He’d never been into role-playing. He suspected that was because he hadn’t found a woman he trusted not to make him feel stupid for wanting to try it. But he trusted Liberty, and she had no problem putting her pleasure entirely in his hands.
So he’d tested the waters. Toying with her on the bus. A light whack on the butt here. A whisper about naughty girls needing punishment there. Smacking a spatula against his palm during lunch—which made her very, very jumpy and very horny, as evidenced by the shimmer in her eyes and the way she rubbed that smackable ass against his c**k at every opportunity. As far as he was concerned, that meant game on.
Before they left the bus, he set a belt on his bed . . . next to the tube of lube.
She hadn’t balked when she’d seen it. Or if she had, she hadn’t exhibited any sign.
Whenever they had a spare second during the fan meet and greet, Devin had told her exactly what he planned to do to her.
Exactly.
In explicit detail.
The kinky woman had added a couple raunchy suggestions of her own.
So the sexual tension between them hit a new high.
When Devin finally had her alone that night, naked and open to his every whim, Liberty played her role so well they both lost themselves in the moment. He had made her come three times in his version of an erotic orgasm torture. Then he’d spanked her—had spanking always been so f**king hot? After he’d pinkened her butt cheeks, he’d f**ked her ass.
Sexy as it’d been watching his c**k stretching that tiny hole and feeling the tightness of her back channel surrounding his dick, Devin preferred the hot, wet clasp of her pu**y. What made the experience fun, besides that Liberty wasn’t an anal sex virgin, was afterward, they’d laughed and cuddled in bed like it was completely normal. He loved that they were defining a new normal for their relationship.
“Devin?”
His head snapped up, and he realized he’d completely zoned out while waiting for the sound check to begin. He saw all four members of the Wright Brothers Band leaning on the edge of the stage.
Grinning, he said in his usual corny spiel, “If it ain’t the four Wrong Brothers tryin’ to make it right.” He shook Paxton Wright’s hand first. As the oldest brother, Paxton led the band as well as sang lead vocals. “What’s with the hair, Pax? You starting a revival of 80s metal hair bands?”
“Gnarly, dude!” Paxton’s shoulder-length black hair flew all over in his head banger’s impression. Then he flashed devil horns with both hands.
A chorus of his brothers’ groans echoed behind him. “Don’t encourage him, Devin. Or we’ll be covering ‘Talk Dirty to Me’ in our set,” one of the twins warned.
“That’s a great idea,” Paxton said. “We’ll debut it tonight.”
All three of his brothers flipped him off.
Flynn, the second oldest brother and the lead guitar player, sauntered up. The physical resemblance between him and Paxton ended with their dark hair color. Their personalities were also total opposites. Paxton was the showman with amazing vocal range. Flynn was the guitar-playing genius who preferred the shadows to the spotlight. He held up his fist to bump Devin’s. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah. Why didn’t you play Gatorfest this year?”
The only time Devin could tell the identical Wright twins, Easton and Weston, apart was when Easton sat behind the drum kit and Weston held his bass. Devin shrugged and said, “Promoters decided to try something new and only have me play events where I headlined.”
“How’s that going?” Paxton asked.
“Good. Think I’ve played every casino in the Southwest. The audiences have been great. We’ve switched opening acts every two weeks or so. Some the record label insisted on, but the rest I got to pick.”
“Thanks for choosing us,” one of the twins said. “We’ve been looking forward to opening for you for months.”
Devin rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the ego stroke, but we all know I oughta be opening for you guys.” The Wright Brothers were one of the few bands who’d successfully sold albums ranging in style from country to pop to bluegrass to light metal. It helped sell records and concert tickets that not only were they incredibly talented, but the brothers had become the bad boys of the music scene. Paxton was notorious for his many messy public affairs with actresses, Flynn for his profanity-laden, equipment-destroying public meltdowns and Easton and Weston for WWE-style barroom brawls and for dating the same woman at the same time.
“See, we’re hoping your good ol’ boy public persona will rub off on us,” Paxton said with a grin.
“Crash mentioned there’s more security. Does that mean the leeches from the f**king media are banned from backstage?” Flynn asked with a sneer.
“We’ve beefed up security. Some weird shit goes along with bein’ in the public eye. You guys know that.”
Easton and Weston nodded.
“So backstage access is limited. And you’ll see more security than normal. Just to be safe.”
“Does any of this have to do with backlash from your song ‘What Love Isn’t’?” Paxton asked. “Because I gotta say, that song is beautiful. Righteous. We even covered it a couple times.”
“You have?” If any other act would’ve said that, he wouldn’t have believed it.
“We aren’t exactly the poster boys for staying away from controversy,” Paxton said dryly.