Vintage Volume One (7 page)

And I liked rough with Parker.

He stepped toward me. My hands dangled behind me, still bound. I wasn’t sure how to do this without my hands.

“You look fucking gorgeous like that,” he said softly. I tried to imagine what I looked like from his point of view.

On my knees.

Hands bound behind me.

Mouth open, waiting.

Shirt pushed up to my chest, bra still on, pants around my ankles.

My long, straight, almost black hair messy, unable to brush it away from my face.

He gazed down at me for a few quiet seconds, a soft sigh releasing from his chest, and then he grabbed the back of my head with his hand as he pushed his cock into my waiting mouth. I wasn’t expecting him to push in so quickly. I immediately closed my lips around him, trying to create friction between us. But he kept pushing in rather than pulling out. I opened my throat as I felt his length sliding down. I tried to move my head back, tried to get him to thrust back, but he wouldn’t budge. I breathed noisily through my nose.

Fear started pounding in my brain, filtering down to my eyes, my ears, my chest. My heart palpitated. I felt my hands shaking behind me, my knees shaking beneath me.

“Relax,” he growled, and I did, following yet another of his commands.

He finally pulled back, and I sucked in some air.

“Again.” He pushed back into me, but this time I was prepared.

His hand found the back of my head as he slid down my throat again, a shudder quaking through him as he pulled back and I rounded my lips around him.

“Perfect. Exactly like that.”

He thrust in and out of my mouth a few more times before he pulled out completely.

He walked behind me and pushed my shoulders so that I tipped forward. He gentled my fall, and I turned my head so my cheek met my carpet. He yanked hard on the hands bound behind me, and then he pulled my hips up so that my ass was perched in the air.

“Do you like being tied up? Do you like being at my mercy?”

“Yes,” I whispered, shame filling me at my admission.

I fucking loved it.

I fucking loved the shudder that ran through him because of what I was doing to him with my mouth. I fucking loved the sounds he made as he growled with pleasure.

A dark, twisted part of me loved the panic he created in me, and then the utter relief when he destroyed that panic.

I felt him remove my shoes and then my pants. My shirt covered my back, and I was glad. I wasn’t ready to show him my tattoos yet. It seemed somehow more intimate than the actual act of what we were doing. I heard some additional rustling, probably as he stepped out of his own clothes, and I heard the familiar tear of a foil wrapper.

He pulled on my hips, positioning me where he wanted me, and I was his ragdoll, his toy. I wanted to be whatever he wanted me to be. Somehow I already trusted him.

He thrust into me sharply, roughly, unexpectedly. I cried out from the pleasure of the pain, and a throaty, feral groan grumbled out of his chest at my scream.

“Your body was fucking made for mine,” he growled, propelling violently into me. Skin slapped against skin as he pounded away at me.

I cried out over and over, moaning his name on the pleasure and screaming in the pain. I wasn’t sure which feeling was most prominent.

It was agony mixed with heaven. I never wanted him to stop. He pulled on my hands, using them to force himself harder into me, pushing me to my limits. The carpet rubbed against my cheek, the friction stinging my skin.

He pushed harder and harder into me, to the point where I thought my body would break if he didn’t stop, but I never wanted it to end.

The muscles in my body tightened around him, tensing before exploding into the most severe climax of my life.

He yelled out a string of curses as his body tightened over me momentarily before detonating into his own devastating release.

He collapsed over the top of me, my arms still bound behind me as I lay flat on the floor, his weight pressing my exhausted limbs into the ground.

He blew out a breath, and then he trailed kisses along the shirt still covering my back. He leaned up as he unbound my hands.

He leaned back against the foot of my couch. He pulled me into his arms, cradling me to him, kissing my forehead. “Jimi. You okay, baby?” he whispered to me softly.

The tender display almost brought tears to my eyes again.

I nodded. “Never better.” My voice sounded raspy and foreign to my ears.

He ran his fingertips gently down my stinging cheek. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I asked, my voice lethargic.

“Rug burn. Does it hurt?”

I shrugged. It did, but pain was all relative. I’d never felt more alive than when Parker was driving into me and my face was planted against the floor.

I’d take the pain of Parker’s pleasure over the pain of losing everyone I loved any day.

fourteen

I showed him to the hallway bathroom, and I headed to my own bedroom to freshen up. We met back in my family room. He was already sitting on my couch, his feet perched on my coffee table. The hat that had adorned my table for the past six weeks was now perched backward on Parker’s head.

“Your statute of limitations is up,” I said, nodding toward his hat. “That’s my hat now.”

He chuckled. “Don’t think so, babe.”

I walked over to him and pulled it off his head, putting it on my own. Facing forward.

“You a Sox fan?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t give a shit about baseball.”

“At least you know which sport they play.”

I sat on the couch beside him and mirrored him, stretching my legs out to reach the coffee table. “I’m smart like that.”

