Rock Hard: Bad Boy Bandmates & Babies Series, Jamie Knight [best books for 20 year olds .TXT] 📗

leaving my ass bared to the open air, save for a rather skimpy pair of silk panties. This condition was short-lived, Seth deftly removing my already wet panties with one hand, stroking my lower back with the other as he did so.

With a deep, cleansing breath I got ready for the first slap, Seth surprising me by gently stroking me. The gentleness of his caress let me know it was a play spank, and not serious discipline.

Taking time to warm me up, he let in with the first strike. A short, hard smack with a flat palm. Repeating it a few more times, he started striking upwards with a slightly cupped hand. Just when I was relaxed, he gave a sharp downward strike with just his fingers, to make sure I was paying attention.

Returning to the gentle scoops, he slipped two fingers from his other hand into my pussy, working me up to a squirming orgasm on his lap.

I really wanted to touch myself now, but I didn’t, and it was a good thing. I snapped back to reality when the door opened, yanking myself back into reality so fast it almost hurt.

Seth had arrived, and I had to pull myself together.

Chapter Two - Seth

The thump was maddening. I opened my eyes, seeing nothing but the brass ceiling tiles. They were sturdy and antique, decorated with an ever-repeating pattern. A Brigid’s Knot, to be exact, which was associated with the Gaelic pagan goddess of healers, poets, smiths and inspiration.

Without looking, I set the needle back to rights, pounding music filling my skull via the stereo headphones. They were the huge, tin-can style type that were making a comeback. Probably because they were significantly more comfortable than earbuds.

By sheer happenstance, I noticed the steady march of time had brought me to the point where I had half an hour before I was late to show up at the office.

The fact that I was the one who actually set the schedules was a great comfort as I rose from the chair. That plan didn’t exactly go down like gangbusters, my stiff and aching legs clearly not listening to a word my brain was shouting.

The needle came up off the vinyl without a sound, the sleeve laying empty on the floor. It was a first pressing of Immortal Territory by Lords of Sacred Shadow. It had been Luna’s favorite. I closed my eyes, silencing the screaming ghosts, and slid the record back into its proper place.

For someone not considered to have a ‘real job’, until I started making six-figures that is, I could be a real stickler for organization. Part of why I’d done so well. I also never really got into the drug scene. Music and sex were my own highs of choice. No less potent, but not as likely to leave you insensible, at least not for long.

Warm water embraced my aching muscles, reducing their piteous cries to a manageable whimper as the droplets ran the gauntlet of scars and tattoos from my neck to my feet. Most were more intentional than others, yet almost all of them were permanent reminders of youthful mistakes.

That was okay, though. They helped to keep me humble.

The closet doors slip open like the entrance to an ancient cathedral, my suits lined up like dutiful sentinels. A neat row of Converse sneakers was lined up under them, like a last nod to my mad formation.

The rest of my outfits trended towards the dress casual. Usually slacks, sometimes subtle jeans, with a polo shirt. They went better with my shorter hair and corrected vision. I only made the admission, even to myself, that I really did need glasses, in my mid-20s. How I managed to live that long going about the world half blind was a sort of miracle.

The engine roared to life like a poked dragon, settling down into a steady rumble. Closing up the garage, I rocketed out onto the empty street, the other members of my quiet suburbia having already gone about the business of their day.

I’d lived downtown for a while, but you only needed to hear a couple shootings outside your window before a suburban ranch seemed like much less of a ‘sellout’ – a term I never really understood even in its most limited form.

My good friend Cam and I had often debated whether music should be made for art, or money, or both.

Wasn’t the idea of recording records to sell them and make money from your art?

How was that a bad thing if you stayed true to your vision?

Parking was easy, since I was later than usual, and most people had already gotten to their day jobs, including those who served coffee to the likes of me. It was a mixed blessing, to be sure. While I lamented their loss of autonomy, the very notion of me trying to use an Espresso machine brought about a sense of existential dread that was roughly on par with the feeling I got when I thought about nuclear proliferation.

“Tall hot chocolate with whipped cream.”

“Going on a detox?” Skyler asked, punching in the order.

She was the barista who was always here, and knew that I was a regular.

   “Good guess.”

Not that there wasn’t still caffeine in the hot chocolate, of course. Just a lot less than even the smallest latte. I wasn’t to the point of muscle jitters, but I thought it was a good idea to give my heart a break. I wasn’t as young as I used to be and two and a half decades of copious coffee consumption could be cause for concern.

Following the time-honored tradition, I stepped to one side, and waited to be summoned by the beverage guardians. The chair creaked softly under me as I eased down, even though it was unlikely to be a long wait.

I saw