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‘You do that in a recording studio?’
‘Sometimes.’ He shrugs.
My hand feels the ripple of his muscles and my gut clenches correspondingly.
‘And you snuck an extra question in there. Don’t think I didn’t notice.’
‘Uh-huh. I’m very sneaky.’
‘I like sneaky.’
His head dips closer. My breath is burning through me.
‘Alena?’
When I shake my head this time it brings me closer. Our lips are barely an inch apart and my hand is still on his chest, my fingertips teasing the soft fabric of his shirt. Up close, his scent is intoxicating.
‘What’s your question?’
My brain is thick and woolly. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so badly that I can phantom-feel his lips on mine already.
What if he’s a terrible kisser?
My eyes drop to his lips, assessing the possibility of that.
No.
He won’t be.
I’m sure of it.
‘Don’t have one, huh?’ he teases.
A noise cracks us apart. I blink, like I’m waking from a dream. The waitress has placed our drinks on the tabletop and then a basket of onion rings. It’s surprisingly sweet that he ordered something so pedestrian. Had I expected he’d ask for caviar-dressed lobster?
‘What’s it like? Being famous?’
His expression shows surprise. He wasn’t expecting that.
‘You’re the first person to ask me that,’ he muses, drawing the foam top off his beer in a way that is so absolutely masculine my knees knock with feminine heat.
‘Really?’ I sound normal. That’s good. ‘You weren’t born famous. It must be a bit weird.’
‘Weird’s a good word for it.’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t notice so much now. But at first...’
‘You were...how old? When your first record came out?’
‘I didn’t release a record at first. I was big on YouTube before any of the labels came knocking.’
‘So you’ve been doing this a really long time?’
He reaches for an onion ring, crunches it. ‘I was sixteen when I topped the UK charts.’
I’m impressed—obviously. All the more so because he says it without a hint of arrogance. It’s just a fact, one he’s accepted as a part of the fabric of his story, so that he says it without realising what a huge deal it is.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Music?’
‘Fame,’ I correct, sipping my drink.
‘Nah. It’s shit.’
I laugh—it’s not what I was expecting him to say at all. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He grins. ‘You get used to it, but at first it’s like being on a different planet. I’ll never forget the first time I opened my front door to a throng of paparazzi. It was madness. I was still living at home—we had to move to a gated community with security fences and cameras. I can’t get over how fascinated people are by the minutiae of my life. Of anyone else’s life. I once had a busboy sell the cutlery I’d used for lunch on eBay.’
I pull a face, barely able to imagine the invasiveness of that.
‘But the music...’
He grins and my heart flops.
‘I live for it, you know? Always have.’
And he begins to hum, something low and deep, and he moves closer to me again, propping an elbow on the table to form a sort of cage around me. He is big and I’m not. I’ve always been little, but in the circle created by his arms I feel something I’ve never felt before. I feel safe.
Safe?
From what?
It’s a stupid, errant thought. After all, whatever’s happening between us is possibly the most danger I’ve been in. Even with the guys I was with before Jeremy it was never like this. I was in control. Always.
Ethan when-is-he-going-to-kiss-me? Ash is definitely not eating out of the palm of my hands. Yet.
A need to grasp control out of his hands spins through me. I reach up and curl my fingers around his shirt, so that I can pull him closer still, and then I brush my lips to his so that I feel the notes rather than just hear them. If possible, his voice tastes even better than it sounds.
‘Alison?’ he says against my lips.
I shake my head.
‘Do you have a question for me?’
I’m at a crossroad. Past, future and present swirl around me. Need, want, right and wrong. These are all voices and forces throbbing in my head. But one voice is loudest of all.
Desire shouts through me.
‘Can we go yet?’
* * *
Every time I question the wisdom of this I think of the freaking Tweet. #soinlove
Sienna’s moved on. Why the hell shouldn’t I have some fun too?
Something squeezes inside me and my past with Sienna flashes before me. The years we spent together. The way we came through the industry together. I get her and she gets me. It damned near killed me when we broke up. Only her promise that it was temporary eased that pain.
And now she’s fucking engaged to another guy.
A new sense of urgency powers my intent.
‘Hell, yeah. Let’s get out of here.’
I drain my beer, noticing she’s hardly touched her drink. I nod towards it but she shakes her head.
‘I’m okay.’
She’s better than okay. Briefly I feel a wave of guilt. To Sienna. To Ally. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’m not thinking one hundred percent clearly, but my instincts are telling me to go with this—or is that my cock?—and I’m not going to ignore them.
‘Let’s go.’
I hold my hand out and she places her palm in mind. Her hand’s small, and yet it fits into mine perfectly. I stand and pull her closer to me as I do. She smells like vanilla and moonlight.
