Nalini Singh - Rock Addiction

“No.” She tried to give the phone back. “This is between us—”

“I don’t want you to have any doubts, Molly. You ask him.” He wasn’t angry at her—she’d come to him instead of shutting him out, and that meant everything. But he refused to allow any room for even the tiniest worry, would not permit the users and the liars of the world to poison their relationship. “Go on, baby.” When she continued to hesitate, he pressed his forehead to hers, his hand clasping the side of her neck. “For me.”

It slayed him when she patted his chest and accepted the phone at last. “Noah?” A slight pause. “Can you look up a website on your phone?” She read out the web address of the article and went silent.

A second later Fox heard Noah swear with vicious ferocity before his bandmate lowered the volume on his voice. Fox knew the other man was telling Molly the truth. That Fox had been by his side the entire night. Noah had bad nights and good nights, and last night had been a bad one. So Fox had made sure he wasn’t alone.

“Thank you,” Molly said to the guitarist and returned the phone to Fox.

Taking it, he said, “Go to sleep, Noah.” The phone thrust into a pocket, he slid his hand around to grip Molly’s nape, bending his knees so they were eye to eye. “We okay?”

The shocked hurt that killed him was gone from her expression, but her jaw was now a hard line, her body stiff. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt in that shot?” she snapped, her hand closing over his wrist.

“Because when Abe uncorked the champagne, he sprayed David and me.” It came out a growl. “Honestly, I didn’t think anything of it. I’m shirtless onstage all the time.”

“Well you should have!” she ordered, color on her cheekbones. “You should’ve thought of—”

Oh no, Fox thought when she bit herself off, Molly didn’t get to stop there. Not when she’d come so damn close to claiming him. “I should’ve thought of what?” Having risen to his full height, he tugged back her head with a hand in her hair when she would’ve lowered her eyes.

 “Nothing.” Mutinous denial. “We should go to bed.”

“No.” He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Should I have thought of you?”

Her skin burned under his fingertips, but she held her stubborn ground. “Ignore me. I’ve had a hellish day. I should really catch some sleep.”

Fox didn’t budge. “You were very clear on the rules,” he said. “If you want to change them, tell me.”

A long, tense silence before she said, “You’re leaving in two and a half weeks.”

His pulse turned into a drumbeat. “That’s not an answer.”

Breaking his hold without warning, she walked into the bedroom, her movements jittery as she stripped off her T-shirt and kicked away her pajama bottoms to reveal the white lace of her panties. His poor Molly was running to the safety of their scorching physical connection, a connection that required no words, no arguments.

His body reacted as always to the lush sight of her, his erection pushing against the zipper of his jeans. But this was too important to allow himself to be distracted. Shifting to face her, he ran his knuckles down the centerline of her body. “Tell me what you want.”

Eyes huge and stark, she angled her face away, went to cover her breasts with her arms, but he enclosed her in his embrace before she could complete the action. Never did he want Molly to feel ashamed of her nakedness with him. She didn’t struggle, but neither did she speak. Fighting his impatient fury to have her belong to him, he reminded himself that the scars that marked Molly were brutal and had been caused at a time in her life when she was incredibly vulnerable.

His temper simmered again, directed at those who had mauled an innocent young girl with such ugly savagery. Nuzzling a kiss to her temple, he cuddled her close, her creamy skin holding a shocked kind of coolness. “Molly?”

“Yes?”

“You can always ask,” he said at that wary sound. “I’d rather you get pissed at me, scream and yell, than let suspicion stew inside that smart head of yours.”

Trembling, she splayed her hands over his T-shirt. “You said I should trust you.” A soft reminder, her head bent, the curling darkness of her hair in his vision.

“You should.” He couldn’t keep the demand out of his voice. “But until you do, I’ll take questions.” As long as she came to him, he could handle anything; all he needed was a chance to fight for her. “We agreed on that?”

She nodded, her fingers playing with the edges of his jacket.

“Molly?”

Clear brown eyes holding his own without blinking. “I’ll always ask,” she said. “I don’t have it in me to stay quiet—not about something like that. I’ll try to be an adult about it, but I can’t guarantee no screaming and yelling.”

