Page 4 of Broken Strings
“You sure you haven’t been here before?” The slight southern twang of his words does things deep in my stomach.Wonder what he’d sound like, choking me with his dick and calling me his dirty little whore?
I swallow the ball of nerves stuck in my throat and ignore the wetness between my legs. “First night here.”
I tip my beer at him before taking it to my lips, needing to wet my dry throat.
“Well, it may surprise you to know that it’s not the first time I’ve heard that song in my bar.”
I arch an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.” The lie trips off my tongue because it was my least popular song and released on a B-sides album. Most people heard it for the first time twenty years after it was written. “It’s a fantastic song by one of country music’s legends.”
“Is that so?” He moves closer, icy blue eyes assessing me shrewdly.
“Yup.” I pop my P to annoy him.
It must work because his jaw ticks.
“Hafta say, barkeep, your interest in the song makes you slightly more interesting.” I shoot him a fake grin and finish the rest of my beer. “Mind grabbing me another?”
His lip twitches, and his mouth curves into a cocky smile before he snags another beer from behind the bar. He pops the cap on the edge of the old wood and hands it to me without breaking my gaze.
I press the chilled glass to my lips and draw the cool, sweaty moisture across my cupid’s bow before licking my lips. All the time focused on the bright blue intensity of his irises. “Bottom’s up, sweetheart.”
A single drip escapes down my neck, tickling at the hollow before disappearing between my generous cleavage. The icy rivulet does nothing to cool my flaming skin. It may well be his finger dragging down the length of my naked body while his hand grips my throat. All I can focus on is being held under his boot as he fucks my ass without mercy. My brain works overtime, imagining how he’d make me his bitch and demand I call him Daddy. The thought has me hotter than an erupting volcano.
My mind is in a trance, flooded by dirty thoughts, so I don’t notice how close he is until his mouth grazes my earlobe.
“I’ll tell my mama you did her song proud.”
ChapterThree
Gunner
“You’re Loretta Shaw’s son?” the pretty little thing asks, her lips forming a perfect O.
No idea why I told her who my mother was. It’s something I avoid telling people because as soon as they know, they’re determined to unravel my whole life. They’re enthralled at gaining access to the private side of someone they’ve listened to on the radio their entire lives. But something about this girl makes me want to impress her and tell her anything to keep her near me.
She smiles wistfully. “She was my grandmother’s favorite. I learned to play the guitar with her songs. Your mother set the soundtrack for my childhood. I bawled my eyes out to ‘Deserted’ when my first boyfriend dumped me. The goal was to have a career like hers.”
I’ve seen a lot of acts that had the chops but didn’t have the luck. It irks me that this little thing believes her two or three years of trying meant she was out of luck. She’s hot enough to snag a record deal. Long black hair, large warm eyes, giant tits that would be the highlight of any boy’s wet dream and,fuck, those curves. She’s full-figured, and her sinful curves draw my eyes like metal to a magnet.
Her looks would be enough to get her on the Billboard 100, but her voice… she sings like an angel. I’ve never heard a voice as smooth as hers. She could compete with the greats, including my mother. Shit, the way she sang ‘Wild Roses’ was something else. The song was a damn weapon when paired with her sultry notes. My cock was so hard that I was concerned I’d burst out of my jeans and get arrested for indecent exposure.
“Yeah, well, she wasn’t a walk in the park,” I say, taking a swig of my beer and locking eyes with hers.
I hate how people talk about my mom as if she’s a saint incapable of doing no wrong. Country music’s little sweetheart. The woman who smiles and says “darlin’” and people let her get away with any damn thing.
She glances away, a pretty pink hue blooming on her skin. What would she look like beneath me, my hand wrapped around her delicate neck? I bet I’d come hard fucking her how I want to fuck a girl. I usually hold back, but the need to put this girl in her place has me reeling.
My gaze travels down her tempting flesh, and I smile, contemplating how pretty her skin would look with my teeth marks decorating it like tattoos. “I didn’t intend to make you blush, darlin’, but damn if it doesn’t look good on you.”
She straightens, giving me a steely glare, her smokey eyes burning and slicing through me like a chef's knife through butter. I have no idea what’s so different about this girl, but she makes me crave things—depraved things. My life’s fucking complicated, and I suspect she’s about to completely blow it up.
“So, where are you from?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“New York, but I was born in Alabama. New York has been home for the last five years.”
“You’re far from New York City. How’d you hear about this dive?”
She picks at the beer label on her bottle. Her nails are long and perfectly painted. Will they leave half-moons when she digs them into my skin and begs for me to fuck her senseless? I bet she’s a screamer. If she isn’t, she will be once I have my way with her.