Bedded Bliss (Found in Oblivion Book 1) Read online

  Bedded Bliss

  Found In Oblivion

  Cari Quinn

  Taryn Elliott

  Contents

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Triple Trouble

  Also by Cari & Taryn

  Lost in Oblivion Series

  About the Authors

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Bedded Bliss

  © 2016 Cari Quinn & Taryn Elliott

  Cover by LateNite Designs

  All Rights Are Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Rainbow Rage Publishing print edition: August 2016

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  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgments

  The wonderful ladies of our reader group, WORD WENCHES, are some of the most supportive peeps on the planet. They’re the first to hear about our new endeavors, and participate in fun contests we have.

  A recent one was to name Nick & Lila Crandall’s twins.

  C’mon. That’s way too fun to keep all to ourselves. Of course we had final say about the names in the end. Oh, and we got a ton more names for our files of future babies or characters. ;)

  Congrats to Jennifer Beck Miller & Jeannie Huffman for coming up with Charlotte, aka Charlie. As well as Shyla R. Wright for her offering, Avery.

  Pretty names for two of the prettiest girls to come out of fiction. Nick’s already ordered their chastity belts.

  For all foolish moments that turn into wonderful pockets of forever.

  Dedicating this one yet again to Michael Hutchence of INXS, as we did Seduced in our Lost in Oblivion series. To Cari, he was pretty much the epitome of a rockstar, and INXS’s Wembley 1991 concert was in heavy rotation while we were writing Bedded Bliss. He’ll never be forgotten (nor will the word “f$%king” said in that delicious accent of his.)

  Chapter 1

  “Your tabby has missed you. Don’t you want to pet my pussy?”

  Michael Shawcross rolled over in bed and flung out an arm. Instead of colliding with the mattress as it usually did, he hit soft, warm flesh.

  A second later, wetness glided down his belly, stopping just above the sheet tangled around his torso. He shifted his hips against the bed, his body straining toward the slick line of liquid without thought.

  “That’s it, baby. Whatcha hiding under this towel? Is he excited to see me too?”

  Even still half-asleep, he frowned. What the hell? It felt like someone was licking him. Pouring more liquid on his stomach, low, lower, lowest, then dragging down the sheet to where he was popping up like a damn sailor saluting his country.

  Then his eyes popped open to match, and he groaned. And it wasn’t because a gorgeous brunette was currently a deep breath away from sucking his cock.

  “Dammit, Tabitha, how did you get in here?”

  “That’s how you greet an old friend?” She sighed and sat up, gripping the bottle of champagne in one hand and the towel precariously wrapped around her body with the other. Catching his glance at her obviously wet and dripping legs, she let the towel fall down a bit more and smiled. “I had to wash the travel dirt off me, didn’t I? It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, and I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed a little water from your shower.” She crawled up the bed toward him, her expression feral. “Don’t worry, I have some wetness to give back.”

  He groaned again, and this time it wasn’t entirely because the sexy witch had broken into his apartment or tried to give him a sponge bath using bubbly and her tongue.

  Some stupid, ridiculous part of him just wanted to tell the world to fuck off so he could enjoy himself. She was obviously more than willing, and from the feel of things, Michael junior didn’t have the same morals as his owner.

  So what if she was engaged to a senator? Sure, it was absolutely wrong on a million levels to get involved in a situation like that, and he’d told her in every variation of English that he could think of that he wasn’t about to go there. Problem was, he already had, sort of, and she wouldn’t let him forget it.

  She wasn’t the only one. Their names—along with Senator Dinkles—were on TV and in the rags constantly lately. Then there was the elevator footage from the Squire Hotel in LA that just happened to include him nudging her in such a way that made it appear like he was urging her to the floor. Oh yeah, and oops, her hand was on his zipper…

  No one seemed to care he hadn’t even known who she was when she’d approached him that night after the concert. It hadn’t been the first time. She’d gone to full-on groupie status even before that fateful evening. He’d engaged in a friendly and furtive gropefest with her at a couple of meet and greets, because, surprise, she always seemed to have backstage passes no matter where they were. He hadn’t questioned it. Even at his level of fame—which granted him a label of rising star at best and nobody at worst, depending on the day of the week—he had girls throwing themselves at him. Hell, some guys too.

  He hadn’t been part of a successful band for long. They were still suffering from growing pains. For some reason, they just couldn’t get their lineup to gel. Members had come and gone, and Ryan had tried to fill in wherever he could, but Jesus, they needed a real drummer, someone who could kill it like Matt Sorum or Dave Grohl. So he wasn’t that used to anyone seeing them as a legit entity, mainly because they didn’t quite see themselves that way yet. Even with all the shows they were doing, and the EP they’d cut that had done better than expected on the Hot 100, Warning Sign was definitely still suffering from poser syndrome.

