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“Speed it up,” I say, my sight bouncing around to the tune building in my head. “And come in with the hook here.” I point at the line, the one that leads to the slam of the music. The one where the beat drops and comes back harder than before.
Rex nods and steps back to reposition the strap over his torso and plays the section over again, but faster and harder than the first time.
Goosebumps rise on my skin as the notes ring loud through the venue, truly testing the speaker system and giving the techs a freebie to witness the great As Above in full-on writing mode.
“Goddayum,” someone says when the guitar stops and a silence falls over the stage.
Rex looks at me then, his smirk notched up, and meets my eyes.
“Goddayumis right.” I spin to the audio tech frozen in his spot with his jaw mopping the floor. “Get this man a fucking mic.”
Chapter Three
Cedar
Bassthumpsoverthespeakers and echoes across the open floor to bounce off of the mostly brick walls of the tattoo parlor and reverberates right back to my eardrums.
Like a heartbeat outside of my body, the organ in my chest races to catch up with the rhythm as each roll of my hips spurs the beat faster, harder.
Closer.
Closer to that delicious edge where my brain stores all the feel-good chemicals that make stressful shit seem so much easier, and further from the compartments of my brain where the body aches and the overwhelm are kept. Further from the responsibility of planning a bachelorette party, where the knots in my back have knots that make leaning over to work so much worse, and definitely far away from being able to squeeze into a bridesmaid’s dress I know I’m going to hate along with the ink show that has to happen before any of that.
And definitely far away from that nagging voice in the back of my head that sounds an awful lot like judgment for my life choices.
The organization of a four-day tattoo convention coupled with the biggest rock show in the history of ever is some of the worst planning I’ve ever had to do.
But it’s what you do when no one knows you’ve tatted the neck of a bigshot rockstar and frontman like Rex fucking Thompson. And plan on marrying him to his future bride, who happens to be your bestest friend.
That’s right. Cedar Jones—akamoi—is officially an ordainedminister.
Who would have seen that shit coming?
“Oh, baby.“ The breathy words bring me back from the to-do list ranking itself from highest priority to the room and the taut thighs I brace myself on. The thick muscles beneath my palms.
Thighs I’ve tattooed.
A slamming body I’ve inked and seen naked a few times already.
“You like that?” My breathy tone is a little bit forced, a result of doing all the damn work.
“Yeah,” the man beneath me groans, his grip on my hips tightening with each wave of my ass meeting his pelvis. “I love looking at your ass when you ride me.”
“Then stop talking.” I grind down until he’s a moaning mess and drive myself closer to the only reason I’m doing him.
Reaching between us, I tweak my clit until he’s filling the condom and I reach that delicious release that’s almost as good as when I do it myself.
Simple.
Easy.
The best I’m going to get.
I’m up off him once I catch my breath, handing over his shirt and pants to get his ass out of my chair and moving on to the next thing he does with his life.
“You don’t always have to rush me off, baby.” The lopsided grin on his face suggests otherwise as he stabs his feet into his pants and pulls them up to sit low on his waist while I yank my tank back over my braless tits and jam my feet into my cut-offs.
“I got shit I gotta do, Trey.” I shake my head and do up the button on my shorts when he steps into my space to place his hands on my hips, pulling me to his sweaty chest.
