He shoves inside as he thrusts his massive erection farther into my mouth, and a quiver ripples below as I choke on his size.

“Fuck,” he growls.

As my eyes meet his, I see the muck is clear. No filter, no mask, he is open to me, and I am opening further to him. My legs spread wider, and another finger pushes inside me. I clench around him as the burn of an orgasm spreads like wildfire in the pit of my stomach.

I cry out as my pussy contracts and convulses, my cry muffled by his cock. He pulls out swiftly as his finger curls, causing me to cry out again.

He watches me intently, intensely as I feel him try to add another finger. I cringe from anticipation. I know how long, how thick his fingers are, and I am afraid, so afraid he will tear me apart on the outside like he already, unknowingly, has on the inside.

“Too fucking tight,” he growls as he rubs his dick across my nipples. “And I’m too damn hungry.”

He stands up, swiftly and effortlessly flipping me to my stomach, and his hands grip my knees as he positions me face down with my butt in the air. I ready myself for his entry, scared, unashamed, and yearning for what is to come.

Beckett grips my ass cheeks, spreading them wide. “So sexy. So fucking tight and sexy. I’m gonna tear you apart,” he promises, yet it is as if he is apologizing.

I bury my face in his sheets. The smell of bleach is evident, and I am thankful that they are clean. God, I hope they are clean.

I feel his breath immediately before his tongue savagely attacks my still quivering sex. Then he yanks me against his face as he growls, nips, sucks, and licks at me from behind. Raw, carnal sounds escape as he devours me, my own need and pleasure mimicking his sound.

I come. I come harder than I ever have, my hips thrusting and rocking against his face.

“That’s it, sexy little thing. Fuck my face while I fuck your tight, sweet, little pussy with my tongue,” he demands.

Lost in desire, I obey.

He pulls away when I am panting and exhausted, then flips me slowly to my back and straddles me. He reaches behind himself and rubs me back and forth, petting me, caressing me, bringing me nearly there again before he pulls his hand away and rubs it between my breasts then up and down his length. He then pushes my breasts together and pinches my agonizingly hard nipples as he thrusts himself forward between them.

My eyes are glued to his. His are glued to our connection.

“Fuuuucccckkkk,” he growls as he pumps faster, harder. He holds them together with one hand while bringing his other hand to my mouth.

“Spit,” he orders.

“What?” I am shocked.

“You do or I will.” His jaw twitches.

Confused, I look at him.

He spits in his own hand then runs his saliva up and down himself before pushing between my breasts again.

“Mouth or tits?” he grunts.

“What do you mean?”

“Swallow or—”

“Oh, oh.”

I am embarrassed, and he is unashamed.

“Tits it is,” he grunts out as he releases his tight grip on my breasts. “Beautiful fucking tits.” He leans down and sucks my nipple in his mouth as he strokes himself back and forth until he groans my name. Then he leans back, his hot come streaming across my chest before he bends down and kisses me hard and possessively.

When he pulls back and rolls to his side, I look down to see come still on my chest.

“Um, I think I need …” I start to get up, but he stops me.

“Stay. I’ve got it.”

While I lie completely still, my head spins. My body aches. I am breathless. I close my eyes, not wanting to see the evidence of a mistake I know I cannot take back. I’m not even sure I would if I could.

The bed dips, and I open my eyes. In his hands, the strong and very able hands of a man who has touched, licked, and tasted every intimate part of my body, is a towel.

I hold my hand up to take it, but he shakes his head, and I look up to watch him as he slowly cleans his come off my body. Each swipe of the steaming hot, wet towel entices and incites desire.

He folds the hand towel twice and then wraps his hand around my leg and pulls it open, spreading me farther. I start to bring my other leg up, closing them.

“No,” he says as he rubs between my legs, cleaning me, soothing me, exciting me. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

He stands up and walks to the bathroom again. When he returns, he stands naked beside me, his manhood hanging proudly between his strong, thick, muscular thighs.

“You sleep here. I’ll take Memphis’s room.” He bends down and pushes my hair away from my face then kisses the top of my head. Then he looks lower. “You’re a brunette, Sonya. I think I’d like you even more if you didn’t hide your natural color.”

He starts to reach between my legs, and I allow them to fall open, unable to deny myself whatever he is about to give me. He tugs at the small patch of hair and groans. “If I don’t walk away now, I’ll abuse your body.”

“Don’t walk.” The words drop from my mouth, and I am immediately regretful.

He stops and looks up at me, shaking his head. “You’ve been alone for a while. You told me that. You’re drunk. I know that. I am a patient man, Sonya.” He pushes my legs together. “But my patience is being tried right now, and I’m fucked up, too. I need to walk out this door alone. If I come back in, you better make damn sure to tell me to leave.” He covers my naked body. “And you better hope that will stop me.”

Then, like a storm, he is gone.

I roll to my side, bring my knees to my chest, and cry. I cry in shame, in guilt. I cry because I let myself down. And I cry because I am weak.

***

I wake to light peeking through the window, feeling sick to my stomach. My head is pounding, and I am still completely naked.

I sit up and look beside me. On the nightstand, there is a bottle of water and two Motrin.

I sit up, holding the blanket close to my body; unscrew the cap of the water; and take the pills. Then I stand, grabbing my clothes that are scattered around the room and dress quickly.

I look for my coat, my phone, my …

“Shit,” I say when I remember my coat is gone with the phone in its pocket.

I try to figure out the best escape. I don’t want to be seen. Not by the band and certainly not by the man who caused this confusion.

I look at the French doors and decide they’re the best escape. I open them quietly, then jump when I see Finn lying asleep in the chaise he had dragged down to the beach last night.

A blanket covers his lower half, his bare feet peeking out from under it. His torso and tattoos are exposed, and he is just as beautiful sober as drunk. His hair is stuck up in every direction possible, his neatly trimmed beard seems thicker, and his arm is covering his eyes.

I quietly turn, shut the door behind me, and ready myself to tiptoe away unnoticed. Then he groans and runs a hand down his chest under the blanket to adjust himself. I lick my lips, immediately thinking about what the blanket is covering, and then curse myself for being so damn stupid.

He lets out a deep breath and rolls to his side, facing away from me.

On the deck next to the chaise is a pack of Camel lights, a Zippo, an ashtray, and his phone.

How could I be so stupid? I yell at myself again.

I need a phone to call a cab, so I slowly reach down and grab his phone, then start to walk away quietly.

“You need something?”

I turn quickly back and watch him lazily sit up, the muscles in his abs flexing. The morning light is adorning him, loving him, shining on him like a spotlight.

“Just borrowing your …”

He stands, takes two steps, snatches the phone away, hits a few apps, takes my hand, and places my finger on the home button. Once, twice, three times, and then four.

“What are you doing?”