I was concerned about Matt seeing Sculpt pulling up on his bike at our place. Most of the time Matt was at his bar when Sculpt dropped me off at night, but in the mornings he was home, and Sculpt’s bike wasn’t the quietest of vehicles. I never mentioned the argument Matt and I had to Sculpt, hoping that Matt would settle in to the idea.
He hadn’t yet.
We went for dinner at the Brazen Head in King Liberty Village. It was a nice restaurant, and I knew Sculpt was saving his money, but he wanted to celebrate the new song he’d written as it was inspired by me.
I tried to persuade him to take me to his place and I could make him dinner, but he told me his place was off limits. That unsettled me a bit, considering I had yet to meet his band, see where he lived, and he still never talked about his past.
Of course, I knew about his band, and he talked about them. Internet became my best friend when I’d met Sculpt, and I’d tried to find out everything I could about him, which included Torn. I scrolled through pictures and blurbs about them. Ream was the lead guitarist, Crisis guitar, and Kite drums. I also read that Crisis was an ass, “offensive” according to one blurb in a local paper. When I mentioned it to Sculpt, he grunted and said Crisis had the article hanging in his bedroom.
Sculpt ate the Jambalaya and had ice cream for dessert. I squirmed in my chair while he licked the remnants of vanilla off his lips, giving me that “look” when he finished—intense eyes, soft mouth, sitting back in his chair, relaxed and casual, arm slung over the back. I felt like I was naked, and he was slowly running his tongue inch by inch across my skin.
I was so turned on by the time the bill came that I stumbled as I shoved back my seat and knocked it over backward. Sculpt chuckled while reaching for my chair, which set me on fire more because I rarely heard him laugh, and it was throaty and deep and sent my pulse racing. He slipped his arm around my waist, leaned in and whispered in my ear how much he wanted to slip his finger between my legs and feel how wet I was . . . My breath hitched, and I swear my body combusted, and I had a mini orgasm right then. Then he whispered, “Soon, I’m sinking into that wetness, Eme. But not yet.”
“When?”
The corners of his lips twitched. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. “When I know your first time will make you scream my name. When I know I have you completely.”
Didn’t he know? He already had me completely. I just wasn’t ready to tell him that. Maybe that was what he was waiting for?
By the time we walked outside, my chest was heaving and my blood was racing through my veins like heated honey. We made it two strides toward his bike before he snagged my hand, shoved me hard against the brick wall and devoured me.
A rush of urgency ripped through me. It was instant relief and release as his mouth drove into mine. His hands grabbed my wrists and pressed them against the wall above my head. Trapped by his heated hardness on one side and the rough, jagged brick on the other, I submitted to him completely. It was pleasure and pain on every part of my skin, and I couldn’t get enough.
He groaned, and the vibration had me quivering beneath his kiss as it sunk straight into my bones.
Nothing was said when he broke away, but when our eyes locked I saw the possession, his need, and I knew I looked the same. We were somewhere neither of us had been before, and it was an utter loss of control.
Back at my place, I wished we stayed longer at the restaurant . . . Well outside the restaurant. I took off my helmet—Sculpt had bought one just for me—and hooked it onto the back seat with the steel cable. When I looked up at him still sitting on his bike, his head was tilted and a lock of hair had fallen in front of his eye. My stomach’s permanent butterflies airlifted and hovered. I sighed, leaning into him, hands pressed into his thigh.
“Are you going to tell me your real name? I mean Sculpt can’t be what your parents named you.” I wanted to know who Sculpt really was, and he was cagey about his childhood, his past. The only thing I knew was that Sculpt’s best friend was Kite, and he considered the band his family.
“I don’t use my real name, Eme. Haven’t since I was sixteen.”
“Why? Is it something that doesn’t suit a fighter rock star, like Elmer or Herbert?” I giggled trying to imagine fans screaming the name Elmer at one of his fights.
He shrugged. “No one except Kite knows it. And it’s staying that way.” His tone was sharp, and I knew I’d touched a sore spot.
I deflated. It was disappointing that he kept a part of himself closed off from me. It hurt, and my confidence took a blow because of it. Maybe Matt was right.
The hardness in Sculpt’s face slipped away, and his arm slipped around my waist. “Do you need that plane flying by your window?”
I smiled.
“My past is real shit, Eme, and I’m not polluting you with it.” His phone went off, and his arm dropped away from me as he pulled it from his leather jacket pocket then scrolled through the text message. “Fight tonight, Mouse.” He typed something, then slid his phone back into his pocket, and linked his hand around the back of my neck, drawing me in for a kiss.
All thoughts of finding out his name vanished as his mouth roamed over mine in a slow, luxurious awakening. It was much different from the wild, out-of-control kiss earlier, but it was so hot and sweet, and I melted into him. He could have me anyway he wanted.