She moaned as his lips closed around one nipple and he started to suck. “We need to talk about the band,” she finally managed to choke out. But her hands were tangling in his hair to hold him in place as she arched her back and thrust her nipple more firmly into his mouth.
“We will.” He bit down gently on her nipple, relishing the soft, broken sound she made. “Later.”
“This is your career. You need—” Her protests were broken and her body hot as it arched against him. That, combined with her hands—which were clutching at him like a lifeline—was all it took to convince him she wanted him as badly as he did her.
“I need you,” he said, pressing his advantage as he dropped to his knees in front of her. “Please, Poppy. I need…” He broke off, clamping his jaw shut on the words that were swimming around in his head, just waiting to tumble out. He couldn’t say them, not now. Not ever. Not when what he’d already said had made him more vulnerable than he’d allowed himself to be in months. Years.
Fuck, maybe even forever.
As the thought washed over him, he closed his eyes, tilted his face down so Poppy couldn’t see. She wasn’t having it, though, her hands tangling in his hair and tugging at the stuff, hard, until he had no choice but to once again look up at her.
As their gazes met, locked, he tried to cover up all the shit he was feeling, tried to keep his face blank and his eyes veiled. But he could tell it wasn’t working, could tell she could see right through him, and for a moment, just a moment, he wished for a hit. For a drink. For something, anything, to keep him from feeling all the emotions currently battering around inside of him.
The shrinks at rehab had warned him about that, had told him if he kept using avoidance as a coping mechanism he was going to find himself right back where he’d started. But they didn’t get it. He didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to face everything that had happened all those years ago. If he did, he was afraid he’d unravel so completely that he’d never be sober again.
He waited for Poppy to turn him away, told himself the last thing he needed to be doing was using her to hide from his other, darker cravings. It wasn’t fair to her, or himself.
Besides, hadn’t he learned his lesson yet? Trust him to kick heroin only to turn around and get hooked on a whole different kind of poppy. He really was a fucking moron.
He started to apologize, to tell her to forget the whole thing. But then she was stroking a hand over his cheek, her thumb rubbing back and forth across his mouth, each swipe a little harder. A little more insistent. A little hotter. Even as he called himself every name he could think of, he parted his lips and nipped at the fleshy part of her thumb before sucking it inside of his mouth.
She gasped, shivered, but she never looked away from him. Never took her eyes off of his.
Watching her pupils dilate with arousal, watching those golden brown eyes of hers turn almost completely black, was the last fucking straw. It broke his control, broke him wide open, until all he could think about was tasting her, having her. Fucking her.
And then he was pulling her pants down, ripping her panties off and tossing them to the ground by her feet as he buried his face in her sex and just breathed her in for several long, perfect seconds.
She cried out then, a loud, desperate sound that made him want nothing more than to hear it again. And again. And again. That made him want nothing more than to spend the rest of the afternoon getting her off any and every way she would let him. Starting with her pussy against his mouth.
He darted his tongue out, swiped it back and forth across her clit until her breath broke and her knees trembled. They fucking trembled, and she fell into him, her hands clutching at his shoulder, her nails digging into his upper back.
He grabbed on to her, tried to hold her close, to steady her. But her hands were back in his hair and she was tugging at him, urging him to his feet even as he licked his way along her slit.
“My turn,” she told him, her voice husky but determined.
“I know,” he answered, pressing the words into the soft skin of her jaw as he licked his way toward her mouth. “I’ll take care of you.” He started to undo the delicate buttons of her blouse.
“No.” Her fingers were fumbling with his belt. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”
And then his jeans were open and she was on her knees in front of him.
It was so unexpected that for long seconds, he didn’t say anything. He just stared down at her, completely wrapped up in how goddamn beautiful she was with her flushed skin, her sparkling eyes, her kiss-swollen lips.
In that moment, he wanted her mouth on him more than he’d ever wanted anything—even smack. And still he cupped her cheek in his hand. Still he said, voice hoarse and more than a little strained, “You don’t have to.”
She grinned up at him then, and slid her tongue along the perfect bow of her upper lip. “Oh, I have to all right,” she told him, leaning forward to press a kiss against the tip of his very hard, very aroused dick. “I really, really do.”
And then she was pulling him inside her mouth, her tongue running along the underside of his cock. This time, his knees were the ones that shook.
Chapter Ten
She shouldn’t be doing this. She absolutely shouldn’t be doing this.
Every argument Poppy had given herself in the last three days—and especially the last thirty minutes, since Wyatt quit the band—went round and round in her head as she slid her hands around to cup Wyatt’s ass so that she could take him deeper.
She ignored them all—every argument, every worry, every consequence she knew would come from this—and concentrated instead on giving him as much pleasure as he’d given her. On making him feel as good as he made her feel.
Doing this was stupid; she knew it with every fiber of her being. Bad for her job, bad for her future, and—she was beginning to be more