I allow her to lead me through a large, darkened room filled with cabaret tables illuminated by glowing blue vases placed at the center of each. The air smells of bright orange zest and lemon with a hint of piney gin and a top note of expensive perfume. On the small stage at the front of the space, a woman with long brown dreads plays a baby grand and croons softly in a penetrating alto that lifts the hairs at the back of my neck.
Every story is a love story if you stop to listen, dear…
People who can sing—really sing—have always blown me away. I’ll shout-sing “Love Shack” at karaoke any night of the week, but my voice isn’t the kind that soaks into a person’s soul or hums through their bones.
It isn’t magical like this.
I’m instantly in thrall to the gorgeous dreadlock girl, so rapt that I can only nod dumbly as the cocktail waitress asks if I’d like fresh-squeezed orange juice with my champagne.
I settle into my seat, pulling my jacket tighter across my chest even though it’s warm in the room. But it feels safer to keep my jacket on rather than risk exposing more of my humming skin to this woman’s marrow-prickling voice. I want to hide under the covers with my eyes closed and her music in my ears, the way I did countless nights as a teen, back when my favorite musicians seemed to be the only ones who understood the way it felt to be young and confused and so filled with longings and feelings and questions that I despaired that I’d ever figure life out, even a little bit.
Now, I’m twenty-seven, and I know so much more than that confused little girl, but sometimes, I still feel so lost.
Especially lately.
Especially when Cutter kisses me like I’m the only woman in the world and the connection between us feels so honest and real that every cell in my body screams that this is the man I’ve been waiting for. A man who will support me and challenge me. A man who’s generous and thoughtful. A man who makes me feel beautiful and sexy and brave, even when I’m scuffed up from falling on my face or wearing saggy old sweatpants.
I never imagined someone like Cutter could be my perfect match, but there’s no denying that I feel at home with him. I feel safe and heard and accepted for exactly who I am.
And I have a sneaking suspicion he feels the same way.
The thought is still knocking around in my head as the piano player takes her final bow and Cutter strides onstage to a wave of thunderous applause and breathy sighs from the women around me.
I know for a fact the man made no special effort to get pretty for the crowd, but I can’t blame them for being knocked off their feet at the sight of him. Up there in the lights, he glows, his unicorn beauty even more dazzling than it is in everyday life.
And then he murmurs into the microphone, “Thank you, beautiful people. I can’t wait to sing a few brand-new things for you tonight,” in his husky, rock star voice, and I swear I can hear the nipples hardening at the table of scantily dressed women to my right.
And even though I’m probably making a terrible mistake, I can’t help the warm rush of satisfaction that unfurls inside me as Cutter strums his first few chords.
Because that beautiful man came here with me.
And tonight, he’s going to be mine.
All mine.
Chapter Sixteen
Cutter
Not every time I take the stage is magic.
Sometimes, I get up in front of a crowd, and all I can focus on are my mistakes. Every sloppy chord or slightly off-tempo vocal transition makes me cringe, quickly transforming a three-hour concert into an eternal exercise in torture.
I do a good slacker impression in my day-to-day life, but when it comes to the things that really matter to me, I’m a perfectionist.
I either do something very well, or I don’t do it at all.
I tend to quit when the learning curve gets too steep, if I can’t get good enough fast enough to quiet the “it has to be perfect” voices in my head. It’s why I’m only excellent at a handful of things—playing the guitar, singing, writing songs, giving a woman the most fabulous oral of her life, and making transcendent homemade macaroni and cheese.
My gourmet extra spicy five cheese mac and cheese is a tour bus favorite I’ve perfected over the years. If we finish an early show and are sitting around having beers and bitching about the overnight drive to the next venue, someone is going to suggest I make my special mac to ease the blow of ten hours on the bus listening to another man snore.
Not me, of course. I don’t snore. Ever. That’s a vicious rumor Colin started to get me back for putting I Love Intercourse, PA! stickers all over his antique violin case.
But even that crisis in our friendship was easily smoothed over by a big batch of extra spicy mac and cheese.
I should make it for Theo, I think as I launch into the first chords of my newest work in progress.
And that’s my last coherent thought before the music takes over.
Tonight is one of the magical nights when the music pours into me like wine into an overflowing glass. I’m not Cutter anymore—I’m a vessel for the words and the notes and the feelings that flow through me as I sing about what it’s like to ache to go home to a place you’ve never known and to wonder what you might see if you knew how to open your eyes.
I lay all the conflicted emotions of being back in my father’s house at the feet of the audience, and they reward me with a roar of applause as I shift into two upbeat Lips on Fire oldies but goodies before ending my fifteen-minute set with another new song.
