Cold, Hard, & Heartless: A Rock Star Romance (Heartless Few Book 2) Read online

  I waste no time striding toward the shower. Before I enter the cubicle, I take one more long look at my caramel-colored Goldilocks. In actual fact, her hair is dark, almost black, blended with rich tones of maple syrup. It hangs in thick glossy ringlets that swish back and forth across the top of her buttocks as she moves. Holy shit. I need to be inside her. Stat.

  I open the cubicle door, thanking God I had the foresight to install an oversized shower—we’re going to need all the space we can get, and then some, for what I have in mind. As she hears the door open, she turns to me, her eyes widening in surprise. She smiles as she notices I’m erect and ready for her. With one hand she begins tweaking her nipples, alternating between them, moaning as they pebble at her touch. The other hand skates down her soapy body, skimming her modest curves and further stoking my need. As it moves between her legs, she curls her middle finger, slipping it inside herself. Maintaining eye contact, she slides her finger back out, reaching up to push it into her mouth, sucking hungrily. Fuck. I don’t know if I’m even going to make it inside if she carries on like this.

  As though reading my mind, she turns, taking a few steps toward the back wall of the shower. Placing her palms against the wall to brace herself, she bends slightly, angling her butt out toward me. Her intention is clear, and I don’t hesitate in accepting her invitation. In a few quick strides I’m against her, my chest to her back, pushing my painfully hard dick toward her urgently. She yields to me immediately, opening her legs and rising on tiptoe to allow me in. As I slip inside her, I’m sure I’ve died and gone to heaven. If I haven’t, but were to die right now, at least I’d die happy. Very. Fucking. Happy.

  As I push in to the hilt, she shudders and clenches around me. Shit. She’s as ready for this as I am, and I know it’s going to be fast and frantic. The first time, at least. I take a moment to situate myself and allow us both to adjust to what we’re feeling. After that, there’s no holding back. I thrust into her like both our lives depend on it. Each thrust takes us closer to our shared climax, and neither of us are interested in taking our time. We set a breakneck pace, desperate for our eventual release. I give one last hard thrust as we both come and…

  …I realize I’ve zoned out, standing in the bathroom, staring at the naked intruder. What the fucking fuck is that about? Is there even a name for that? A waking wet dream? An erotic daydream? I don’t know, but I’m seriously beginning to wonder if I’m going out of my tiny little mind. That shit cannot be normal. I thought the workout had done me good, but maybe I’m still drunk. Or high. Or both.

  I turn my attention back to Not Goldilocks, still scrubbing herself in the shower, apparently blissfully unaware of my presence—and boy is she scrubbing. She’s alternating between her body and her hair, and seems to be on a mission to rid herself of her skin and scalp. Why else would she be going at such a frenetic pace? What’s the story? Fleas? Lice? OCD? Flesh-eating bacteria?

  Fuck if I know, but I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that this definitely isn’t heaven. Though the vision in front of me is beautiful enough to feature in a tableau depicting the delights that await us on the other side, something here isn’t quite right. In fact, it’s not right at all. There’s no reasonable explanation for the fact there’s a naked woman scratching in my shower, no matter how unbelievably hot she is.

  Fuck me sideways. These paparazzo motherfuckers stooped to new lows every day to get a scoop, and last night I played right into their hands, throwing them a juicy bone, fucking Marnie in a parking lot while a drone flew overhead. Or should that be boner? Either way, the fallout is going to be ugly. The thought both snaps me out of my reverie and propels me another step closer to sobriety. Suddenly, my previously dusty and fuzzy mind is razor sharp. There’s an itchy naked chick in my fucking shower.

  Oh. Hell. No. She picked the wrong guy to fuck with today. I’m not about to fall for some kind of honey trap bullshit. So I make my fantasy about taking her in the shower a reality, and then what? How long before the photos, or worse still, videos, are doing the rounds of the international media? Last night’s fiasco was an error in judgment of epic proportions, but even hungover, or still drunk, or however my current state can best be described, I have my shit together enough not to let lightning strike twice in the same twelve-hour period. The paparazzi have had all the tabloid trash they’re going to get from me for the foreseeable future, so I hope they enjoy it.