Someone’s tipped the press off as to my whereabouts, so that when we step out of the club there’s flashes everywhere. Ally’s surprised. She’s not used to fame and its pointed intrusion. I pull her closer to my chest. The desire to protect her is instinctive. I don’t want her being collateral damage in all of this.
I hail a cab and it stops instantly. I hold the door open for her and she slips inside, a blur of pale skin, bright blue eyes and long red hair. I follow, moving close to her in the back of the cab.
I hear every single one of Ally’s rushed breaths echo inside my soul.
I give the driver my hotel address and then I turn to Ally. I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. Thoughts fly from my head at the sight of her huge wide eyes and parted lips.
Fuck it.
I want her.
I kiss her as though my life depends on it. I kiss her with an aching hunger and desperation that surprises us both.
Or maybe it doesn’t—because it’s exactly how she kisses me back.
CHAPTER THREE (#ue713a764-20c5-501c-a0ed-19d3d1854161)
IS IT POSSIBLE to pass out from pleasure? I know that’s generally the body’s response to painful stimuli, but is it possible to be so turned on that the pleasure almost becomes pain? I’ve never had sex in a cab, but if this drive takes any longer I’m going to do just that.
His hand is on my thigh and his tongue is tangled with mine, his lips move over mine and I am melting into the leather of the seat. Desire is like a volcano in my core, bursting with lava-like heat. He runs his fingers higher, confidently, firmly, until he reaches the lace of my thong. He pads his fingertips across me there and I groan into his mouth, my fingers lifting to knot into his thick hair, my body weak and strong all at once.
He removes his hand from between my legs and his desertion is a wave that flushes me with ice. I grind my hips impatiently and make a whimpering sound as his flat palm drags up my body, over the softness of my clothes to the curves of my breast. He rolls his hand across me as though I am an object and he its owner. His touch sends spirals of fire deep into my body, affecting me on a cellular level.
I make a gurgling sound and laugh, pushing up to kiss him harder, to let my breasts flatten his hand between us. We are wedged together and my hands are curled around his neck and, God, he tastes and feels amazing. Better than amazing.
Finally the cab pulls to a stop and I am flushed with relief—until I realise it’s a stop sign.
‘You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,’ he snaps, his brow furrowed as he shoots an impatient look through the glass of his windscreen.
He feels it too, then. This need that is reverberating through the back of the cab somewhere in the middle of Park Avenue. It makes me feel inexplicably relieved, knowing that I’m not the only one out here on this limb.
He turns to look at me and I laugh at the bewilderment on his features.
‘I swear to God, if this takes much longer...’
I totally get it. Hadn’t I just been thinking the same thing?
I swallow, trying to bring moisture back into my parched mouth. My hand is still on his chest; I can feel the rapid beating of his heart. Thump, thump, thump.
Craning my head around, I can just make out the street sign that shows we’re on the corner of Park Avenue and East Twenty-Second. ‘You said the Gramercy?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s like a block away. Let’s walk.’
He arches a brow, and heat simmers through me as he reaches forward and taps on the glass.
‘We’ll get out here.’
He tosses some money through the window and winks at me, opening the door and stepping out so that he can hold it wide for me. I follow, my foot landing on the pavement for the briefest moment before his arm wraps around my waist and draws me to him.
I don’t think the cab has even driven off before his lips are back on mine, with renewed intensity and urgency. His body is strong and he pushes me easily, guiding me to the sandstone wall of some building. It’s cold and hard behind me, and he’s hard and hot against me, his body all angles and planes and thick strong legs surrounding me, holding me still as he grinds against me. His arms are my cage and, oh, the sweetness of being trapped by him!
His mouth holds my head to the wall and I devour him as he devours me, my hands curling around his back to find the waistband of his jeans. I slide my fingers beneath his shirt, groaning as warm skin rewards my seeking. It’s so soft and smooth beneath me. I draw my fingertips on a slow exploration higher, along the ridges of his spine and then to his sides, to hips that are carved and firm.
‘Fuuuuck...’
He groans into my mouth, wrenching his head away—and it is a wrench. Every line of his body speaks to that. It is as though he’s had to fight his way through quicksand just to find space between us.
Maybe it’s the whole rock star thing. Maybe it makes him sexier than mortals. I don’t know. This is so not normal, though. Is it for him?
‘I need to get you to my hotel. Now.’
I nod, not even bothering to argue with him. But there’s a frown between his eyes, just like I always get.
I lift my finger to it, absentmindedly exploring the groove. ‘What’s wrong?’
The line deepens. He has a dimple in his cheek and when he frowns it’s deliciously seductive.
‘Nothing. I...’ And then he shakes his head, steps back, reaches for my hand.
We’ve just been simulating sex with our clothes on, and yet there is something bizarrely intimate about the simple act of lacing our fingers together. His, mine, his, mine, his, mine—in and out, they are woven together, and it’s a new kind of coming together.
‘Let’s go.’
