The Last Love Song (A BWWM BDSM Romance) (6 page)

"Why?" I asked. But I did it. God help me and save me, but I did it.

I heard the mattress creak as he sat back down. "I want you to think about how it could be. Imagine I'm kissing your neck," he said, his voice quiet, a deep, low rumble. "Softly. Just a light trail down from your ear to your shoulder, leaving goosebumps on your skin."

I could imagine it. Those soft lips touching my skin - my neck was very sensitive. I wondered if it would tickle, or if he knew just how much pressure I would need. Somehow I was sure he would know.

"I’d kiss down the other side of your neck. Rougher this time, nipping you with my teeth, brushing your skin with my stubble."

His words had an effect. I could feel them like a touch. It was a strange sort of torture.
I want this, I don't want this, I want more, I want to get out of here
.

But I remained in place, eyes closed, hands clasped behind me, listening to his voice.

Because that was what he told me to do.

"Now imagine that you're naked," he said in a harsh whisper. My lips parted and I nearly gasped. I could imagine it. The cool air of the overactive AC breezing over my skin. His eyes drinking in every bare inch of me.

"I would caress your breasts with just my fingertips," he said, "Kneading lightly. Circling, closer and closer to your tight little nipples, but never touching them. No matter how you strain and arch your back, I wouldn't touch them."

"Why not?" I heard myself say. I could feel them inside my bra, sensitive and hard. My imagination was running away with me.

"Because you haven't begged me to, yet."

Warmth pooled and blossomed at my core. I squirmed in my seat. "And if I did?"

"If you begged? Then I would touch them with my tongue." I bit back a gasp. "Lightly. Very lightly. You'd want to grab me and hold me closer, but you wouldn't be able to."

"Because my hands are tied."

"Mmhmm." I bit my lip. His words, the picture he was painting, it was having a serious effect on me. "You'd want me to touch you somewhere else, too."

"Where?" I breathed.

"You tell me."

I squirmed again. My arms strained against the imaginary restraints. I crossed my thighs tighter against the rising flood of arousal and said, "Down there. Between my legs."

He chuckled. "You can sing it in a song but you can't say the word out loud?"

"My pussy," I said. Sure I could sing it, I could sing all sorts of over-the-top things, but to say it with just him, to him? It was quite a bit different.

"Your pussy," he agreed, "You'd want me to touch your pussy. But I wouldn't."

"Even if I begged?"

"That's right."

"Why?" Fuck, I didn't even recognize my own voice. Nevermind asking who the hell he was, who the hell was
I?
Who was this person sitting in my body, playing along with this strange game? "Why?" I asked again, a little more urgently. Whoever I was, I needed to know.

"Because first I'd make you open your mouth. And then I'd put my cock in it."

A soft moan escaped my parted lips.

"You'd like that," he said. "You'd like me to use you. You'd like me to take control." I nodded along with his words like I was a puppet pulled by strings.

I heard the mattress creak, and then felt his breath warm against my ear. "I'm going to touch you, now." I kept right on nodding. "Stay just as you are." Still nodding. Still agreeing, willingly following his orders, hanging on his every word. Waiting on a precipice - what was he going to do?

One warm hand rest on my knee - then he moved it aside, uncrossing my legs, parting them. His hand snaked up beneath my skirt and between my thighs. I exhaled shakily, anticipating his touch. When his knuckles brushed me between my legs, just over my panties, I gasped out loud. I felt so slick and so swollen, and he'd only used his words!

He touched me again, more firmly this time, then began to rub me in slow circles over the damp material. I made a strange keening sound as I pressed myself into his touch - but never moved my hands and never opened my eyes. I wouldn't until he said so.

"Good girl," he said. He pushed the crotch of my panties aside, and then his fingers were on my bare flesh, sliding through my folds. "Fuck," I breathed. It had been so long since I'd been touched, and it felt incredible. I would come apart in mere moments if he just touched me where I needed.

But he avoided my most sensitive spots, instead stroking me slowly, driving me higher, kindling the flame within me. Did he want me to beg? I was close to it. He was driving me seriously crazy.

Something clicked. The door! My eyes flew open as he straightened out my skirt and sat back on the bed. The housekeeper we’d met earlier stepped inside.

"Your suite is ready, Miss Zenaida," she said. She seemed undisturbed. Maybe she hadn't noticed anything amiss. Vaughn himself seemed perfectly at ease, sitting on the edge of the bed as if he'd been there the whole time.

But I was a needy, throbbing mess. I only hoped it didn't show on my face. "Thank you," I said, standing up. "Lead the way."

I was acutely aware of Vaughn following behind me. Every footfall, every damn breath. We were halfway to the elevators when he wrapped an arm around my waist and yanked me back against him, tight. He thrust his hips, just once, and I felt his erection brush my lower back. My fingers dug into his arm.

"Like I said," he said, "One of these nights, you're going to come to my room. I'll do everything I described and more. All you have to do is knock."

