Chapter 57: Rock Stars Do It Up Against The Door--Radio Edit

This is the Radio Edit of a Kat and Trace sex scene. If you want the full Album Cut--the explicit scene-it is available in the companion work SOUNDCRUSH EXPLICIT --titled EPIC Chapter 57: Rock Stars Do It Up Against The Door-Explicit.

Both versions cover all the same plot points. If you are going to read the Album Cut, please just scroll through this , vote and head on over to SOUNDCRUSH EXPLICIT! Got it? Good!

Kat

The main floor of this house is traditional, a maze of formal living rooms, studies, sun-rooms. We pass by Leed and Mac slumped together on the couch. Leed is watching a nature documentary. As I step into the room to greet him, he gives me his wide-mouthed smile but puts a finger to his lips. I realize Mac is sleeping. He gives me a wink and blows me a kiss. I catch it and his smile lights up brighter than I thought possible. Trace tsks at Leed and pulls me from the room.

"Mac okay?" I ask as we go in search of the others.

Trace sighs. "I don't know. She doesn't talk to me. She says she has Leed and Adam needs a friend that doesn't feel divided. But Adam doesn't talk to me about it, because he says Mac needs to see that he is loyal to her above all others, and he's made mistakes in the past, putting their stuff out there when he shouldn't have. I guess, when they figure it out, we'll know."

It's not even noon, but Adam and Bodie are on the back deck playing beer pong with all the members of Strut. Street and Bridge have also made their way out here. I've met Strut one time before—Sadie the back-up guitarist, Harper the bass player, and Chili the drummer. All cool girls, all sporting a different fluorescent hair color every time I see them, all of them having the same nonchalance towards Row's insanity as Trace is apparently developing. Except I think theirs is mostly fake and she scares them, and Trace is about the only person besides Matt that can actually put the little bitch in her place.

Right now, she is destroying Adam at beer pong. She's skilled and he's already wasted. I wait until the cheers subside and Adam chugs his cup. I slip beneath Adam's arm while Trace is busy being a del Marco—directing Bridge and Street to their rooms upstairs.

"Lil Sis!" Adam slurs, hugging me tightly. "Glad you're here. Everything's all to shit," he mumbles. "Can't talk about it, but...Mac likes you. Good for her, you being here."

I hug him back, noticing that Adam has apparently abandoned his rock star persona for vacation. He's wearing cargo shorts, a pastel Southern Tide t-shirt and boat shoes. His southern boy slip is showing. I smile, thinking of Colin, who texted last week to say football camp at UNC was hell but his new girlfriend was an angel from heaven who made it all better.

"Mac likes you," he repeats.

"Are you saying you don't like me, Adam?" I tease.

He's too drunk for teasing "Wha?" He looks confused. "Naw, 'course not. I love you. You know I love you." He crushes me to him, and we sway precariously.

"All right, big guy, you got a reputation to redeem," Bodie, sporting nothing but board shorts and muscles, pulls Adam off me before he tips us both over the deck railing. "Row, Adam is the Soundcrush pong champion, he can't go out like this. Let him go for three out of five."

"Fraid not. Strut has band practice momentarily." Riley's chipper voice precedes him from the kitchen. He looks cool as always in lime green shorts and a slim fitted short sleeved button down.

"Riley!" I cry and leap into his arms.

He swings me around. "Good to see you, love."

"Like your new job as Soundcrush manager?" I ask.

He looks at me over his glasses. "I did, until it became a two-fer and I became the de-facto manager of Strut, too." He calls over my shoulder. "Let's go, Ladies. Your carriage awaits."

"Why doesn't Soundcrush practice?" Row snarks at Riley. He gently disengages from me and strolls over to her. She's wearing ripped jean shorts, a tiny black bikini top, five necklaces, a dozen bracelets, a belly piercing, a nose piercing and a whole stick of eyeliner. Riley smiles at her as if she were a princess in a tiara.

"Dearest, don't ask me. You front Strut, and you call the shots. You called a practice, I just arranged it."

"I called a practice?" she sips her beer. "I don't remember that."

"Even piss drunk, you are a smart cookie with a passion for your craft. Soundcrush is just a bunch of tossers who would rather shag and gossip like school girls."

Row laughs, and shakes her head at Riley. "I was piss-drunk, but you called the practice. I know when I'm being played, you fucking Brit."

"Do you now?" he asks softly. He reaches for her Red Solo, and commandeers a long gulp.

Oh. Fuck.

I knew Riley was a bad-ass masked behind an appropriate accent, but this? I had no idea. It's plain on his face, though. There is an evil in Riley rising to meet the hot mess that is Rowan del Marco. Bodie and I have our heads cocked at the same precarious angle, watching the Row and Riley show to see what happens next.

