Home > Rock Chick Redux (Rock Chick #8.5)

Rock Chick Redux (Rock Chick #8.5)
Author: Kristen Ashley

Not sleep attire.

Honeymoon attire. Meant to be worn and taken off.

I had twenty such nighties in my suitcases.

No joke.


I was on my honeymoon and determined to do it right.

So far, my husband appreciated my efforts and even though the nighties cost a mint, the ones I’d used spent most of their time on the floor.

I did not have a problem with this.

I slid the nightie on and put my feet to the floor.

Standing up, I wandered to and out the doors.

I looked right and my stomach flipped.

This was because I saw my husband. Slouched in a deck chair wearing faded jeans rolled up his calves, his legs lifted up, ankles crossed, feet on the railing. Also a white linen t-shirt he hadn’t bothered to do up so it was hanging loose at his sides, showing the wide expanse of his defined chest and sculpted abs.

And twinkling in the sun, his wide gold wedding band on his long strong finger.

He’d picked my engagement ring and the bands. It was his statement I was taken. It was his statement he was too.

I freaking loved that.

I took a moment to study his lusciousness.

He was staring at the sea, his dark-stubbled, square jaw relaxed but his profile was set to reflection.

Needless to say, the vision was enough to get my feet moving in that direction.

He caught my movement, turned his head and looked to me.

My stomach dropped.

All that, those long legs, that messy dark hair, those espresso colored eyes, that soft olive skin that covered hard muscle…

That look of love…

All that was mine.

To communicate how much this meant to me, I smiled and greeted, “Hey.”

He must have read my face because he smiled back, his expression soft, but he shook his head and said nothing.

When I got to him, I climbed on board. That being I threw my leg over and straddled his crotch. After I did that, when his hands hit my hips, my hands hit his jaws and my mouth hit his.

I used tongue.

So did he.

I’d had no complaints about my kissing so I figured I did okay in that endeavor.

My husband’s talent in that area was so good, he should teach classes. However, that was never gonna happen.

No one got that mouth. No one.

But me.

What made it all the better that morning was that he tasted of rum.

When I lifted my head and looked down in those eyes, any normal newly-wed woman would say something like, “I love you,” or, “You’re my world,” or, “I want it to be like this the rest of our lives.”

I thought all that.

He knew I thought it.

So I didn’t have to say it.

Instead, I asked, “Rum for breakfast?”

He grinned and that was what I wanted.

That grin.

That was mine too.

“You disapprove?” he asked back.

In answer, I lifted a bit away from him, reached to the table at our side and grabbed the glass there. I put it to my lips and slugged the rest of his rum back.

When I was done, the rum warming me (further) from gullet to gut, I breathed, “Ahhh.”

I felt him shaking with laughter under me and I looked back down at him.

“There’s my Rock Chick,” he murmured through his chuckles.

Yeah, here I was.

Exactly where I wanted to be.

I put the glass back to the table.

My husband slid his hands under my nightie and over my ass.

“Baby,” he whispered, his voice now slightly rough. “You aren’t wearing panties.”

The tips of his fingers were roaming. Light. Sweet. It felt awesome.

So I leaned into him again.

“I’ve decided, unless I’m in bikini bottoms, I’m going commando the whole honeymoon.”

This wasn’t true. We’d started our honeymoon in Vegas. This was the second leg, and I wore underwear in Sin City. I figured, since we stayed at the Bellagio, that was taking the euro-trash vibe a tad too far.

I was a Rock Chick and anything goes, but we Rock Chicks understood decorum.


His eyes flared at my words.

I liked that.

And that was mine too.

My eyes, I was pretty sure, smiled. For a variety of reasons.

“I approve of this decision,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to my mouth.

Like that was a surprise.

His fingertips kept roaming and I squirmed in his lap, my own fingertips roaming his chest.

I decided they should roam with intent and I move them to his abs.

“Uh…just sayin’,” I started. “I think when you’re on your honeymoon, unless you’re eating, you’re supposed to be making love. Not sitting in the sun, drinking rum and staring at each other’s mouths.”

His head tipped to the side, his eyes came to mine and they warmed.

But his mouth quirked.

“Making love?”


“Making love,” he whispered, his deep voice wrapping around those two words, putting them into action and getting a helluva response even though he was barely moving a muscle.

I squirmed again and repeated, “Yep.”

“So that’s what we’re supposed to be doing?” he asked.

I grinned. “Yeah.”

When he caught my grin, his eyes got hot.

“I better get on that,” he said softly before he surged out of the chair, taking me with him.

Now we were talking.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, legs around his hips and my husband started walking.

But I looked back to the table and cried, “Wait!”

He stopped.

I again looked to him.

“Retrace, three steps,” I ordered.

He grinned and backed up three steps.

I nabbed the bottle of rum and looked back down at him. “We can’t forget breakfast.”

His grin turned into a smile and he started walking again.

That smile.

That face.

My man.

Our destination.

Our location.

And the reason we were there.

One word:



* * * * *

I was seeing stars.

Literally and figuratively.

This was because it was midnight and I was on my back on a blanket in the sand and my husband was on top of me, moving between my legs, creating magic.

He had his face in my neck and his hands at my hips, lifting them to take him.

I had my hands all over him and everything on me, in me and around me was sheer beauty.

So I started making noises.

He lifted his head and blocked out the inky night with its twinkling lights but, my opinion, my new view was a whole lot better.

One of his hands slid in, his thumb hit me right on the spot, put pressure on and started rolling.

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