Then he released me and gently pushed me forward. I stumbled a bit before picking up the pace and catching up to the housekeeper as she pushed the elevator button.

Vaughn seemed far more agitated by the morning's mob than I was. Later that day when we were leaving for the venue, he insisted on checking the hotel's perimeter himself. There was still a crowd of fans out front, but the police had finally arrived and corralled them behind barricades, keeping them out of the way of the hotel guests and off the hotel property.

I tapped my foot on the tiled lobby floor. "This is ridiculous, I'm going out the back door again," I said, turning on my heel. I heard my staff mutter and turn with me, following just a pace away. My other bodyguard cursed from behind them and scrambled to catch up.

"Wait," he called, "The back isn't secured, ma'am. You could get swarmed again."

"Ma'am?" I asked, stopping in my tracks and turning slowly to face him. "
Ma'am?
" I was
not
old enough to be called Ma’am yet and I would not tolerate it. Twenty-eight was
not
Ma’am material.

"I'm sorry. Miss Zenaida. But we're safer going out the front right now."

"Where the fuck is Vaughn?"

"I'm here!" He beckoned from the lobby's front door. "The car's ready. Let's go, everyone."

Shouldering and elbowing my way through my entourage, I rushed ahead of them. When I reached Vaughn, he followed, glued to my back and bodily shielding me from the grasping hands of my fans. Cameras flashed but I didn't turn towards any of the shouts. I kept my eyes on the open limo door straight ahead, where my third bodyguard waited, shooting threatening looks at anyone who even thought about approaching.

Vaughn guided me inside before the rest of my crew followed.

"That went much better this time," I joked as he climbed into the front passenger seat. Lexi, Gavin, my stylist, and two of my dancers settled into the back of the short limo with me.

"I'm starting to think you should travel in armored cars instead of limos," Vaughn joked, and I snickered.

Lexi looked at me like I'd grown a second head. But she jumped right back into business. "The band is running fucking late, like always," she said, "I got smart and gave them an earlier call-time, though, so we might actually not have to do a panic rush through the soundcheck for once."

"Wouldn't that be nice," I grumbled, but I was only half listening to her. I was watching Vaughn, instead - watching his eyes in the rearview mirror.

And he was watching right back.

◦◦◦

I stood offstage and waited for my cue. The crowd's screams were deafening, though they were a mere buzz through my earpieces. Counting down the beats as my dancers swirled around the stage, I patted my hair and strode out before the crowd.

They roared. Cameras flashed from every section of the arena. The stage vibrated with the heavy bass and with the dancers' landing their leaps, but I swore I could feel the voices of the audience rattling my bones.

"Let me hear you, Chicago!" I called. I worried their response would shake the arena walls down. They loved me, and I loved them all back.

Maybe I didn't love getting swarmed, getting harassed for photos and autographs everywhere I went, getting asked the same insipid questions over and over, but this made it all worth it. My heart inflated with their excitement and their joy. I couldn't make out many faces but it didn't matter. When I blew kisses to the crowd, I meant them for each and every person out there.

I stamped across the stage in my high heels and spat the opening song’s lyrics over the heads of a wild and raucous audience:

Bad night ain’t gonna end right

Bitches howlin’ at the moon while I’m firin’ my lines,

Tell me that you’re with me now, show me all the signs,

I got the beats and all the rhythm and those bright white lights,

What you got, nothing but your hollows and your spite,

Bad night.

And they loved it. They sang along even when the lyrics didn’t make sense, even when they didn’t know the words, and what began as a show gradually began to feel like one big party. Everyone there was my biggest fan and my best friend.

The show went off without a hitch. My dancers didn't miss a step, the band didn't miss a single note or beat, and my voice was flawless. It wasn't an ego-maniacal claim. Sometimes you're just in the zone and you know you're killing it.

We raised a lot of money for the local charity we played for, too - all ticket proceeds went to an organization that was bringing after school music programs to underprivileged kids. It was a subject that was close to my heart because a similar group had once made a big difference in my life.

I was glowing when I stepped offstage. Beaming. I even thanked the stage crew, the props and costumes people, the lighting guys and the sound techs. Everyone fed off my good mood, happy that I was happy for once. Happy that we'd put on such a smooth show.

So when one of the stagehands approached me, I didn't bark at him to get out of the way as I normally would. I smiled and greeted him and thanked him for a job well done. I blinked with confusion when he didn't move on - instead, he pulled something from behind his back.

"Camden sends his best," the stagehand said, handing me a bouquet of yellow roses. My vision blurred; my stomach roiled and threatened to reject its contents.
No. No
. I stared at the roses and a wave of vertigo washed over me.

"Zenaida?" Hands planted on my shoulders. I took a deep, shuddering breath. "Are you okay?"

The stagehand was gone. Vaughn towered over me. I looked up into his piercing blue eyes, creased with worry.

"Who sent the flowers?" he asked.

I shook my head. He pulled the little card free from the bouquet and read it out loud. "'Can't wait to see you. Love, Camden.' Zenaida, talk to me. Is this a threat?"