"Maybe I let you play me," Row swipes her cup back and dashes her head to the side, hiding her smile in chugging the contents.

Riley watches Row's throat move for longer than strictly necessary. "Right then," Riley says crisply. "Let's move your lovely derrieres, Strut!"

They all file out. Row finishes her beer as Riley waits to follow her. "And the loveliest for last..." he says softly, gesturing for her, and putting a hand to her back as she struts through the house.

Bodie whistles. I slap him in his rock hard abs. "Did you just see—"

"Yeah."

"Has that been going on—"

"Since she got here," he confirms.

"Damn. Trace know?"

Bodie shrugs. "Trace is too busy trying to break in the new PA, and I sure as shit ain't telling him our manager and his sister have a bizarre flirtation-slash-cage-match going on under his nose. Riley ain't gonna mess up there...he's a professional. He's our goddamn manager now...and Strut's our opening act. So he's just...managing her, you know?"

"If you say so..." I grin.

"Have you met her?" He asks abruptly.

"Who? The new PA?"

"What? No, I meant..." Bodie gestures up to a balcony on the second floor where Bridge stands with Trace, laughing as she tries to corral her waist length black curls. "The twin."

"Bridge? Oh yeah, she's sweet as can be. Total and complete opposite of Row."

"What about the new PA-Penelope?" I ask. "She around?"

He shakes his head. "She and Tam are out shopping, I think. They'll be around, later." I nod, and start to wonder toward the house, when Adam, who was leaning on the deck rail, apparently contemplating puking, rallies.

"Fuck it, Bodie. This shit can't go on," he mumbles. "I'm gonna tell her...we've got to get right, you know?"

"Bra, you ain't going anywhere near Mac right now, because you are way to the left on the get right scale, drunk as you are. And anyway, you can't even get near her. Leed is done with your shit, if you haven't noticed. Just let it ride, Adam. Time is on your side."

"Yeah," Adam agrees. "Okay. Makes sense..."

"Sit down, here, big fella. The new girl is bringing breakfast back. Get you some eggs and shit. Maybe you'll sober up, maybe Mac comes out for some sun, maybe you talk to her about the weather, or the tides, or tomorrow's show. Something simple, something safe, alright?"

"Yeah," Adam says, leaning his head back on the sofa cushion. Bodie sighs.

"Bodie? You ever get tired of being the peacemaker?" I ask.

He shrugs. "My day's coming, Little Sister. You just wait."

I rub my temples. "I feel like there's just too much shit going on here, Bodie. Maybe hold off on whatever drama you are hatching a day or two?"

He kicks back his head in laughter and his dreads bounce. "You right, HellKat. I'll take my own advice and let it ride."

Trace is barreling down the stairs, the alarm ringing on his phone.

"You are not where you are supposed to be, KittyKat." My world is upended, but I'm screeching with delight as he stomps up the stair with me.

Once he kicks the bedroom door closed, I'm reoriented dramatically. Trace cradles my head, but my shoulder blades thud against the back of the door solidly, as Trace's hard, heavy body presses against me so firmly that I can barely breathe.

His lips demand mine and I give myself eagerly. He can kiss me a million times, and I will never lose the thrill of opening my mouth and feeling his tender tongue sweep in. The way he kisses me is so intimate—instantly pushing all my buttons. It's like the boy was born with the knowledge to kiss me just the way I love it.

"Eager?"

I hoist a leg around him, pulling up my dress, putting his hand down my panties. "You tell me..." I mumble back.

We both curse softly as his fingers slip easily in my slick arousal.

"How attached are to you to these panties?" he pants.

"Well, they are...really pretty and really expensive...I bought them to wear for you..." I choke out as he tugs at the crotch.

"How expensive?"

"I dunno—more than dinner and a movie back home," I estimate. "Thank you, by the way."

"You are welcome, as always. I know you won't mind if I get my money's worth," he growls, and then both hands are at my hips as he tears them off me, pulling them from my body. "Worth every penny."

"Freak," I laugh at him and we scrabble for the scrap of lace. He wins and puts it in his back pocket.

"Godddddammm, even my hands miss you," he swears, plunging two fingers into me, working me gently, making sure, as always, that I'm ready for him. "I've been dying for you. It gets worse every time we aren't together. It's gonna be fast and hard this first time, okay?"

Yaaaaaasssssss!

Don't get me wrong—all summer, Trace's tender lovemaking has completely spoiled me for sex with any other man ever, but I've got this weird fantasy about getting the fangirl treatment. I want the up-against-the-door-fevered-five-minute-fuck where my Rock Star shows me what he's made of!

He lifts me practically one handed, like I weigh nothing, and as my legs curl around his hips, I slide him right where I need him to be. I feel the slow grin of abandon spread across my face. "Oh, yes, I need this," I assure him.

