“This is only a sample.” Frank lowered in front of me, planting his head between my legs. Feverish shivers ran down my spine when his mouth reached my exposed sex. He’d seen me naked hundreds of times before but never in his dressing room with dozens of people milling around the door and wanting to be inside. The fear of being ambushed made it more interesting. Made it dangerous. Made it fun.
The tip of his tongue slid along my opening, halting near my clit. A wave of dark, searing bliss gathered in the wake of his touch. He did it again. A slow, deliberate lick. Just enough to get me even wetter. I was dripping immodestly. It was the best and the dirtiest kind of torture.
“Frank,” I groaned. “We don’t have all night.” His name was a gentle raze on my lips. “You can’t do that.” My eyes were half-closed. The fluorescent overheads glimmered behind the flutter of my lashes.
“Sure I can, doll.” His whisper tickled my sex. Nerves coming alive, I felt my stomach pull in response. Electricity zinged through my legs.
I leaned back, steadying myself against the mirror. My hand never left his shoulder. I grasped his shirt in my fingers and wanted to rip it off. I wanted to touch him everywhere. Every hot inch of his beautiful primed-for-the-stage body.
“Please,” I whimpered, biting my lip. Anticipatory shudders ran through me. Even the tips of my ears burned with desire.
Warm palms on my hips, Frank slowly dove in. His mouth sucked at my throbbing sex. The flicks and swirls of his tongue were delicate one moment and rough the next. His thick hair brushed the inside of my thighs as he lapped at me. The pleasure was absolute. A hurricane of sensations, wrecking and marking me.
The strokes grew faster and I jerked. The back of my head slid against the mirror, up and down. Frank’s hands squeezed my thighs and spread them wider. Insatiable, he slipped his tongue into me.
A desperate scream filled my lungs. The room spun. The makeup station spun. The arena spun. I was losing control of my own thoughts and feelings. I was giving them all to Frank. He drew all my dreams and all my desires out of me, one by one. Moan after moan.
My chest heaved uncontrollably. Heart tripping, I came on his tongue. My body convulsed. My hips rolled. I rubbed against his mouth to ride out the wave of pleasure a little bit longer. To savor each press and grind of our wet flesh. To prolong the wild beat of the orgasm pumping inside my veins.
Frank’s lips remained on my sex. I heard a low grunt as he dug his fingers into the softness of my thigh. Eyes closed, I rested my head against the cold mirror and tried to imagine how insanely inappropriate and incredibly newsworthy I must have looked right now with Frankie Blade’s head between my legs.
Then I pictured myself giving the middle finger to the entire world and all the gossip chasers.
The dressing room smelled like sex. The filthy type. The type of the rich and famous. Fast, reckless, and unapologetic.
“I could do this all night,” Frank rasped out against my inner thigh. Traces of my satisfaction stained his lips. His fingers skimmed over my calf and brushed the leather of my narrow-heeled pump. He paid attention to the smallest details—what I wore, what I said, what I wanted.
I’d been spoiled rotten as he’d promised, worshipped and fucked like a queen by the man who was one of the finest members of rock ’n’ roll royalty.
“Is it the shoes again?” I laughed and snapped my eyes open.
“You know…” He paused and pressed a small kiss to my leg. “I can’t decide whether it’s the shoes or the dress, but like I said”—he rose—“that was only a sample.” A sly grin twisted his mouth.
I couldn’t help but wonder where all this newly found self-confidence had come from and if he should have stayed put before the show. But then I reminded myself who he was and that all he’d done was a fantastic round of oral.
Oral wasn’t a life-threatening activity…was it?
Frank’s booted footsteps echoed the tiny clicks of my heels against the cement floor as we marched down the hallway toward the stage. Roman had taken the lead as always. His bald head floated through the sea of various rock ’n’ roll styled and bandana-clad hair. Billy and Janet were a couple of feet ahead of us. Corey and Brooklyn closed up the procession. They were discussing the post-Forum shows’ social media strategy, and their hushed voices bounced between the walls.
My mind was adrift. I wasn’t sure whether the reason behind the rabid beats of my heart and the nervous thrum of my pulse was the best cunnilingus of my life that I’d just received in the dressing room or the fact that Frank was holding my hand out in the open.
Did he not care about keeping our relationship a secret anymore?
As if sensing my question, he snaked his arm around my waist to pull me closer and whispered, “Every single person who’s working the shows, including security, signed a confidentiality agreement.” The tips of his hair brushed my neck as we kept walking, shoulder to shoulder. His voice was a rough caress against my cheek. A reassurance my life wasn’t going to be smashed to pieces after tonight. Or as Linda had said, my family wouldn’t “take a beating.”
The
