Brooke Skipstone

Chapter Thirteen

 

The most famous riff in the world (how did he know that?) pounded from the speakers: Jimmy Page on guitar first, then John Paul Jones on bass, then the voice of Robert Plant screaming the words. He was surprised he knew their names. By the time John Bonham crashed into the mix with his drums, Hunter’s hips were undulating to the beat beneath hands reaching to the ceiling, nodding his head, mouthing the lyrics.

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He turned around, still dancing, closing his eyes, feeling the music fill every part of his body. He felt loose, lithe, electrified!

He turned again, opened his eyes, and saw her dancing in the mirror—a beautiful blonde woman, shaking her long hair from shoulder to shoulder, piercing him with her dagger blue eyes as she directed every word of the song to him through blood-red lips, jerking her hips with each lift of her heel, pointing at him with long, red fingernails.

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Her large breasts swayed unrestrained beneath her cut-off t-shirt. She turned, put her hands on her hips, and shook her ass, barely covered by yoga shorts.

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Hunter was hypnotized, staring at her, panting his breaths. She moved out of the mirror during the instrumental section like an animal on the prowl, grinning with malice and seduction, shimmying so close to him he could feel her warmth and inhale her scent of patchouli and rose petals. She bent toward him, forcing him to lean back with her hands on his chest. Then he leaned toward her as she bent back, shaking her shoulders, moving her breasts beneath her shirt.

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They both held their hands above their shoulders as they turned around slowly, rotating their heads, humping their pelvises as Plant’s orgasmic shouts filled their ears. When Bonham brought the simulated sex to a close with a roll through his drums, Hunter and the woman jumped side by side and thrust their hips toward each other with each pair of crashing drums and guitars before Page launched into his solo. They jumped around and did the same hip crunch from the other side—six times—before Plant’s voice rose above the din.

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Hunter and the woman twirled around each other, eyes locked, as they shook and shimmied. The woman’s hands flung wildly, often raking across his ass or his genitals. When Plant roared in ecstasy toward the end, the woman screamed, “Shake for me!” The woman shook her shoulders and hips. Hunter stared at her chest, hypnotized.

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“Shake, Baby!” she screamed at him. She reached for his hips and jerked them back and forth, allowing her hands to wander. Hunter gasped, backed away, but she followed, repeating everything she’d done previously.

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As the song ended, the woman smiled at him slyly as she looked directly at his erection. She moved back into the mirror, purposely swaying her hips, and laughing. Hunter couldn’t help watching her butt as the quiet strumming of the next song started.

He was about to shout something at her—

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“Hunter?”

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He jerked his head around to see Jazz standing in the doorway, smiling as her eyes moved below his waist.

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Now she was staring. “What were you doing?”

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Hunter looked down and realized his erection was pushing out his pants.

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He lunged toward the boom box and stopped the music.

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Who was the woman in the mirror? Read the book.

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