Chapter 125 Chapter 125 James
“I can’t believe you told him you were going to fuck his idol,” Mia laughs, shaking her head at me.
I smirk, lifting my drink and taking a slow sip. The alcohol burns just enough to settle something restless inside me. We’re in Resin’s suite, packed wall to wall with bodies. The other two bands are here too, and the rest of the room is filled with girls—loud, laughing, competing for attention. The music is blasting, heavy and obnoxious, vibrating through the walls and into my bones.
I won’t miss Dragon playing this crap for hours back home. Or in the car. Or anywhere we went.
Dragon and his pack of morons were waiting for us outside the venue earlier. He wanted to “talk.” It almost made me laugh. Everything had been fine in the beginning, but then it shifted—slowly at first, then all at once. He wanted to close the relationship, started questioning my loyalty, put her ahead of me, and then finally did the one thing he swore he wouldn’t.
He cheated.
There’s no coming back from that. Not for me.
Dragon is one ex I will never be friends with. We were engaged. So yeah, I left him with that—I told him I was going to fuck James. I wanted it to stick in his head, to echo every time he listens to his favorite songs. I want to ruin that band for him. Completely.
Petty? Maybe.
I take a breath and look across the room.
James stands there, talking to one of his bandmates, completely at ease in the chaos. Like it feeds him.
His eyes lift.
They find mine instantly.
He smirks.
The guy next to him follows his gaze, then grabs James’s shoulder, squeezing it hard before shoving him lightly in my direction. A silent push. A challenge.
Slowly, deliberately, James starts walking toward me.
“Which one is your room?” I ask the second he reaches me.
“This way,” he says, his voice low, offering a soft, almost amused smile.
I hand my drink to Gemma without looking at her. I don’t need to—her grin is wicked enough that I can feel it.
James leads me out of the noise and down the hallway. The second we step inside his room, I lean back against the door and lock it.
The click is loud.
He sits at the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands, watching me.
My tank top comes off first, tossed aside. Shoes next. I unzip my jeans and shimmy out of them, letting them fall to the floor. I stand in front of him in nothing but a mesh bra and panties, completely exposed.
James bites his bottom lip, dragging it slowly across his teeth.
“Put your shoes back on,” he says.
I slip my shoes on.
His shirt comes off next, followed by his jeans. They pool at his feet. I catch sight of his boxers and almost laugh—black with little white skeletons bent into ridiculous sex positions.
It’s so different from what I’m used to.
No Armani. No Prada. No Calvin Klein.
His hands slide over my hips, rough, grounding, settling on my bare ass. My lips brush his, soft at first—whiskey kisses. Then harder.
Our tongues meet, clash, explore. His kiss—it’s rough, consuming. Like he wants to take something from me.
Or give something back.
He unhooks my bra, letting it fall away, his fingers already moving, already impatient. He frees himself, rolling a condom on with practiced ease.
Then he pulls me toward him.
I straddle him, shifting my thong aside, and sink down onto him in one smooth motion.
His breath stutters.
“Whoa… you feel so damn good,” he mutters, voice dropping, rough. “Fuck.”
His hands grip my hips, guiding me, pushing me into a rhythm. I lean into him, my arms draped over his shoulders, letting him take control.
But he doesn’t stay still for long.
He stands, lifting me with him, turning us in one motion before my back hits the bed. The mattress dips under us, soft, but he’s anything but. My legs are pushed up, bent, stretched as he drives into me with a kind of intensity that borders on reckless.
It’s not careful.
It’s hungry.
Like he needs this.
Like I do.
The room fills with the sound of skin, breath, movement. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, every nerve ending lighting up as he hits deeper, harder.
He sits up, gripping my legs, sweat already forming along his skin. His hand trails down, slow at first, then purposeful, finding me exactly where I need him.
He pauses.
Smiles.
His fingers brush over my piercing, and something snaps inside me.
The pressure builds fast.
Too fast.
My breath catches, my body tightening, reacting to every movement, every shift of his hand, his body.
His eyes lock with mine.
That’s all it takes.
I break.
Everything spills out of me at once, my body going slack against the bed as the wave crashes through me.
He pulls out, stripping the condom off and finishing across my stomach and chest. For a second, he just stands there, breathing hard, watching me.
Chest rising. Falling. Rapid.
My legs are still spread, heavy, sore, but I don’t move.
The neon lights from outside spill into the room, casting shadows across him.
He looks…dangerous like this.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says.
“It’s fine.”
I take his hand when he offers it, letting him pull me up. We move into the bathroom, the bright white light hitting hard after the dimness of the room.
And that’s when I see it.
It stops me cold.
Scars.
Thin, pale lines running along the insides of his thighs.
Not just a few.
A lot.
My eyes linger too long.
He notices.
“Those are old.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, looking away.
His hand grips my chin, firm but not harsh, turning my face back toward him.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m medicated now.”
He chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it.
None.
Before I can respond, he pulls me into him, kissing me again—harder this time, like he’s trying to erase the moment.
He lifts me onto the bathroom counter, the cold surface shocking against my skin.
“I need another condom,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at me. “Don’t move.”
I lean back against the mirror, watching him go.
And when he comes back…
My breath catches.
He really is beautiful.
Tall, dark hair, light eyes. His body is lean, strong, marked in ways that tell stories he isn’t saying out loud. More tattoos trail down his legs.
But it’s not the tattoos that hold me.
It’s the scars on his arms.
From shoulder to elbow.
More lines.
He tears the condom wrapper open with his teeth, eyes never leaving mine as he steps closer.
My body tightens in anticipation as his hands find me again, warm against my skin.
And then he’s inside me.
But this time—
It’s different.
Slower.
Softer.
His hand cups my face, forcing me to stay there, to look at him, to feel every inch of it without distraction.
No rush.
No chaos.
Just intensity.