriously enthusiastic begging at some point, he felt like he wasn’t trying hard enough.
He started slowly, stroking inside her as she squirmed, long, languid strokes to awaken every part of her.
At first, her back bowed as he pushed into her core that barely yielded to him. Peyton Cabot was a big man, six-three and muscle-bound from hours in the gym working off his frustrations. He was also, ahem, more than proportional. You see things in locker rooms even if you aren’t actively looking around.
As he pushed into and withdrew from Raji, her hands clawed the white sheets under her. He kept up his slow but relentless assault, watching her.
When he saw her relax, her arms lying limply as he fucked her, submitting to him, that was his signal.
Peyton pulled back, kicked his jeans off his ankles, and turned her over again.
Raji flopped over, her eyes glazed with passion, and she raised her arms blindly to reach for him.
Perfect.
He crawled up her body and caught one of her legs in the crook of his elbow.
She whispered, “What are you—”
He buried himself deep inside her, holding her knee over his shoulder to open her to him, and he ground his hips into her.
Raji gasped and arched against him, her arms tightening around his neck. She whimpered as he shoved against her, pushing her harder, until her body seized in a rictus of ecstasy. She cried out, a quiet shriek that went straight to his groin.
He kept going, pushing into her as she bucked under him, her fingernails drawing blood from his shoulders as she strained and cried out in his arms.
Within minutes—her slim body, the mingled scent of her perfume and their sex, her smooth skin slipping under him, and her heat around his cock—he couldn’t hold back any longer. The orgasm overcame him, a dark wave that drowned him in floating bliss, and his balls throbbed into her.
Chapter Five
Pillow Talk
As he floated back, Peyton lowered his head to her shoulder, gently kissing her neck until he found her lips for one last kiss. So sweet.
Raji was breathing hard. Her cheeks flushed pink from rushing blood, and her black eyes still glistened.
Under her breath, she whispered, “Wow.”
“You good?” he whispered to her.
“Oh, hell, yes,” she said. “Now that was getting fucked by a rock star.”
Peyton rolled off of her and got rid of the condom. “Don’t call me a rock star.”
“But you are one, and damn, man. You are a rock star.”
“Rock stars and porn stars. The term ‘star’ is derogatory.”
“Shooting stars and star sapphires,” she laughed.
The white ceiling above him was a smooth, limitless expanse like Limbo must be. “Not the same thing.”
Raji struggled with the sheets and dragged them over her naked body. “It’s amazing that you’re a rock star! At least, I think it’s amazing.”
She sounded like a groupie.
“I hate being a ‘rock star.’” Peyton stared up at the bedroom’s ceiling. “I hate everything about it.”
She chuckled, and her laugh still sounded a little out of breath. “Yeah, it must suck to be you. Fucking a different groupie every night, getting wasted in public and no one cares, traveling and seeing the world.”
Peyton shook his head. “It’s not like that, not at all. There’s a standing Killer Valentine policy about groupies who manage to get backstage. I don’t touch them at all, ever. No one in the band does.”
“Why the hell not?”