Chapter 15 - Chase Me, Cowboy

The most pleasant sensation wakes me up. Hot breath, light kisses that tickle on the nape of my neck. He’s behind me, one broad forearm encapsulating me. Holding me against his chest. Down below, he’s rock hard, pressing into my ass.

Probably why he woke me up in the first place. Eyes shut, I clear my throat.

“You can just put it in,” I murmur.

“Fuck.” His voice drops. The bed shifts as he rolls over and a condom wrapper tears. Then his body presses against mine, and he runs his palm down my thigh. I lift it, and he touches my pussy, waking it up with a tingling shock. He spits in his hand, wetting the entrance. Pushing my face into the pillow, I let out a little gasp as he guides the head of his cock into me. He moans, his face in my neck, and buries it to the hilt.

“Goddamn,” he rasps.

He’s annoying, but very sexy, and it drives me wild when he acts like my pussy is the best damn thing he’s ever felt. Hand on my hip, he thrusts and lets out a soft groan. From this angle, it’s very tight, but I don’t mind. I want him—need him—to use me. This feeling…it’s better than the first seconds of being drunk, when everything is pure euphoria.

Even though it’s a quickie, it might be one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced. His chin rests on my head for a brief second, then he shifts so his mouth can graze my temple. I reach back, but he gathers my wrist and pins it against the bed. After that, it’s just dirty fucking, the bed hitting the wall, until he comes. We both fall still. His hard palm ghosts down my stomach, fingers finding my clit.

I’m on the edge. It takes less than a minute to tumble over it.

Panting, I stay still, squashed beneath his arm. After a while, the tension in it loosens, and his breathing deepens. I smile, but it’s bittersweet. He seems tired, honestly. I can’t blame him for that; I’ve never met anyone whose phone lights up as much as this man’s. Briefly, I wonder if I’m just another problem to him. A reason he has to stop and swipe his screen.

No, he reached out to me. He brought me here.

I stir, pushing his arm aside, and rise. He makes a grab for me, and I sidestep.

“God, you’re so horny,” I say, like I’m not just as bad.

“I can be worse, I promise,” he says, rolling onto his back.

“Go back to sleep,” I say, slipping through the bathroom door.

I clean up and put on one of his T-shirts and a pair of panties. When I go through the bedroom again on my way downstairs, his eyes are closed.

Good, we both need a little break. He’s got me off-kilter.

In the kitchen, it’s dark, with storm clouds gathering over the ocean. The way the waves roll reminds me of the grass in Wyoming. Whipping in shades of dark and light green beneath a tumultuous sky. It’s safe here, even though this isn’t a familiar place. Perhaps because he’s upstairs. Or just because, for the first time in a year, I don’t have this yearning in my chest to see him one more time.

I slip the mug into the coffee machine and hit the button. It gurgles, and the scent fills the room.

My brain goes to places it shouldn’t be. Wondering what it would be like to live alongside him. Get up, kiss him goodbye, and watch him leave for some studio somewhere. To sit at home and watch him on the television more than I saw him in person. Or worse, to wonder if there someone else better than me was flirting with him backstage.

I shake my head.

There are many reasons we’re incompatible.

The coffee machine beeps. I take my mug, add some creamer, and meander around the first floor, watching the storm roll closer. On the opposite side of the house is a music room. At the center is a grand piano, and it’s been calling my name since I arrived. Back home, I have a keyboard that I plug my headphones into and play alone. I’ve been doing that since I was about five, when Dad bought it for me more as a toy than anything else. When I got proficient at that, I moved on to the guitar. In my heart, I prefer the keyboard and my voice as my instrument.

I set my mug down and sit at the piano.

It’s beautiful, probably a custom piece. I gently roll back the cover and rest my fingers on the smooth, cold keys. I can play quite a few pieces from heart; I’ve always been able to listen and replicate songs. Idly, I run my fingers up and down to warm them and slip into a quiet version of Dreams by The Cranberries. It ripples out, so different played on this piano instead of cramped in my room, coming through my headphones.

Everything goes away.

It’s just riding the soft waves. Like color slipping through my brain, rising, falling, dwindling, and swelling.

I’m lost in it. Until the back of my neck prickles and my fingers go still.

Turning, I bite the inside of my lip. Heat creeps up my neck.

He’s just in his sweats, arms crossed over his chest, leaning in the doorway. His face is unreadable.

I swallow. “Sorry, I thought you fell asleep.”

“I did,” he says.

He comes close and touches the keyboard.

“You read music?” he asks.

“Yeah, I can. But I usually just hear it and then play.”

His fingers travel, playing out a bit of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. “You sing, I heard you back at the ranch.”

“No, I’m good,” I retort.

“What?”

“I do not want to sing in front of you,” I say firmly.