“There it is,” Fox murmured, his dimple appearing as his smile lit up his eyes. “There’s my Molly’s mouth.”

The affectionate caress of his words broke Molly. Rising on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him, hating that she might’ve hurt him. She wanted to trust him without question, wasn’t sure the capacity for such faith hadn’t been crushed out of her in childhood.

The fact Fox hadn’t berated her for her need to ask, had instead done what was necessary to ease her worries, it meant more than he could ever know. Her father had always belittled and made her mother feel stupid on the rare occasions when Karen Webster had even mildly questioned his behavior.

Swamped with what she felt for Fox, she poured it into her kiss. And when the smooth metal of his lip ring invited her to play, she did. His responding chuckle was sexy, was Fox. “And that’s definitely my Molly.”

She wanted to be his Molly. So much.

Taking control of the kiss, he nudged her into a seated position on the bed. When she lifted her hands to his jeans, he shook his head. “I’ll take care of you tonight, baby. I think you need it.”

Molly grabbed his hand, shook her head. “This hurt you, too.” Kissing his palm, she pressed it against her cheek. “Let’s take care of each other.”

Fox’s eyes flashed, and she was flat on her back in bed a split-second later, his body big and heavy on her own.

“The things you say, Molly,” he said in that whiskey-and-sin voice, his bristled jaw rasping over the palm she lifted to his jaw. “I’d planned to seduce you, coax you, and now all I want to do is push my cock into you, your skin touching mine, your heart beating against mine.”

“Yes,” she whispered, pushing his jacket off his shoulders.

The action made him exhale harshly and then he rose off the bed to strip down to the skin. Always he’d been her beautiful rock star. Today, his body was no less beautiful, but all she saw was the potent emotion in his eyes, an emotion that echoed the painful, hopeful thing inside her.

Needing him, she slipped off her panties and held out a hand. “Fox.”

He came to her in a storm of masculine heat and blunt sexual words that made her feel adored. Breath lost when he entered her, she blinked back tears at the sheer rightness of their intimate connection, skin sliding against skin, breaths mingling.

Then Fox intertwined his hands with her own, pressing them on either side of her head, and she lost the battle. Kissing away her tears, Fox attempted to pull out, but she held him too possessively, her legs locked around his hips.

Shuddering, he said her name, buried his face against the side of hers. Rolling with his shallow thrusts, she turned her face to kiss his jaw, any part of him she could reach.

He lifted his head, met her kiss, his hair tumbled across his forehead and his fingers locked with hers.

“My Fox,” she whispered, and then there were no more words, only the searing ache of a bond new and vulnerable and with the potential to break them both.

Fox brushed Molly’s hair gently back from her face as she slept curled up against his chest, shaking inside at the glory of what had passed between them tonight.

“My Fox.”

No one had ever claimed him in such a way, a way that had nothing to do with obligation or money or fame. No one had ever cared enough to be possessive of him. Not of Fox, the rock musician who made a nice accessory or trophy to brag about, but of Fox the man. The fact Molly had been pissed off about the shirt thing? He fucking loved it, even if it was an uncivilized reaction. He wasn’t exactly civilized where the woman in his arms was concerned. But he had to pretend he was, at least for a little while longer, give his lover time to come to terms with the violent beauty of what lived between them.

If she took the ultimate risk, if she came to him despite the fears that haunted her, if she chose Zachary Fox as no one else had ever done… she’d fucking own him, whether she knew it or not.

Molly had to have two cups of tar-strong coffee to wake up the next morning. Still not quite human, she decided to wear a shirt with an old-fashioned tall collar edged in lace. A little Victorian with its long sleeves plus the white ribbon and lace in the detailing, the vintage find always made her feel pretty. She paired it with a simple calf-length black skirt that came with a wide belt, and her trusty black leather boots, the heel barely there to allow for easy walking around the large and busy library.

The rock star in her bed whistled when she exited the bathroom after pulling her hair into a neat twist and putting on her basic work makeup—nothing much more than a lick of mascara and gloss. “I want to tempt you back into bed,” he said, “except I think you’ve worn out my cock.”