Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,31
braced over me, close but not close enough. I latch my hands around his thick, toned biceps that anchor both sides of my head, pulling hard with each lunge. It’s still not enough, and a small whimper of frustration filters out of me. I want his entire essence inside me, everything he is incinerating the void and brightening it with his light. He seems to sense my need and pushes harder, taking my breath away and forcing the sparks into explosions. One, two, three, four… hotter, brighter, building into volatile, unstable collisions of lust. The urges become penetrating aches I can no longer bite back with restraint. The fire rages, a gushing river of flame that plunges through my stomach and lodges deep in my core. He reads me perfectly through my agony, driving hard with several deep thrusts as I crash over the edge seconds before he does. My lips lose the battle against the scream, my body completely shattering in its sweet death. Am I crying? Oh no, it feels like I’m crying, and I blink in rapid succession as I come down, riding the intoxicating wave he continues to rock slowly inside me. I squeeze him harder, suddenly panicked at the thought of ending this moment, this connection. I never want him separate from me again.
“Oliver.” I whisper his name with reverence, and he blinks those beautiful brown eyes at me. Lazy and sated, they scan my face with a mix of awe and concern.
“Are you alright?” he asks, searching my gaze, probably noticing my tears. He starts to pull out, and my legs clamp around him.
“Don’t. Not yet,” I say, tucking myself further into his arms. He sighs, content this time, and allows his weight to drop slightly on his arms. I feel the strain of his muscles as I run my hands up and down his biceps again. But I need his lips too, and release one hand to lock my fingers in his hair and guide him back to my mouth. With a deep kiss, we cement what seemed surreal just a moment ago. I didn’t know I could feel like that. So whole and uninhibited. So open and honest. I was flying. I was real. He knows it too. I can see it in his satisfied smile. The way his gorgeous gaze traces my face in wonder and love. I wasn’t Genevieve Fox just now.
I was the girl in the mirror.
CHAPTER 7
Five, the fingers on my skin, dragging streaks of fire
Four, the times I’m lost in soothing reckless eyes
Three, the cries that bind at the peak of harsh desire
Two, the lips that bloom into drifting desert flowers
One, the sun whose steadfast glare
Shines beyond the mirror’s stare
OLIVER
“Your voice sounds different when you sing your own songs,” I say, tracing Genevieve’s collarbone as we relax in her bed. Her purple sheet is tucked mid-way up her bare chest, and I run my finger down her ribs to outline the slightly exposed swell of her breasts. I love that she shudders from that light touch, her gaze going hungry again when she turns it back on me.
“Different how?”
I shrug, enjoying the feel of her soft, smooth skin and a lazy moment with the woman I’m starting to want in more permanent ways. Maybe Carlos was right in his warning. What happens when she’s bored and ready to drop me for the next adventure? I’m still figuring out the broken knee. Can I handle a broken heart on top of it? “I don’t know. Your voice is harder. Edgier. It fits your music perfectly.”
Her expression becomes thoughtful as she considers my words. “I’ve always loved rock. It’s my favorite genre to listen to.”
“You sound like a rocker when you sing your own songs.”
Her eyes brighten in a way I’ve never seen when she talks about her career. “Really? You think so? I hear the songs in my head with a full band behind me. Heavy guitars, drums, bass, the whole deal.”
“I can see it,” I say, squinting at her. “And now you’re turning me on. You’re kind of a badass when you sing your own stuff. You just need a tattoo or two.”
She snorts a dry laugh. “Right. I’ve always wanted one but Mom doesn’t think it’s a good idea. ‘Fads are always changing, Genevieve,’” she repeats in a mocking tone. “‘You can’t lock yourself into a permanent one.’”
I study her bitter look. “Why does your mom have a say over your body? You’re an adult, right?”