“Alright, I won’t push you,” he says, taking up my mug of coffee. He circles the piano to face me, leaning on it. “So what do you like? What’s your genre?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

He cocks his head, studying me. Why is he looking at me like that? Like we’re on American Idol and he’s the judge, trying to figure out how to package me for the maximum amount of money.

“What?” I say, voice raspy.

He’s intimidating me. Whatever side of him this is, it’s different from the person he was an hour ago, upstairs. He shakes his head, then shrugs.

“I’m an agent. I sell people,” he says. “It’s hard for me not to look at you and want to sell your talent.”

I’m speechless. Should I be flattered or offended?

“Can you explain that?” I ask finally.

His jaw ticks as he thinks. “I heard you sing, and you’re good. I know a natural aptitude when I see it. More than that, I see when someone has the whole package.”

My mouth is dry. “You think I have the whole package?”

“I do,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t want to speak too loud.

“To be…what?”

He blinks slowly. His internal struggle is so clear. “A superstar. In the right hands, with the right connections who can get you into the rooms you need to be in.”

That’s frightening, but also exciting. Because here I am, freshly fucked by one of the biggest agents in country music. The problem is…that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. If I decided to pursue music seriously, I’d want it to be on my own merits, not because I’m sleeping with him.

As if he can read my mind, he says, “I don’t sign anyone unless I think they could go to the top on talent only.”

“It’s still shady,” I say finally.

He frowns, cocking his head. “Do you think people get deals by wandering in the street, hoping some agent meets them? No, people get where they need to go because they know the right people. Or they make themselves impossible for the right people to ignore.”

I’m quiet.

“Entertainment is a curated business,” he says finally. “That being said…I won’t sign you because it is shady.”

My jaw drops. What is the point of this conversation? For him to say I could make it and then snatch it away? He turns and heads into the kitchen. I go after him, arms crossed tight. He’s making another cup of coffee, like he didn’t just morph into a giant dick.

“What’s your problem?” I ask.

His hands go still. When he lifts his eyes, they’re guarded.

“Being in entertainment seems fun, but behind the scenes it’s bullshit,” he muses. “I have to fly out to Texas because I have a client, an eighteen-year-old girl, whose father is working her so hard she can’t fulfill a basic contract. I can step in, but someday she’s gonna have to deal with the fact her dad picked money over her. These people are vultures, Serena. You don’t want this for your future.”

I don’t move. Inside, I went from offended to…flattered. Is Jamie Iron…protecting me? There’s a long moment. Not breaking eye contact, he hits the coffee machine button, and it starts chugging. I swipe back my hair and lift my chin.

“It’s not like you’ve even really heard me sing, anyway,” I say finally. “This is all…whatever.”

“Yeah. It’s all…whatever.”

The coffee is done. He has a sip. It’s kind of gross that he drinks it all bitter, no sugar or creamer, but it suits his overall bitter personality. As soon as I think that, my brain backtracks to last night and this morning. He’s very gentle in bed. Rough in the right places, but it’s clear he cares that I’m having a good time, too. He’s guarded and rude and a little mean, but there is something gentle in him, and it’s terribly attractive. It’s not all bitterness.

“I guess I should pack my shit,” I say. “When does my plane leave?”

He shrugs.

“It doesn’t.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I had my personal assistant cancel the flight. When I’m ready for you to go home, you can pick out a new flight.”

My jaw hangs slack. He’s not sorry, not a little bit. He’s just staring at me like cancelling my flight without asking is completely normal. Anger flares, and I come closer, head tilting back because he’s very tall.

“I am not one of your women,” I hiss.

“My…what?”

“I’m not someone you can fly out and fuck until you get bored. I agreed to a short, overnight trip with you to resolve…whatever this is, but that’s it. If you don’t book a flight, I will call a car to take me and book it myself.”

As if the universe is solidly on his side, as the words leave my mouth, an enormous thunderclap splits over the cliffs. I jump, inhaling. He glances through the window, and I follow his gaze to where a sheet of rain races over the ocean. It hits the window so hard I worry the glass will shatter.

“Okay, sweetheart, you book a car,” he says.

He skirts around me and goes to sink down on the couch, facing the storm. I consider fighting him. Then, I consider fucking him. Which one sounds better if I set aside my pride and be honest with myself? Because I would love to spend another few days with him, I just didn’t like that he made that choice. Except…do I like it? It’s nice to be around an assertive man who knows what he wants. It’s just annoying because I hate being told what to do by anyone.

“You’re an asshole,” I say finally.

He empties his coffee, clearing his throat. “Yep, we already figured that one out. Come here, sit on my lap.”

Goddamn it.

“Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll stay for another day.”

I cross the room, and he grabs my hips and pulls me into his lap. I would be more mad at him if it wasn’t so hard to ignore the fact that his hands almost meet around my waist. And it’s kind of making me want him to pick me up and use me like a toy like he did earlier when I was on top.

“Good,” he says. “Go call your mom and tell her.”