It's jarring, it's slightly painful, and I like it. I'm totally past the point of discerning pleasure from pain. I just want more and more and more of him.

And he gives it, his hard body holding me captive to the door and captive to his need.

It takes no time at all. I come all at once—the explosion ripping down my spine and back up again, exiting with a strangled shout. Trace swears profusely as he moves me even faster, pounding nearly through me and slamming me to the door, shuddering all over as he comes hard just seconds later. We stay like that for a long moment. My orgasm is so intense I'm still clenching around him with aftershocks, and I can feel him twitching inside me. I sigh in contentment at the warmth I feel spreading between us. Yeah, I've totally gotten over the fluid shyness.

I'm drenched in sweat and so is he. There is a deep, tender ache deep down that I haven't felt before from our sex, but I don't mind; I can handle it. Overall, this was the best three minute workout ever.

I can't stop shaking from the powerful release. Reluctantly, he leans back, his own body softening before mine. "Okay?" he murmurs, squeezing my thighs gently, but keeping me against the door, keeping us joined. He's mistaking the power of my orgasm for pain. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"Uhhhmmm, if I say a little bit, but in a good way, will you freak out?"

He closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again."

I bite his shoulder lightly. "Don't be sorry, and I hope you don't mean that. I think...I like it...rough."

He chuckles, and looks at me again, his eyes moving all over my face, like he's checking to make sure my expression of pleasure matches my words. "Yeah, a little rough can be good. But I never want to hurt you."

"You didn't. I would tell you to stop, if you were really hurting me."

"I would. Stop, I mean," he says softly.

"I know that. Maybe..."I bite my lip, knowing I'm treading on dangerous ground. Trace is very skittish about the whole kink thing. "Would you...would it make you feel better if we had a safe word?"

He gives me a slightly disgusted look. "Kat, stop and no are the only safe words you need with me. I'm not into the hurt-you-while-you-pretend-to-struggle shit. I...I can't...you know...I can't do that kind of thing. It...I just...can't."

I run my fingers through his hair and smile at him. My wonderful, but slightly wounded lover owns my heart. I'm so hoping, in time, I can help him fully heal.

"I know. I'm glad. I'm not into games between us. I want exactly what we have... raw, tender, hot, sexy, incredible and addictive lovemaking. And sometimes a good hard fuck."

"I think I can handle that," he squeezes my thighs again and gives me the rock star face.

"Good," I affirm, breathing hard. "But right this second, I'm really hot."

"Yeah you are," he agrees, pressing his hips into me. "Want to go again?"

I make a sound of exasperation. "Yeah sure. Just let me get naked this time, though. I'm dying." My dress is clinging to me now, see-through with sweat. I flap the neckline to get some relief. All at once I feel Trace's hands harden against my thighs.

"What the fuck?" he hisses, staring down at the my shoulder. I follow his gaze, where my sweaty sleeve is sticking to my skin. Through the filmy dress, the dark amorphous smudge on my shoulder looks like a fading brown bruise.

"Kat," he whispers in horror. "What happened?"

"No, no. It's okay," I assure him, and pull my sleeve down, revealing just a small portion of the large floral design that crawls over my shoulder and trails down my chest and stomach. "It's henna...temporary body art."

Trace's eyes soften in relief as his calloused fingertips trace the design on my shoulder. "Pretty." He tucks on the peasant neckline. "Is there more?"

"Lots," I assure him.

He smiles wickedly. "I wanna see." He looks so gorgeous, fuck-drunk. I've known Trace my whole life, and I have seen him glad, sad and mad, but that expression of blissful satisfaction on his face right now—knowing it's an expression he makes only because of me—it floods me with extreme joy. I smile coyly, watching him watch me.

"KittyKat," he wheedles, "strip for me, baby. I wanna see those pretty tattoos on your gorgeous body."

This is another first—stripping for him. Usually he takes my clothes off me in a fever. His eyes never leave me as I push my dress down to the fitted part around my waist, revealing a pale pink strapless bra that matched the panties he destroyed. I unhook it slowly and throw at him. "Here--you want the set ?" He catches it, but he doesn't answer me. His eyes are completely focused on the swirling pattern of large flowers that swathes my left breast and trails down my stomach. I push the elastic waist down my hips and it drops to the floor. The pattern travels nearly down to my bared sex, which is also a change to my body since he saw it last.

"Holy mother of god," Traces says hoarsely. He's rooted to the spot, his eyes following every looping, swirling design. Then he blinks. "Turn around," he says sharply, and then adds almost offhandedly, "Please."

