As Robbie Harding belts out hit song ‘Jenny’ to a packed Wembley Stadium, my heart tears, my mind spins, and my insides heat to a lusty, pulsing boiling point. Why me more than the other 90,000 screaming fans? Because I’m Jenny—he’s singing about me.
The guy is sex on legs with a voice to match and has starred in all my hot dreams since the day boys became interesting and for three precious years, it was more than hot dreams. Turns out he wants me back in his life and his bed. How can I resist?
So with lots of naked, sweaty and downright dirty time to make up for, I wield my backstage pass, hunt him down and refuse to be starstruck by the boy next door. Seems Robbie agrees, as he insists on tuning in to my needs and rediscovering our rhythm in a very unusual bedroom.
This is a previously published work. It has been revised and edited for Evernight Publishing.
He looked up, and as his gaze devoured me from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, the naughtiest grin I’d ever seen slid over his face. “My God, Jenny, you were so beautiful growing up you made me ache, but now—now you’re beyond exquisite.”
“Robbie,” I said, placing my hands on the hard balls of his shoulders. “You don’t have to say that, I’ve seen who else you’ve dated—”
“None of them compare, none of them come close to you.” His voice deepened. “Do you know why?” He slid his big hands from my ankles to my knees.
“No,” I said in a shaky voice as he exerted gentle pressure and eased my legs apart.
“Because not only are you stunning on the outside, I know you’re beautiful on the inside too, in the very depths of your soul.” He tickled his fingers up my inner thighs.
I licked my lips, swollen from our hard kisses, and watched their progress.
“You’re beautiful right down to the core,” he said, watching his fingers move over my pale flesh. “Sweet and caring, truthful and pure, and I can’t believe I was so stupid to let you go. I can assure you…” he trailed his finger into the soft folds of my pussy and I let out a small whimper of need, “I won’t be letting you go again, not ever.”
He urged my legs wider with his shoulders, dipped his head between my legs and planted a long, hot kiss on top of my little fuzz of blonde pubic hair. I hardly dared to hope he’d do what only he had ever done to me.
“You remember how much you used to like me worshipping you like this?” he asked, stroking his thumb over my clit, teasing it from its hood.
“Yes, yes I do,” I whispered, resting my hands on top of his head. His hair was still damp from the shower.
“Then lie back and enjoy,” he said in a voice that was smoky and rich with desire. “I know I’m going to.”
Oh God, he was going to do that. I let the cool, soft sheets envelop my back as the song about sexed-up party animals ended and ‘Jenny’came on. I was Jenny; this song was about me. I looked up at the reflection on the mirrored ceiling. For a moment I was shocked to see myself sprawled wantonly on the big bed. My hair was spread out like a fan, my small breasts tight and pale. Between my legs was Robbie’s head, shockingly dark against my creamy skin tones and the light silver of the duvet. Then his broad back and wide shoulders filled the space where my legs folded to the floor. Even hunched over, he looked so much bigger than me.
I tensed as Robbie’s tongue began to explore where his fingers had left off. Stroking my soft, damp flesh and delving into every crease and fold. I let out a moan and arched my back as his tongue finally tangled with my clit. His fingers joined in, searched out my entrance and pushed up to the knuckle. “Robbie,” I gasped and pressed down for more, suddenly desperate for it, desperate for that filling sensation.
Still I kept my eyes open, watching him, watching us as his voice ricocheted around the room, singing about his shattered heart and his broken dreams.