“So you don’t like baseball. What do you like?” He scooted closer to me, resting his arm on the back of the couch behind me as I leaned in a little closer to him. He was warm beside me.

I shrugged.

“You do that a lot,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Shrug.”

“It’s my thing.”

“Stop.”

“Why?”

“It screams indifference, and I just don’t see you as someone who doesn’t care.”

His assessment of me caused me to chuckle. “What do you see me as?”

“I think you are someone who cares a lot but who has gotten used to people using you or ignoring you because of your dad. Or maybe you’ve gotten used to being in the shadows. But that’s not where you are with me.”

I turned toward him. “Where, exactly, am I with you?”

“On my mind. Constantly.” His answer was immediate, as if he’d anticipated the question before I’d even asked it.

I wasn’t sure how he managed to do it, but Parker James constantly surprised me.

He kissed my temple. “Are you hungry?”

I nodded.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I’ve got stuff to throw together a salad.”

“Sounds perfect.”

I stood up and stretched, and Parker followed me. He perched on one of the stools at my counter while I got to work in the kitchen.

I tossed some lettuce into a bowl in an attempt to put together our dinner. My movements were slow. I’d never been sore like this after sex before.

But, then, I’d never had a man slam into me with quite the flair Parker had.

He watched me, and after a while he stood and wandered quietly around my family room. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he was quiet for a few moments. I glanced at my wrists as I continued to shred the lettuce. Red welts lined my arms from the belt that burrowed into my skin as he pulled on it.

Long sleeves would definitely be in my future for the next few days.

I felt him move in behind me. We were both fully clothed again except for bare feet.

His heat pressed in behind me as he swept my hair off of my neck. I felt his scruff tickling the sensitive part of my neck, sending goose bumps down my arms. His tongue darted out, and then he suckled briefly on my flesh.

His voice was close to my ear, soft and raspy and musical. “Can I help you with anything?”

I shrugged as I ripped what little was left of the poor head of lettuce and tossed it into the bowl. I couldn’t speak, not when he was so close to me. He weakened all of my defenses and backed me into a corner that I couldn’t find my way out of—that I didn’t want to find my way out of. 

He spun me around to face him, gripping my wrists behind my back in his hands. His eyes stared into mine, dark and dangerous, and I realized once more that I really knew very little about this man.

He was an incredibly talented musician.

He fucked like an animal.

I wanted him.

Apart from that, he was a stranger I’d let into my home and into my body.

A flash of fear prickled through me, fear that I wasn’t quick enough to erase from my eyes.

His lips curled up as he watched the fear play through my eyes.

“Are you scared, Jimi?”

“N—no,” I stuttered.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice was cold and sharp.

I took a breath. “I just don’t know you.”

“Only naughty girls let strangers into their homes for a quick fuck.”

“Is that what this is?”

He shrugged.

Disappointment shot through my gut. I wanted him to defend what we had. I didn’t like that he was minimizing the things I’d felt, that he was making it sound cheap when the emotions I’d been feeling were real and valuable.

“Your eyes give you away, Jimi.” He let go of my hands and ran his fingertips up my arms. I shivered.

“Stop calling me that,” I said, pushing his chest. He didn’t budge; instead, he looked mildly annoyed that I’d tried to push him away.

“Why?” he challenged.

“Because you’re just here for a quick fuck. Nicknames imply affection.”

He grasped my chin in his fingertips, forcing my eyes to stay on his. “I never said I don’t care about you.”

“How do my eyes give me away?” I changed the subject.

He pressed a soft kiss to my lips, a kiss that was at odds with our conversation. “You looked so disappointed when I shrugged.”

“I was.”

“Why?”

I pulled my chin away from his grasp, desperate to look anywhere but at him. 

“I’m not letting you get away with a non-answer.”

“Because I like you, okay? And I’m scared of what that could mean for me, but I’m terrified of what that could mean for you.”

“Why don’t you let me handle myself?”

“Because there are some forces that you can’t fight against.”

“And you think you’re strong enough to fight those forces for me?”

“No,” I whispered. “And that’s what terrifies me.”

“Someone once told me that people only look strong because the others around them are weak.”

“Are you saying I’m weak?”

“I’m saying being strong is an illusion. Sometimes it’s okay to be weak. Vulnerable.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, because I knew he was right, but I couldn’t allow myself to be vulnerable. I couldn’t let him see that side of me. I had to at the very least put up the front that I could handle whatever this was, to pretend it wouldn’t shred me into a million tiny pieces by the time we were done.

Because I knew that someday we’d be done. Something that came on this strong this fast didn’t have the capability to make it long distance.

“Can you hand me the cucumber?” I finally asked, changing the subject.

“Talking to you is like playing verbal dodgeball.”

“Yeah, well dealing with you is like playing emotional Russian roulette.”

“Good one.” He passed me the cucumber.

“So tell me more about your music,” I said, trying anything to change the subject.