  And hot, willing, adoring groupies? Well, they eased the pain.

  Not that he’d gotten to enjoy that many of them, despite recent public theorizing otherwise. He was too worried about being a good guy. Too concerned about not being like his dad and leaving behind a trail of broken hearts—or like his mom and leaving behind a trail of broken marriages, and engagements, and embarrassing legal battles.

  Tabitha was actually one of the first women he’d connected with a few times on their mini tour of the west coast. The rest had been faceless, momentary thrills. Amazing, but brief. He’d also usually been too drunk to remember names the next day.

  According to his manager—and former stepmother, Lila Crandall�
�he had a problem.

  With the drinking and the girls? Nah. He was just having fun. No one was getting hurt, so what was the big deal?

  Now there was Tabitha, who was pouring more champagne on his abs, and licking it up while her big brown eyes made love to his.

  “You can’t do this.” His voice sounded faint, even to him.

  He wasn’t drunk or hungover, but he was horny. He was also a twenty-three-year-old male. Fuck, it got so tiring being the morality police all the time. That was exactly why he’d started letting loose a few months ago. He’d always been sheltered from the real world, locked away in the ivory tower of his father’s money and his mother’s endless carousel of crappy relationships. When he hadn’t been forcibly rejecting their bad examples, he’d been sequestered playing his guitar.

  Was it any wonder he’d gone a little nuts when he’d first tasted freedom and success of his own? But he could rein it in at any time.

  That mean telling Tabby sayonara. Again. This time he’d have to convince her that she was murdering both of their reputations, and he damn sure wasn’t going to have sex with her anyway, so she might as well not bother.

  After his background, there was no way he’d be a homewrecker or a cheater, even by proxy. Helping someone else to cheat wasn’t any better. If she wanted to leave her relationship, fine. Instead she wanted her piece of “rockstar cake” as she’d once called him while she married a senator.

  Fuck that. He wasn’t anyone’s cake. He also needed to actually speak up and get her back into her clothes before she started eating him without benefit of a fork.

  “You need to go,” he managed as she dripped a few drops of champagne around his nipple and let out a husky laugh. “I’m not kidding, Tabitha. I don’t know how you got in here, but it’s breaking and entering. I was asleep, goddammit.”

  “Aw, sugar, I hate when you throw around accusations. Especially when we both know you gave me this key,” she lifted a long necklace hidden by her towel, “a couple weeks ago and told me to use it. Actually, you begged me.” She circled her bright pink fingernail around the sensitive peak she’d just drizzled with bubbly and he barely restrained a hiss. “You said how you get so lonely out on the road. That you hate sleeping alone on the bus but it would make you feel so much better to have a girl waiting for you in your bed. One who would keep the home fires burning.” She let go of the key and reached for the knot in her towel. The terrycloth parted and her luscious body came into full, glorious view. And fuck it all, his balls clenched. “Wanna see how warm I can get for you?”

  It was just a line, and a cheesy one at that. Christ, he didn’t remember telling her any of that, but she had a key. She was in the apartment. He did get lonely on the road, especially on the nights where his bandmates had company and he didn’t. Besides, sex wasn’t enough. Sure, it filled the hole now and then, but he was just as hungry a couple of hours later.

  The worst part was he didn’t know what he wanted. He loved sex, and he had friends. He even had friends he’d had sex with, which should have been the best of both worlds. But it just wasn’t. And now Lila wanted him to stop doing even that. Not his bandmates. They had it all under control, according to her. He was the tabloid bait. The one who was getting known for all the wrong reasons.

  The one who had a gorgeous girl in his bed who he couldn’t fuck because he was thinking about his stepmom being displeased with his choices, and wasn’t that frigging rich.

  “I must’ve been drunk.” He swallowed hard, allowing himself only the briefest glance at Tabitha’s perfectly rounded tits and large brown nipples before he met her gaze. “I don’t remember telling you any of that. I definitely don’t remember giving you a key. I wouldn’t have done that if I’d been in my right mind. The last thing I want is for you to—”

  “To what? Get the wrong idea? To think that maybe you want me to climb on top of you and ride this big dick until we both come our brains out?”

  The fact that she was practically screaming those questions near his ear in her raspy voice should’ve turned down the arousal factor. Instead, his cock was starting to throb. Of course the soft, warm breast pushing into his upper arm wasn’t helping matters.

  Jesus.

  “You’re almost married.” He pushed himself up to a sitting position and twitched the sheet back over his jutting erection. “You shouldn’t be here. Did anyone see you come in?” He shoved a hand through his spiky hair and shut his eyes at the sticky shit he couldn’t move his fingers through. Damn gel. He’d meant to take a shower when he came in last night, but nope, he’d collapsed on the bed facedown and hadn’t moved until morning.