  Chapter Three

  This shit stops now, and little miss Not Goldilocks needs to get the hell out of my house before I decide to get tough and call the fucking cops on her. I could have her arrested for… what? Breaking and entering, for sure. Maybe indecent exposure as well. I laugh inwardly at the thought. I just had a waking wet dream about her, and despite my growing rage at her presence, my dick is still diamond-hard as I stand here watching her. The idea of prosecuting her for indecent exposure is frankly hilarious.

  I stride across to the bathroom bench and dump her clothes. All except the teeny tiny bra. I keep that like a trophy, dangling it from the end of my index finger. It weighs almost nothing. Next I approach the shower and flick the thermostat across from skin-scorchingly hot to icicle-inducing cold. I internally high-five myself for having had the foresight to have the shower faucet installed outside the cubicle; it was a stroke of fucking genius. I forget the original rationale. I’m sure it wasn’t so I could freeze out a buck naked intruder, but it has sure as shit come in handy in this instance.

  I watch in amusement for the few seconds it takes for the glacial water to hit her skin. My mirth grows as she jumps back like a startled kitten, flattening herself against the back wall of the shower, obviously trying (and failing) to keep the subzero water from touching her. I’m actually finding the sight unreasonably funny. It’s like a scene from a romcom or some shit. She honestly looks like a drowned rat. Her hair is plastered to her face in soggy tendrils, shampoo still clearly present. The same goes for her body. Her skin is slick with water, and sudsy body wash, glistening and smooth. I want to see what it feels like so bad, it’s all I can do to refrain from reaching out and stroking her. I imagine running my hands up and down her body would be like caressing fine velvet.

  She looks around rapidly, clearly trying to make sense of what is going on. I almost feel sorry for her in that moment. Almost. And then I remember why she’s here, and the feeling passes. Fuck her. Figuratively, I mean, although I clearly wouldn’t say no if the literal offer was on the table also. Her eyes meet mine, and motherfucker, I’ll be damned if staring into hers doesn’t completely knock me on my ass. I feel winded. Her eyes. They are the biggest, most expressive I’ve ever seen. Looking into those pools of molten chocolate, I suddenly understand why people say they are the windows to the soul. I feel like I really see her. She looks fucking terrified.

  My resolve is momentarily shaken. The fear on her face seems genuine, and her body language seems to back that up—she’s trying, and failing, to cover herself up with her hands. Too late, sweetheart, I’ve already seen what you have to offer. If this is all put on for my benefit, she’s one hell of an actress. This is an Oscar-worthy performance, and there’s nobody here to see it but me. “And… the Academy Award goes to… Not Goldilocks for her performance in Freezing and Shocked in Arlo Jones’s Shower….” Hahaha, I’m funny as fuck, but I’m also getting increasingly pissed with this charade with every passing second. Time to shut it the fuck down.

  My mind races, calculating my next move, but before I can get it together to say or do anything, Not Goldilocks beats me to it, and in the most unexpected way. She starts yelling. Bloodcurdling screams at the top of her lungs. Damn. She’s like a human rape alarm. The sound feels like it has the power to tear my skull clean in half, and it hurts like holy hell. I need it to stop right now, before it kills me. I’m guessing she’s hoping to attract somebody’s attention with that ruckus, so it’s a good thing I’m not planning to harm her—if I were, her screaming would be pointless. We’re in what is
essentially a marble-lined soundproof bunker in a basement in a completely empty house. It’s the ultimate “nobody can hear you scream” scenario.

  I swing the minuscule scrap of fabric posing as a bra from side to side at the end of my index finger. I don’t think she realized I had it before, although I did catch her checking me out from head to toe, so maybe she was too distracted by my assets to notice. My dick is still as hard as fuck, which I’m sure she couldn’t fail to notice. Unfortunately, my giant boner and the bra swinging only cause her to scream louder, so I’ve succeeded in making a bad situation worse. Time to try a new tactic.

  “Shut up! Just. Shut. The. Hell. Up.” Oops, I sound angrier than I had intended to, and not surprisingly, my uninvited guest now looks beyond terrified. Jesus. I stop for a few beats, giving myself the opportunity to calm down a little, and soften my voice before I speak again.