“It’s my thing. Like yours is shrugging. Or is yours something else?”

“Mine’s you,” I answered. My words came out of my mouth unfiltered. But really, my craving was disturbing. Dangerous.

I caught him by surprise. “Me?”

“You’re dangerous, Parker.”

“I don’t know about that,” he whispered. “I’m more of a protector, Jimi.”

I believed his words. I moved toward the refrigerator to grab the salad dressing. I heard him muttering softly behind me, so softly that I was sure he hadn’t wanted me to hear him, but I did. “I shouldn’t even be here with you, but I’m here breaking the rules because I can’t stay the fuck away.”

I briefly wondered what rules he was talking about, why he shouldn’t be here with me, but I understood what he meant. It went without saying.

He was this playboy, this man on the road to stardom. He could have whoever he wanted. He should be in an alley behind some venue getting head from a random girl he’d never see again.

Instead he was here with me, at my home, watching me domestically make us a salad for dinner while he contemplated whatever the hell was starting between us.

It was completely wrong. We were all wrong for each other. But I had all these feelings, these emotions created by the gorgeous man standing in my kitchen, and I wasn’t strong enough to push him away. I wasn’t strong enough to protect him from the destruction I’d eventually cause in his life.

We were quiet as we ate salad and washed it down with scotch over ice. I didn’t have any other liquor at my place. I hadn’t entertained too many guests. Only one, in fact, since I’d moved in: my dad. He bought me the place and came over for a one-on-one housewarming party, giving me a bottle of aged scotch as a housewarming gift.

The scotch tasted disgusting. I liked wine. Beer. The occasional rum and Coke.

But I was getting drunk. Fast.

Our silence wasn’t awkward; the exact opposite, in fact. We didn’t have anything else to say after our revelations. I had about a million questions. I wanted to get to know him, to understand him, to appreciate him, to fall for him. But instead we sat in comfortable silence, sharing a meal. I’d read somewhere once that sharing a meal symbolized peace, and our moments were peaceful together despite the whirling of my mind and the dizzying sensation of the scotch.

It was hard to reconcile the peacefulness of our meal with the vicious sex we’d shared less than an hour earlier. It was difficult to look at this man sitting across from me and not want him to fuck me again with every fiber of my being.

And the more scotch I drank, the more I wanted his cock pulsing inside of me again.

I pushed my plate away, having eaten only half my salad. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I couldn’t focus on eating when I could only focus on Parker.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, breaking the silence.

I shrugged.

“I really fucking hate it when you do that.”

I giggled. Actually giggled. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat with someone and giggled.

Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time I was drunk, either.

I felt weightless and happy like a child.

“What?” he asked, annoyed.

“You hate it when I shrug?”

“I hate your indifference. It’s not you.”

“You know that pretty much the only thing I allowed myself to feel for the last year was indifference until the day you stepped into Vintage?” The words rushed out of my mouth. I hadn’t meant to say them, but the scotch was speaking for me.

Surprise lit his face. 

I was starting to form a habit of surprising him. And I loved his reaction. It was the same every time. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and the dark edge in his eyes was momentarily replaced with a bright light. His lips quirked, and he tended to run his fingers through the scruff on his chin. Not always, but most of the time.

“Why?”

“Why what?” I asked, hoping he wasn’t really going to ask me to explain.

“Why did you feel indifference? Why was I the one who made you feel again?”

I shrugged.

“Goddammit.” He glared at me.

“Sorry,” I murmured. “I forced emotions away for a long time after my ex left. I’m not sure what about you made me start to feel again.”

“Probably my outrageously good looks.”

A hint of a smile played at my lips. “Probably.”

We were quiet again for a few comfortable moments.

“It was your voice, Parker. I put on the Flashing Light album when the line started forming in the store. It was the first time I’d heard your music, and I was drawn to you.”

“To me?”

I nodded.

“Not to Fitz?”

I shook my head. “I like his sound. At first I couldn’t figure out what kept replaying in my head. I was drawn to your music from the first note of the first song, but something beyond the lead’s voice kept washing over me. I finally realized that it was you. I was drawn to your voice. To your words. And eventually to you.”

“How do you know they’re
my
words?”

“I read the booklet.”

He smiled sheepishly.

“Did you write all those songs, Parker?”

He nodded. “I once heard that a song can make you forget or remember. I wanted to write the words that could make someone feel that. Forgetting. Remembering. Every other emotion. So for you to tell me that my words made you feel… Jesus, Jimi. It sounds cheesy, but you saying that means fucking everything to me.”

Our eyes met over the table. I didn’t know what to say to that, but our eyes said it for us.

“Anyway,” he said, breaking the meaningful silence between us, “Fitz has a better voice, so he sings.”

“I disagree with that assessment. But I’m no expert.”

“Some would argue that you are an expert.”

“Because of my dad?” I sighed dramatically. I hated the labels that came with a rock star daddy. “Hardly.”