I smile. The front work is beautiful but more sparing and delicate than the back side. Nearly my whole back is covered—the flowers are larger and bold, and the leaves lacy. I think the artist was more comfortable spending a lot of time doing my back; or maybe he'd had a little too much to drink when he got to the front side, but I am super pleased with the total effect.I rotate on my toes, and Trace simply says, "Oh, Kitty." He crosses slowly, and I shiver in anticipation of his touch. He strokes the vine like pattern that snakes down my back, and tracing the circumference of the largest flower. "You are a work of art—always, but I like this very much. Do you feel sexy, painted like this?"

His lips are on my left shoulder, his tongue tasting my sweat and tracing the leaves that drift down over my shoulder blade.

"I do," I admit. "I'm glad you like it...I thought maybe..." my words fade away, as I hear him toeing his shoes off and casting off his jeans. Suddenly his heat is on me, his body curving into mine as he looks down over my shoulder. One hand cups my decorated breast, and the other splays across the blossom of flowers that spreads horizontally across my lower belly.

"You thought what?" he murmurs distractedly, as he toys with my nipple and shuffles us toward the bed. The quick and dirty fuck might be over, but our lovemaking session has just begun. For that, I'm supremely grateful.

I crawl onto the bed and he follows, settling us face to face as his fingers start to trace the flower curving around the outside of my left breast. I stroke his jaw, reveling in the feel of his stubbles against my hand.

"I thought maybe you would like the result, but not the idea that I was painted." I need to tell him why, and he might not like it.

He grins wickedly. "This was a WITCH thing, right?"

"Yes," I say guardedly. "A bunch of us were painted." I'm not sure I want to tell him right now what the body painting is for. It might be difficult for him to swallow, and I don't want to ruin our intimate afternoon.

"Baby, you know I love you and I want only you, but every man fantasizes sometimes. I can't think of anything hotter than you and a bunch of porn stars naked and painting each other."

He tugs my leg over his hip and rolls me up on top. He admires the view of my bodypaint, especially the trail of vines that ends above my sex. "Please tell me you kept your panties on, when you were getting painted, baby. I can't stand the thought of anybody this close to you."

"I wore a bikini bottom," I assure him.  I run my fingers over his abs and grind against him. Everything down there is swollen and sensitive from our minutes-ago sex, and yet I find myself needing more friction, more stimulation, more...Trace.

He raises up, his muscular abs rolling beneath me as he adjusts me on his lap, putting me on my knees. We are face to face, chest to chest. It's exquisite, riding him, feeling his strength and power and heat beneath me and inside me. He sucks my throat as my eyes roll back in my head. He's all hands and mouth and skin cuddles. We can make love like this for a very long time, before finishing.

He caresses me for a long time, gently rocking us together, telling me he loves me, telling me how amazing I feel, telling me how sweet my sweat tastes. Promising he will never get enough of me as he lavishes my painted torso with kisses. "I will always by the guy you need me to be," he swears as he gently wiggles my throbbing sweet spot with deft fingers, working me higher.

Oh my lord, this boy can fuck more sweetly than I ever imagined fucking could ever be. He's a world-class-top-shelf lover. If sex acts were in the Olympics, Trace would sweep the gold in every event. Especially the slow, sweet sexing. I bet there's nobody better in the world. Or at least, nobody better for me.

"I love this one," I say referring to the position. I'm still learning all the ways Trace can love me.

"I know you do," he chuckles. "It gives you all the control." To demonstrate he rocks gently beneath me. He can't move much more than than, unless he lies down to use his back for leverage.

I wrap my arms around him tightly, our slick chests sliding against one another as I lift and lower a little more enthusiastically and grind myself into his massaging fingers. Thank god for his strong, deft digits. Guitarist make mighty use of their hands in bed. "That's not why. I like it because it's slow and we are so close. What's this position called?" I ask breathless, pulling his head into my chest.

"Fuck if I know. Ask Leed. He's the Kamasutra expert," he mumbles, and then shakes his head. He stops nuzzling my cleavage and raises to meet my eyes, as I rock on his lap. "Forget I said that. Never discuss our sex with Leed, okay?"

"Okay, but you need...to do me the reverse favor..." I trail off, beginning to be distracted by my building pleasure. He pulls my face to his and our mouths meet in sensual tasting.

"What's that?" he asks when we come up for air.

"Never discuss Leed during our sex," I pant. "In fact, enough talking for right now..." I ride a little rougher on my knees, suddenly greedy. He senses my need, making the magic I crave with his fingers. The power of our love strums through me and I shudder and cry out in sweet surrender.

He falls back on the bed, pulling me with him, rolling us over. "Take a break, baby," he whispers as he takes control of our lovemaking, keeping his rhythm smooth as I come down from my high. "Pace yourself, because I plan to love you all afternoon."

And he does.