Rifted Rock_Secrets of a Rock Star Series by Paisley Pace

Author:Paisley Pace [Pace, Paisley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-30T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Andrea

As we lay tangled together, deliciously spent, I wanted nothing more than to drift off to sleep. Vance was so incredibly good in bed—which was not surprising, considering how much experience he’d had. Still, I was surprised that he’d been so attentive, so mindful of my body’s responses. He seemed to genuinely garner pleasure by pleasuring me.

My ex only cared about himself. He thought there was something wrong with me because I couldn’t get off from his cock being jammed inside me again and again. We never had any foreplay; he rarely touched me down there, and I could count on one hand the number of times he’d gone down on me in the course of our five-year relationship.

“What are you thinking about?” Vance asked, his rich, resonant voice right up against my ear.

“Just that it’s funny to me that a rock star is so focused on my pleasure.”

“What did you expect? A pump and dump? Because I can supply that, too,” he said, joking.

“Ew, no!”

“No? You’re going to turn down my pump, just like that?”

“Stop,” I said, whacking him in the face with a pillow.

“Hey, watch it with that. This profile is insured for a cool million.”

“Really?”

“No, not really.” He snorted. “I’m a rock star, not a model. Which is why you’re going to get it!”

Vance tickled me, and I shrieked and kicked the sheets away. Finally, he relented, but not before another obtrusive thought flashed through my mind.

I hope he didn’t see my scars.

Some of the fallout from my relationship with Jonathan was emotional, but some of it was all too physical. Specifically, the constellation of cigarette burns on my back.

The burns started when I lectured Jonathan to stop smoking. It was early in our relationship, and I had just moved in with him. I couldn’t stand the constant reek of cigarette smoke in the house, the many ashtrays constantly sprouting butts. And most of all, I didn’t like that he disappeared for hours on end when he went on “cigarettes runs.” Or that he most often ducked out of the house for a smoke soon after his phone lit up with an unfamiliar number.

“Must be one of those robo-calls,” he’d said, pressing ignore. “Think I’m going to step outside and have a smoke.”

I was only seventeen, angry and emotional and jealous and in love—but I didn’t know how to communicate those emotions. I hardly knew how to deal with them at all. And in retrospect, even if I had expressed myself responsibly, it would have fallen on deaf ears.

“I’m sick of you always smoking,” I said, my voice bitter and angry. “You should quit.”

“I thought you liked it when I smoke outside the house, honey,” Jonathan said. A strange smile spread across his face. His expression was like pewter—it had a cold shine, but no light to it.

“No, I hate it!” I said.

“I’ll quit then. For you.” He walked up to me, still smiling, and held me as if to kiss me. Instead, he put his cigarette out on my upper arm.

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