Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
“He knows,” she whisper-shouts in my ear over the applause.
I think she means Hugh, because he’s the asshole we usually commiserate over, but as she throws a towel around my neck, she spins me to face the figure standing in front of my dressing room door.
The huge, hulking form of Tony Brando. And he radiates pure fury.
“Oh shit,” I attempt to croak, but my voice is so shot, no sound comes out but a wheeze.
“Where the fuck is Hugh?” Izzy’s nails dig into my hand. “The jackass is probably hiding and letting you take the fall on this.”
Fucking Hugh.
Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. If it’s time to face the music, I’ll have to do it. I lift my chin and march to my dressing room door, giving Tony my haughtiest stare.
“What. The Fuck. Was that?”
I feel each syllable in my chest. Wow. He’s quite practiced at delivering menace with every word.
He blocks my entrance, but I dodge right and left, and get my hand past him to turn the knob and push the door open. Since I don’t want to have this conversation in front of the whole band and crew, I extend my hand like an invitation to my dressing room.
He turns his body to the side, allowing me to pass—still a gentleman, even when he’s about to break kneecaps, I see—and follows me in. The door shuts automatically behind him.
“Fucking lip synching? Seriously? What are you—Milli Vanilli?”
Even if my voice worked to defend myself, there’s nothing I can say. It’s horrible and wrong, but he’s the asshole who’s making me do this. My tour should be over now. I should be home recuperating. Figuring out who I am and when I became this hollow shell of an artist.
So I go for completely ignoring him. I give him my back, pull my sweaty tank top over my head and pop off my bra, dragging the towel between my breasts.
“You owe the Tacone family nine hundred thousand dollars. That’s a lot of dough, sweetheart. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
I straighten and turn, letting him see my bare breasts, like they’re the only weapons I have. Maybe he was right. The idea of him taking me as tribute has some taboo appeal to me. My nipples pebble up for him. I’m slightly disappointed, but not surprised when his gaze merely flicks over them before it travels to the butterfly tattoo on my shoulder and returns to my eyes.
He stalks closer to me, crowding me up against the counter. “To sell enough seats to get you out of here by July, I need a real fucking show. Not some lip synching bullshit crap—”
He stops when I hook my thumbs in my silver dance shorts and start sliding them down my hips. “Okay, you wanna play games?” he snaps. “Let’s play games.” He spins me around and pulls my wrists behind my back.
My heart jams in my throat. His hand crashes down on my ass.
Ouch! He continues to spank me fast and hard. Holy shit!
I fight him, but he holds me easily, forcing my torso down onto the counter, ignoring my attempts to claw free of his hold. He packs a wallop behind that huge palm and my ass starts to burn. I dance beneath the onslaught, my pussy turning molten as my body gets mixed up about what’s happening.
I dimly realize he’s still going on about ticket sales and the debt, but I can’t focus on his words because my ass is on fire. “Whose idea was this?” he demands. “Answer me!”
“I lost my voice!” I shout, but, of course, nothing comes out except wheezing scratches.
He stops spanking. “What?” His tone is incredulous.
“I lost my fucking voice!” I noiselessly shout again. There are a few cracks and squeaks around the edges to punctuate the words.
His palm comes to rest on my burning ass, hot and large and… delicious. “You have got to be kidding me.” He sounds disgusted. He rubs my ass. “How long ago?”
“Three weeks.” I meet his gaze in the mirror as he leans forward to decipher my words, his brows scrunched down.
He growls and smacks my left buttcheek again, three times. Hard. “Then I should have had a call three fucking weeks ago.”
More rubbing. My pussy is wet, and so, so randy. I want his fingers between my legs, giving me some relief.
“I have this place sold out for the next six days. If I’d had a little more notice, I might have been able to reschedule, but now? No way in hell I’m going to shut down this show.” He slaps again, a sharp, quick smack between my legs. I gasp at the contact with my needy lady parts. It doesn’t hurt—it’s amazing. Exactly what I need. I spread my legs to give him better access.