  “Please, for the love of God and all that is fucking holy, just shut your mouth! You are not helping my hangover.”

  That seems to do the trick. Hesitantly, she stops screaming. Softly, softly, Arlo. Softly, softly, I recite to myself. Looks like I’ve got a live wire on my hands, and I’m beginning to believe she’s genuinely spooked, not just playacting. I guess being naked while I’m clothed, albeit only in shorts, doesn’t help.

  “Okay, that’s better. Shit. You just about burst my eardrums, and with my hearing, that’s an achievement. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Who am I? Who are you, more like?” Ha! She seems to be attempting to brazen it out, as though the situation doesn’t faze her. I’m not buying it. Despite her previously A-grade acting skills, I can hear the note of uncertainty in her voice loud and clear.

  Even still, I’m finding it hard to keep my cool. This situation is fucked, and it’s not really on me to be Mr. Nice Guy about it, given I’m the one whose privacy has been violated. In all my years of being harassed and harangued by fans—and don’t get me wrong, at times I have more than loved their attention—this is the most extreme case of insanity I’ve come across, and the more I think about it, the weirder it seems. I mean, why was she even down here? She couldn’t have known I was working out, so what was her plan? If I had slept longer would I have woken up to find her standing over the bed with a pickax, or telling me to rub the lotion on my skin? The thought fuels the fire of my growing rage.

  “You fans have done some crazy-ass shit before, but this takes the fucking cake! Did you get a thrill from using my shower? Or did you think I’d find you, jump in and ravish you? That is some full-scale bunny-boiling madness right there.” I barely pause for breath.

  “I’m pretty obliging, most of the time—interviews, meet and greets, signing underwear, blow jobs, threesomes, kinky fuckery. You name it. Hell, I pretty much bed one of you every night, two on Sundays. ’Cause that’s the kind of selfless guy I am.” Despite my foul mood, I can’t help but smirk at my own joke.

  “But I draw the line at breaking and entering. I’m entitled to the tiniest shred of privacy. In. My. Own. Home. How the hell did you even get in here? Did you have yourself mailed to me, like those girls did to the Beatles?” This thing with the paparazzi drone last night has rattled me, and maybe the come-down paranoia has set in a little also. I pace the small space, increasingly agitated.

  “Thi… this is your house?” Not Goldilocks offers up, her teeth chattering in her head.

  “As if you didn’t know.” Come on, she must think I was born yesterday and grew up overnight.

  “N-n-n-n-no. I d-d-d-d-didn’t. I mean, I don’t.” Shit, she’s seriously cold, I think her lips are turning blue. That’s not cool. Whatever game she’s playing, and whoever put her up to it, the last thing I want is a corpse on my hands. I can just imagine the headlines.

  It’s only then that I take a proper look at her. I mean obviously by this point I’ve seen her. I stood and watched her for however long before she even knew I was here—and then had a waking fantasy about fucking her—and while I obviously didn’t get to see her full face, I noticed she has the perfect profile. Since I turned off the water, I’ve been looking at her, sure, but I haven’t really been seeing her. I was too busy losing my shit to properly take in her features, and now that I am, I almost wish I never had. If merely looking into her eyes stole my breath, studying her whole face has pretty much paralyzed me. Deer in the headlights doesn’t even come close. I’m dumbfounded. As in, totally made stupid.

  Then we fall into an exchange that’s like something from The Comedy of Errors, or Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First” sketch. We dance around in circles for a while, until my patience is hanging by a thread. In the end, I manage to drag a few sketchy and highly suspect details from her. Apparently her name is London—I’m skeptical, but she maintains it’s the truth. Even less believable is the fact that she claims to be my house cleaner. My naked, showering, hotter-than-hell house cleaner. I mean, you couldn’t write this shit! Although I strongly suspect that somebody did, and the whole sorry story would make a great addition to my memoir when I’m old enough to have one.

