Her body arched violently as she came, bucking so wildly that she almost dislodged him. But he held on, used his tongue and teeth and lips to ride her through one climax and into another.

He was a man possessed, utterly enchanted by, completely addicted to the exquisite feeling he got from giving her pleasure. He could stay like this forever, his cock throbbing, his mouth buried in her incredibly sweet, incredibly responsive sex. Making her come would be his new obsession.

He’d had a lot of women in his life, had used his fame and charm and looks to take whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Had used sex to keep his demons, and his failures, at bay.

But sex with Jamison was different. Because Jamison is different, a primitive voice in the back of his head warned even as it urged him on. Thrusting his tongue inside of her, he sent her over the edge to one final climax before skimming his mouth across the curve of her hip to the flat plane of her stomach. Unable to resist, he sucked on the soft flesh of her waist until he marked her, relished the high-pitched cry she didn’t even try to hold back. Then he soothed the small hurt with his tongue and lips before pulling back.

“What—” she asked, dazed. Confused. She was trembling, but he knew it was from pleasure instead of cold. Her skin was nearly feverish.

As was he. His balls were on fire, his cock burning with the need to bury itself in the wet, silky heat of her. Lowering her to the ground, he turned her so that she was facing the trailer. Part of him wanted to see her face when they made love, to see her eyes go all cloudy and unfocused. But he didn’t make love that way. He never had. It was too personal, made him feel too vulnerable. And while he wanted to know everything about Jamison, wanted to get as personal with her as he possibly could, he was afraid to let her see what was inside him. Afraid she wouldn’t let him touch her if she knew just how fucked up he was.

“Ryder!” Her high keening cry dragged him out of his head and back to the present, where he so obviously wanted to be.

Determined to get inside her—to stay inside her-- he pressed on her upper back so that she was leaning forward, her ass thrusting back for him. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out the obligatory condom. Unbuttoned his pants, rolled it on. And then, intertwining his fingers with hers, he thrust into her from behind.

She cried out, arched wildly, tugged as if to free her hands from his grip. But he held on, covering her with his body. He couldn’t let go now if she begged. The moment he’d slid into her, the music had started in his head. A sweeping, electric number that lit him up even as Jamison destroyed him with pleasure.

He was rough, rougher than he’d intended, but he’d lost control. Any gentleness he’d had in him had been used up in the long, sexy moments of going down on her. But even as the music swamped him, he made sure that every cry he pulled from her was of pleasure, made sure that every slam of his body into hers took her one step higher.

He wrapped an arm around her to make sure she was protected from the cool metal of the trailer, and then he rode her hard and fast. Each thrust was a frenzy of raging need, each stroke a declaration of control and ownership and vicious, violent need.

And Jamison was taking it. No, she was begging for more, her muscles clenching tightly around him. He reached down, pulled her legs further apart. He needed to go deeper, needed to drive his cock so hard and deep inside of her that he’d never forget the feel of her. Never forget the music pouring through him.

Sobbing, Jamison dug her fingernails into his hands, hanging on for dear life as his thrusts moved her onto her tip-toes. “Do it!” she gasped, her body shaking uncontrollably as her sex clenched tightly around his dick. “Please. You have to.”

The music got louder. His body screamed for relief. But he refused to give in—not now, not when she was so close to coming again. He was desperate to feel her orgasm, to feel her body as it spasmed wildly around him.

Easing back a little, he brought his hand down, gently stroked her clit in rhythm to the music in his head. “No, baby, you have to,” he whispered, following the words with a desperate lunge inside of her. “Come on, Jamison, baby. Let it take you. Let it—”

She screamed, her back arching beneath him like a bow as the waves exploded through her. Gritting his teeth, he kept up the hard, steady strokes until sweat streamed down his body. Until his muscles cried out for relief. Until yet another orgasm whipped through Jamison and she cried his name while she came.

Only then—as the music reached a shattering crescendo—did he give himself up to a release so violent, so powerful, it was like rock and roll itself.

…

When it was over, when she could finally think again, Jamison laid her head back against the cool metal of the trailer and just breathed. She’d had sex before, even made love before, but nothing and no one could have prepared her for this. For Ryder.

He made love like he sang—darkly, dangerously, and with an incredible attention to detail that left her a quivering, boneless mess. For the first time in a long time she felt satisfied. Even more, she felt soft. Like everything inside of her had melted into a puddle of goo.

Which wouldn’t be so bad if she hadn’t felt her heart—and the barriers she’d very deliberately erected between herself and Ryder—melt right along with everything else.

Panic began to set in with that realization, obliterating the post-orgasmic glow that made her want to stay right where she was—even if that place was backed up against an equipment trailer—forever. Heart racing, hands trembling, fear vibrating through every nerve ending she had, she waited for Ryder to put her down. To move away. To slide the defenses he wore so seamlessly back into place.

But he didn’t. Didn’t do anything but rest against her, his face pressed into the curve of her neck, his body pressed into her own. She could still feel him there, inside of her, was desperately afraid that she always would. In the last few minutes, Ryder had done more than fucked her. He’d taken her over completely.

Panic became full-blown terror. Suddenly she wanted to struggle against him. To demand that he put her down so that she could find that distance again. She needed to breathe, to think, to be by herself if only for a few minutes so that she could rebuild the defenses he had shattered so completely.

She’d spent years of her life lusting after Ryder, wanting him beyond all good sense and comprehension, but now that she’d had him she was only more confused.

What did this mean for them? For her? For him? Were they together? Or was she a moron for even thinking like that? Of course you are, she told herself as she fought the urge to shove him away. It was stupid, ridiculous really, to imagined she was anything special when she thought about how many women Ryder slept with in a year or a month or even a typical week.

She wanted to be different, wanted this moment between them to be more than that, but how could it be when she’d thrown herself at him like just another groupie? Twice now he’d touched her and twice she’d gone up in flames without him taking her for so much as a cup of coffee. It was preposterous to think she was anything more to him than a quick lay. A good time.

And yet even as the thoughts formed, she knew she was being unfair to Ryder. Knew she was letting the hysteria get the better of her. He was her friend, had been her friend and her champion and her hero for more than a decade. Just because they’d slept together—just because they’d scratched the itch that had been building between them for days now—didn’t mean that she was suddenly nothing to him. Of course she meant more to him than some groupie whose name he didn’t know.