Tag: Manhattan Muse

Only two rock star sleeps to go!

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It’s the rustling of the white hotel sheets that wakes me.

Turning my head on the pillow, there’s no roiling gut or slice of pain through my skull.

In my messier drunk days, being stoned would have been a good excuse for waking up in bed with a woman.

There’s only one reason I’m here. And it has nothing to do with narcotics and everything to do with the sweet-smelling woman beside me.

Cutting a gaze to the nightstand, I see it’s after 10 a.m.

Every second from the past seventeen hours comes back in a rush.

I’m hoping for an explosive pint-sized reaction when she realizes what’s happened.

I smirk, scrubbing a hand over my shorn dark hair.

Watching her sleeping form, I feel so many things.

With a hand tucked beneath her chin, she looks like cotton candy wouldn’t melt in her angelic mouth. Whereas I know she’s the devil’s apprentice, expelled out of Hell to torture mortal men under her heel.

Hell will be raised when she wakes, that much I know. I might even want it more than anything I’ve ever wanted. To see her react.

She’ll paint me as the bad guy in this situation. Huh, maybe I am. Did I try to stop what we did? Not even once. I went full steam ahead with hardly any provocation.

I used to be foolishly reckless, trying to live up to a rock star reputation and hide who I am at the same time.

My name, my family legacy and fame.

You don’t get to be where I am—I don’t mean in bed with a blonde demoness—without a lot of irresponsible decisions. Helped by Johnnie Walker and Jameson. I’ve made so many, you can stack them up on top of each other and they’d reach into the clouds.

Looking across at who I’m in bed with … some would say it’s reckless. but I know it’s the best decision of all.

I don’t feel stuck in my life anymore.

That’s progress as ma would say.

I’m almost twenty-eight but feel one hundred most days. It takes the right incentive to learn how to slow the fuck down.

I don’t touch her. Nor do I reach out and move the strands of hair from her cheek, though the need is there. I watch for a couple of minutes. She shifts under the sheet, baring a tanned leg like a seductress sent to drag every man to purgatory. Me especially.

She’s going to be so mad, with her verbal violence aimed my way.

I can’t wait to handle her and calm her down. I’m enamored in her bursts of spontaneous temper.

Miss Professional, with her endless rules and bossy ways, didn’t plan for this but it was entirely her idea. I’m twistedly looking forward to seeing how she responds.

A little dark chuckle escapes. Checking she’s still fast asleep, I slip out of bed.

Something catches my eye and I glance down at my left hand. A day ago, I wore a hand of silver rings I’ve collected over the years.

Now only a black band sits on my finger.

I glance her way, feeling a new pull in my shoulder blades.

With her around, I’ve felt a lot of pulls, some stronger than others.

Possessiveness seems to be the forerunner.

But there’s no denying she’s been my biggest inspiration for a long time.

I’m the son of a crime boss. Anything can disappear. This is an accepted fact, not that I’ve utilized that privilege. My father would be overjoyed if I did. But when it comes to her, I’ve learned that logic means nothing, and she wins every time.

She stirs, and the sheet falls lower. My abdomen tightens to a fist as my eyes follow the shape of her exposed leg and now bare stomach.

She’s wearing underwear. I’m not a complete pervert, though I know every inch of her body already.

My eyes betray what I feel by roaming over her like I own her.

I’m sitting at the round table when she finally surfaces. A zombie groan mutters from her and I hide my smile in a coffee mug.

“Oh, god.” She groans.

Poor hungover baby.

She’s going to explode in seconds. Eyes I know as well as my own search around the room. She scoots herself up against the headboard, clutching the cotton sheet to her chest. Pity, she has beautiful tits. They feel perfect in my mouth.

I’ve had those killer hangovers before. I know the pain her skull is in, from too much champagne. What kind of gentleman would I have been if I didn’t indulge her last night when she wanted to celebrate?

She knows better than most I am not a gentleman. Far from it. I’m a hungry bastard with an appetite for one.

A left-handed diamond glints on her finger. It’s a chore to hold in a genuine grin, but I can’t distract myself with humor, not if I want to witness her awakening.

“What… the…. ugh.” She croaks, finally seeing me.

Her face is a wash of feelings. She never hides it.

Oh, though she’s tried to these past few days, by attempting to put distance in the way.

“Tommy? You know you shouldn’t be here… are…are you in your underwear? What are you doing in my room in only your underwear?”

I place the cup on the table, half turning toward her blazing eyes.

Ah, it hasn’t sunken in yet.

Pity.

I was hoping she’d fly across the room and put her mouth on me.

All in good time.

I’m patient as the next asshole with numerous Grammy’s and accolades to my name.

“This is my room,” I tell her. And for good teasing measure, I add. “And you’re in my bed.” This is all true. She hasn’t been in my bed in days. Such long days, punishing us both.

Her eyes widen. I see she’s trying to find answers.

I have them all here for her.

So, I start with the most important one of all.

“Good morning, my wife.”

I’m positive the hotel guests from five floors away hear the loudness of her stare when she arrows it in my direction.

I grin my fucking delight.

This woman. My woman.

She’s not so in control now, is she?

I’m ready for what comes next, especially if it includes Raene and her biting little claws.

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