Taming the Storm (The Storm #3)(68)
Author: Samantha Towle

He cradles my head in his hands, his eyes locked with mine, his look worshipping, as he moves inside me.

In this darkness, for this one last time, I let myself believe that Tom is making love to me.

When I’m coming, I close my eyes, so he won’t see the tears in them.

Tom comes seconds later. His cock buried deep inside me, his face pressed into my neck, his hot breath burning my skin, while he marks my insides with his come.

Then, without moving out of me, he rolls us over, putting me on top of him. His hand holds my head to his chest, and he presses a kiss to my hair.

We don’t speak. No good nights, no good-byes.

And this how I fall asleep—my body wrapped around Tom’s, our chests pressed together, while my heart bleeds out of my own and straight into his.

The Next Morning—Tom’s House, LA

I wake up on my back, the warmth of the sun on my face.

Turning my head, squinting against the bright morning light, I find I’m alone in bed.

Sitting up, I slide my legs over the edge of the bed, letting my toes sink into the soft carpet. I see Tom’s belt that he used on me last night on the floor, and I register the slight soreness in my ass as a vivid memory of Tom moving inside me comes to surface.

I close my eyes, letting it wash over me.

How he felt. How I felt.

Everything about last night was perfect.

But last night is over. And this is the harsh reality of morning.

My last morning with Tom.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, forcing my feelings back.

Getting to my feet, I look around and take Tom’s room in properly in the daylight, trying to learn a little more about him.

It’s a total guy’s bedroom. All dark wood and white walls. The bedsheets I spent the night wrapped up in are black. A huge flat screen is up on the wall.

Getting up, I walk over to the window, which basically covers the entire far wall. Looking at the view, I see the Hollywood sign and realize that I’m in the Hills.

Figures.

Tom wouldn’t exactly be short of cash, thanks to TMS.

I don’t see my clothes or panties anywhere, so I go to Tom’s walk-in closet and grab a shirt.

Wearing only the shirt, I tread out of the bedroom, looking for the stairs.

Finding them easily, I start to make my way down.

Looking around as I walk, I take in my surroundings since I didn’t get the chance to do it last night. I had other things on my mind then…mainly Tom.

In the light of day, his house surprises me. It’s all soft furnishings, beautiful paintings hanging on the walls, and plush carpets and hardwood floors, kind of surprising.

Not how I would expect a rock star’s house to look—well, not Tom’s house anyway.

I imagined his place as a fuck pad with pictures of naked women up on the walls and empty pizza boxes and beer bottles lying everywhere. Considering the Tom of old, I thought he might also have a few actual naked groupies littered around the place for extra decoration and personal usage.

But some serious thought and care has gone into making this house look warm and inviting. Actually, I wouldn’t even call it a house because it’s more than that. It’s a home.

Tom’s home.

Then, I’m reminded of what he said last night, how I’m the first woman he’s brought back here.

A warm, gooey feeling fills my chest.

Pushing the feeling aside, I try not to read too much into the fact that Tom brought me to his home. I remind myself of his apartment that he uses for the sole purpose of screwing women. I bet that place definitely has groupies in it.

Because that’s the man Tom is.

The reason he hasn’t brought women here is because he doesn’t want his one-night stands hassling him at home. He thinks I’m a safe bet. That I won’t bother him after this morning.

And he’s right. I might have some serious feelings for him, but I also have pride.

Reaching the hall, my feet move over hardwood flooring, and I head toward the sounds and smells of food being fried.

I push open the kitchen door, and the sight awaiting me is…well, it’s outstanding, and it takes all thought with it.

Because Tom is standing at his stove—barefoot, shirtless, wearing only a pair of running shorts.

And he’s frying bacon.

It’s like all my Christmases have come at once.

“Isn’t that a little risky?” I lean against the doorframe.

Tom turns, spatula in hand, and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Hot fat. Very little clothing.” I point to his bare chest.

He grins that sexy grin of his. “I’m hardcore, Firecracker. You know that.” Then, he winks.

And I puddle to the floor.

He’s so dreamy.

And I’m such a fucking girl.

I see his eyes on his shirt that I’m wearing.

Feeling a little awkward, I say, “I hope it’s okay that I borrowed a shirt. I couldn’t find my clothes.”

“It’s fine. I had your clothes laundered. They’re just over there.”

I follow his gaze to where my clothes are hanging on the back of a door.

Wow, that was quick. It’s only nine in the morning. Exactly what time did he get up?

“You have a super-fast cleaning service on call?”

He chuckles. “No, my cleaner. She comes in early. I had her wash and dry your clothes.”

“What time did you get up?”

“Early. I went for a run while you were still sleeping.”

He runs?

He never went for a run while we were tour, but then I guess he didn’t get a lot of chances. And to keep looking like he does, he must work out.

“You hungry?” he asks, turning back to the bacon.

“Sure, I could eat something.”

I watch as Tom serves up bacon onto two waiting plates, and he walks over to the kitchen table with them. I follow behind. A pot of coffee and toast are already there.

I sit down, tucking one leg underneath me. Tom takes the seat opposite of me.

I pick up a piece of bacon and take a bite. It practically melts in my mouth. “You cook some good bacon.” I smile.

He returns my smile, but he surprisingly doesn’t give me a retort.

It leaves an uncomfortable feeling in my chest.

Over breakfast, we chat about my band’s single and our album, upcoming plans for TMS, and everything else but him and me.

Breakfast done, I’m upstairs dressing into my clothes. I’ve just fastened up my jeans when Tom comes in the bedroom.

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” I smile. It’s weak. I know it, he knows it, but neither of us acknowledges the fact.