Talon by Carian Cole, now you can read online.
Chapter 1
Talon
"Harder…harder…" she moans, arching up beneath me, her fake nails digging into my ass. Her eyes close and her mouth falls open as I pump into her harder. She has so much makeup on, she looks like she face-planted into a bag of Skittles.
"Oh, my God…yes…deeper…" she begs, but I can't go harder or deeper, even with my notorious eleven inches. I've maxed out my level of hardness and depth.
"Faster…" she pants just as I pull out and roll away from her, snapping the condom off before tossing it carelessly onto the faded carpet.
"What the hell? Why did you stop?" She bolts up to glare at me. "I wasn't done."
Yawning, I cross my arms under my head and close my eyes. "Well, I was." Seriously, I can't get past her face now. I just can't fuck Skittle-face.
"You didn't even get off."
I don't bother to open my eyes. "Did you hear me saying wetter? Tighter? No. It was as deep and hard as it was gonna get. And then your face happened. Sorry."
I do open an eye when I hear her rummaging around the cheap motel room for her clothes. "You're an asshole! It's just dirty talk. I didn't actually mean it."
Great, a rainbow-faced, lying groupie. Just what I wanted. Not. She looked much hotter backstage. Now…not so much.
"It doesn't work for me." I shrug casually.
She yanks her clothes on in a huff, grabs her bag and high-heeled leather boots, but she doesn't bother to put them on as she storms toward the door barefoot.
"Hey…" I say, stopping her. "Do you wanna grab a bite to eat, maybe?"
"Seriously? No. I came here for sex, not dinner. Some fucking cock star you are! Loser!" She slams the door so hard the ugly painting above the bed tilts. Damn. I was hoping it would fall off the wall and land on my head, putting me out of my misery.
No such luck.
Rolling over, I close my eyes, eager to sleep off the dull ache in my head from partying after the concert earlier. However, the bed smells strange and the sheets are rough and scratchy against my skin. Somehow, I've turned into a person who can only sleep on Egyptian cotton sheets. I'm not sure if that makes me a spoiled brat or just a guy who appreciates the finer things money can buy.
Since I won't be getting any sleep in this dump, I get dressed, tie my long hair back, grab my wallet, cell, and smokes, while laughing at the irony of it all. When I was younger, I believed if I ever reached famous rock-star status I would be as happy as a pig in shit. But here I am, goal achieved, and the only thing that really makes me happy is clean, soft sheets that smell like lavender. And to top it off, my years of sexual escapades have earned me the hashtag of #Cockstar on social media. I kind of wish my guitar-playing skills were more notable than my dick skills.
Pitiful.
Chapter 2