  She attempts to explain her nakedness by recounting a funny but equally unlikely story about a spider holocaust and an anxiety attack. I don’t even bother to follow all of the details; it sounds like so much bullshit piled on top of bullshit, with a side of bullshit. The CliffsNotes version is that there was a spider apocalypse while she cleaned the ceiling in one of the formal sitting rooms. She ended up covered in spider corpses and had a meltdown, stripping off all her clothes and jumping into the shower as a result. I guess the spider story makes some sense of her scratching herself half to death, but doesn’t make her seem any less nuts. Still, the whole thing smells like the fakest of #fakenews.

  As she’s talking, I alternate between listening and imagining how good she would feel wrapped around my dick. She catches me checking her out, and I’m rewarded with her looking back at me like I’m a serial killer. Ironic really, given she’s the one who broke into my pad, not the other way around. Still, when she gets out of the shower and flinches as I reach across to sweep her wet hair out of her eyes, I feel unexpectedly remorseful. I have a terrible reputation on a good day, and have given exactly zero fucks about it for years, yet this one woman thinks I might hurt her, and it feels like someone gave me a right hook to the gut.

  Chapter Four

  I do the gentlemanly thing and turn my back to let Not Goldilocks get dressed. I’d like to say I refrained from watching the whole thing in the mirror on the wall opposite, but that would be a lie. Still, it’s definitely less asshole-y than my previous behavior, if only slightly. I even offer her a few towels when she’s done. I don’t want her to catch her death of cold. Although she’s technically fully dressed, the reality is a minuscule pair of shorts and an increasingly transparent white T-shirt. Her wet hair is dripping all over her, and she’s barefoot. She’s a sight for sore eyes. Part bedraggled urchin, part off-duty supermodel. Even in this state, she really is exceedingly beautiful.

  As we leave the bathroom, I hear an audible sigh of relief from her, and I feel a shift in the atmosphere as we step out into the studio area. I guess it beats being trapped in a soundproof room. I totally get that. As we climb inside the tiny elevator together, the vibe changes again, and for the first time, I get the impression that the sexual attraction isn’t one-way. Not only do I catch her openly checking me out in the mirror—big me and “little” me—but there’s also a subtle but no less palpable shift of power. Until this point, I felt I was calling the shots. Now, even while barefoot and dripping, she has somehow wrestled back some of the control. How this can be, I don’t quite know, but it is what it is, I guess.

  As outlandish as the whole spider story was, the real ace comes when she claims to have kind of maybe sort of heard of the band in general, and me specifically. I mean, it sounds arrogant as shit, but that’s how I know for sure that everything she’s saying is a crock. She’s a woman of a certain age in possession of both a pair of ears and, I assu
me, a working uterus; how the fuck could she not know who we are? I can’t figure out her angle, but I know for damned sure she has one. There’s no way on God’s green earth that shit’s true. None.

  But then I call her aunt who apparently runs the cleaning company she works for, and that side of her story seems to check out, so I’m left not knowing what to think.

  As we stand there in the kitchen, something changes again. There’s a zing in the air and a current running between us. It’s actual chemistry—a chemical reaction involving the two of us—and the effect has the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I’m acutely and painfully aware of her all of a sudden. Every breath, every twitch, every feeling conveyed on her face plays out in hyperreal terms, as though somehow being wired between the two of us. It’s like watching the game on a movie screen—everything is larger than life. I note her move from scared and apprehensive to… what? Intrigued? Turned on?

  I can’t get enough of just watching her, reading her, drinking in every detail, committing it to memory to refer to later. And by refer, I mean jack off. I know right now that whatever happens, she’ll be a star feature in my spank bank for a long time to come. Pun very much intended. I don’t just want to jerk off to memories of this woman, though. I mean, that would be nice, obviously—I’m never one to shy away from a good self-care session or three—but even though what little I know of this chick is frankly weird, I have an uncontrollable urge to spend more time with her, get to know her more, intimately.

  This is weird and it’s freaking me out a little. I don’t spend time with chicks, I fuck them. I don’t get to know them, I get into them. Then once I’m out, so are they. Out the door. Even with Marnie I keep the chitchat to the bare minimum. We met at high school, and the two of us have been screwing for almost as long, yet to this day I know relatively little about her.