  He glanced at the clock on the bedside. Make that afternoon. Past two. Shit, he had rehearsal today, and they were supposed to be taking off for Vegas first thing tomorrow.

  His head hurt like a bitch too. Tension headache. Band tension, Tabitha tension, Lila tension—God, who even knew what was causing most of the pressure that had descended on his life all of a sudden?

  It was all too much too fast, when this was everything he’d ever wanted.

  Minus Tabitha shooting death rays at him while he tried to remember in which room he’d dropped his pants.

  “You don’t need to worry about my marriage. I’m not looking for a counselor.”

  “No, you want a sugar daddy on the side, to go with the one who gave you that ring.” He inclined his chin at the huge honking rock on her left hand. A sapphire surrounded by diamonds.

  His dad had given his mother a sapphire engagement ring. If that didn’t prove they were bad omens, then nothing did.

  She snatched back her hand. “Oh, and is that supposed to be you? You’re a struggling artist. You can barely take care of yourself, never mind me.” She rolled her eyes and threw out a hand to encompass his master suite. “Look at this place.”

  He glanced from the snowy white linens on the California King size bed to the heavy Queen Anne-style furniture that dominated the room. The French doors off the room went to a balcony that gave a gorgeous view of the ocean in the distance. The apartment wasn’t quite up to penthouse-level, but considering rents in the area, he was doing okay.

  And fuck it all, it was his. Paid for on his dime, not his father’s. He was no longer a kept son, meant to sit down and shut up. Most of all, he’d been expected to pretend he agreed with everything his dictator of a dad had to say. He was making his own way now.

  That also meant he didn’t have to prove himself to anyone. If Tabitha thought his standards were below her, well, then that was just fine, since he doubted they could even be friendly after this mess.

  “Yes, look at it. To you, it may not be much. Senator’s wife-to-be and all. To me, it’s everything. I got here on my own, and I’m going to continue to build.” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed the sheet, wrapping it around himself toga-style.

  She spluttered, apparently not liking being left sheetless although she’d been so damn intent on getting naked. “You’re going to regret tossing me out. I don’t give second chances.”

  Michael crossed his arms over his chest. The champagne was still drying on his skin. “Yeah, well, let’s hope your fiancé does, after you’ve dragged his name through the dirt with all your chasing after me and God knows who else.”

  She had the decency to direct her gaze at her left hand, now clutching her towel—his towel—to her chest. “Is it so hard to believe I thought we had a connection?”

  “Even if we did, what kind of guy would I be to get with you while you’re hooked up with another man? You know what they say—how she did the last guy is how she’ll do you next time.”

  “You know what? Forget it. If you want to pretend you’re no longer into me, that’s fine. I don’t have to beg for scraps.” She rose from the bed, still holding the champagne bottle. At least she’d brought that, since he rarely drank the stuff and definitely didn’t stock it. “You’ll regret treated me so harshly the next time you’re on that bus and w
ishing you weren’t all by your miserable self.” She yanked off the key necklace around her neck and tossed it in the middle of his bed before flouncing out the door.

  A moment later, he heard the front door slam in her wake.

  He rubbed his forehead and stumbled into the bathroom. Yep, he looked as bad as he thought. He needed a piss, a shave and a shower, in that order.

  His cell buzzed before he’d completed the second thing.

  Heaving out a breath, he headed back into the bedroom and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. Ryan Waters, his favorite bandmate. Most of the time, he was his favorite anyway. When he wasn’t pissing him off by being so damn together all the time.

  Fuck, was he late for rehearsal? He was almost sure it wasn’t until five. They’d be up late anyway, so no one wanted to start working early.

  Except Ry. That guy made the early bird look like a slacker for not pulling an all-nighter.

  “What’s up? You mad at me because I didn’t camp out in the rehearsal hall?” Michael asked, returning to the bathroom. Maybe he could finish his freaking shave. The halfway scruffy look wasn’t doing him any favors.

  He’d just picked up his straight razor—he was all about the old school when it came to shaving—when Ryan’s desolate voice came over the line.

  “Dude, I’m out. I can’t play.”

  “What do you mean you can’t play?” Michael gripped his razor hard enough to open up a line in his palm. He barely felt it even as blood trickled down his wrist. “We have Vegas tomorrow night. Our biggest fucking show yet.”

  “I sprained my hand. I’m out. Doc says I won’t be able to play the drums for weeks, depending how I heal.”

  Michael couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. “What the hell happened?”

  “That doesn’t matter right now. Man, we’re fucked.”