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Quilo moves slowly, giving me time to adjust to his length and piercings. He teases me and drives me wild until I’m begging and bucking my hips, wanting more, already on the precipice of another desperate orgasm.
“Quil, please,” I beg.
“What do you want, firefly? Tell me.”
“Faster. Or harder. Or...something,” I pant, making him chuckle.
“I can do both. Do you want that?”
“Please.” I nod.
He shifts so that he’s standing, and I immediately miss the heat of his body against mine. But as soon as his hands grip my hips and he uses the momentum of the swing to impale me on him, I can’t think about anything except the sensations he’s creating.
As he picks up speed, my walls tighten around him. He drives into me with such force and speed that his piercings make my bones rattle. It feels like driving over rumble strips in Betty, but in a good way. In an oh-my-god I’m coming again kind of way.
“Quil!” I cry, clamping down around him and shuddering through another earth shattering climax. He groans and fills me, before stilling so we can catch our breath.
“What the hell did you put in my drink?” he jokes, thankfully panting as hard as I am. I’m relieved that it seems to be as good for him as it was for me. “Are those lattes an aphrodisiac? If so, I’m banning you from drinking them when I’m not around.”
I laugh and he groans.
“Don't laugh. You’re so tight and I’m so sensitive. It’s torture.”
I give a little squeeze to tease him and he throbs inside of me. My eyes widen at the way he still feels semi-hard. He grins and winks before pulling free and I let him help me out of the swing. I slip into the changing rooms to clean up, and when I come back I’m relieved that Quilo’s still naked. He holds his arms out for me and I step into his warm embrace.
“All joking aside, that was amazing. Thank you,” I say. He passes me his shirt and I pull it on, immediately feeling giggly and girlie, like a real band groupie. He notices my change in demeanor and teases me.
“Why are you hiding in Silver Springs?” I ask him as we drop down onto the mats and curl up together. Both of us seem reluctant to get dressed and leave.
“The Black Wings are great. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love my band mates. But our manager is an absolute nightmare. We’re in between tours and recordings right now and we’re supposed to be working on new material. The manager thinks we have to all shack up together and spend twenty-four-seven living in each other’s pockets to ‘enhance the creative process,’” he explains scornfully.
“And you disagree?”
“We all do. We managed twelve days before we were trying to kill each other. Literally.”
“But you spend longer together when you’re on tour, surely?”
“But on tour, we travel, perform, party and rest. We have a set list and we’re literally shipped everywhere, told what to do, when to do it, and it’s all done on autopilot. Left to our own devices, with the added pressure of being creative and original...well, it all proved too much.”
“So does anyone know where you are? Aren’t you rumored to be in rehab?”
“That’s my manager’s latest idea. When I disappeared and didn’t come back, she decided that she couldn’t be responsible for ‘losing’ one of the biggest stars in the country right now, so she told the press I was in rehab to buy herself some time to try and find me.”
“And the rest of the band?”
“They know I’m alive and okay and taking some time out. They don’t need my GPS location.”
“Okay.” I get it, what he’s saying, but it makes me realize that he can’t stay hidden forever. And when he resurfaces, he has commitments. They all do.
My face falls.
“Hey, none of that. I’m not going anywhere, beautiful. I already had a plan in place before I met you. I’m going to finish my current contract and then I’m quitting the band. I wanted to stay with Whit and Yas anyway, and we’ve really made a go of things here with the rink, so it feels right to put down roots. And now I’ve met you, it just confirms that I’m on the right path and I’m exactly where I need to be. With you, making a family.”
I love that he feels he can confide in me. I’m so tempted to tell Quilo about Ade’s father and my past, but we’re interrupted by my phone ringing. I scramble over to where I left it at the start of the lesson and glance at the caller display.
“Hello?” I say carefully, answering the call from Ade’s school.
“Hi, is that Ade’s mom?” A cheery but slightly strained voice asks.
“Speaking,” I reply, my own tone tinged with dread.
“Hi. We need you to come to the school to collect Ade right away.”