This last one is a love song about wasted opportunities and signs missed along the way, and until right this moment, when the first notes fall from my lips, I was positive it was about Megan.
But as I sing, “When the night has shown me all my dark and sad, your eyes make me think I might not be so bad,” the eyes flashing behind my closed lids aren’t pale blue like Megan’s. They’re a dark, warm, honey-flecked brown, and they see straight through me, making me spill my secrets in a way no one else ever has.
And when I reach the chorus and insist that, “And when I tumble the walls, all I want is you. And when I break out of my cage, all I need is you. And when I lay down for the last time, baby, all I’ll see is you, all I’ll ever see is you, and I know you see me too,” all I can think of is the night at Theo’s place when she and I fell asleep while watching TV, and what a perfect, simple surprise it was to wake up to find her snuggled against me.
How good it felt. How right. How marvelous to know she trusted me enough to fall asleep with her cheek on my chest.
I can’t see faces past the first few rows of tables—the lights are too bright—but I swear I can feel her eyes on me from the darkness on the right side of the room. So I sing the chorus again to the place where my gut insists my girl is sitting.
Only she isn’t my girl…
And she never will be.
Even if I didn’t still have feelings for Megan—which I must; I’ve mourned the loss of Megan for years, and that kind of love doesn’t go up in smoke in less than a week—I could never be the right kind of guy for Theo.
Theodora Devi’s too on the ball for an always late, doesn’t mind if he gets arrested every once in a while, has no ambition to better himself except by making better music and more money guy like me. She needs a man who has a grand plan and a datebook he fills in with a permanent marker. A man who answers his own email and has clothing that actually needs to be dry-cleaned. A fine, upstanding guy who will instinctively know what kind of Christmas gifts to buy her parents and will listen to Mr. Devi talk about tennis and watercolor painting for hours without losing his mind and getting wasted on spiked eggnog.
The words feel right in my head, but as I take my bow and jog into the wings, ceding the stage to the next charity performer, my gut is calling bullshit.
Theo isn’t nearly as uptight as I always thought she was—an uptight girl wouldn’t have let me do what I did to her in the restaurant half an hour ago. And she doesn’t think she’s too good for
me, either. She just wants good things for the people she cares about, and she thinks following the rules is the best way to make that happen.
She was worried about me being on time for my set because she cares—about the audience waiting for my performance and the people I made promises to, yes, but mostly about me.
She cares about me. And I care about her, and I want her in my life for longer than a couple more weeks.
As she appears in the wings by the dressing room door, led by a shiny-eyed Zane, still wearing his glittering silver suit, it’s so clear I couldn’t deny it if I tried. So I don’t try. When Zane whispers, “Amazing song, man. Figured you’d be dying to see the girl who inspired it, so I grabbed your lady on my way back,” I just smile and nod my thanks as I pull Theo into my arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She wraps her arms around my neck, lifting wide eyes to mine as she whispers, “I know it wasn’t really about me. But I didn’t want to—”
“Then you’re not as smart as you look.” My heart beats faster as her lips part in a silent O of surprise. “I tried to write a song about Megan, but it came out with you all over it,” I murmur as I back us both into the shadows at the far corner of the stage. “You were the only person I was thinking about up there tonight. I don’t just want to be your friend, Theo. I want more than that, and I’m guessing I always will.”
“I want more than that, too,” she whispers, and then she kisses me, pushing up on tiptoe and bringing her soft, warm lips to mine.
The fact that she’s making the first move is hot as hell, nearly as hot as the way her tongue strokes into my mouth and her curves press against me as I pull her closer.
And closer.
Until she’s straddling my thigh, and I’m gripping her ass in both hands as I devour her mouth like she’s the first sip of whiskey after a week of drinking nothing but herbal tea and water in the recording studio.
We’re making a scene, but I don’t care. I’ve been jonesing for another genuine taste of these lips since Theo stormed out of my dad’s house last fall, and I’m not about to come up for air until I’ve memorized the sweet and sexy way she kisses. Every woman has her own signature style, but Theo’s is something truly special. Kissing her is like whispering secrets under the bleachers to your first high school crush—exciting and new and risky in the best way.
There’s no way I could hide how much I want her, even if I tried.
So when we finally come up for air, I don’t bother playing it cool. “Let’s get out of here. I want you alone and naked and begging me to fuck you.”
“Yes, please, I want that so much,” she breathes against my lips, shivering as I give her ass one last squeeze.
“Alone and naked first, princess. Then the begging. The order of things in this situation is important if we want to avoid getting arrested.”
Her lips curve as she drags her gaze from my lips to my eyes, sending electricity shooting up my spine as she says in a husky voice, “But I thought you liked getting arrested?”
“I like you more.” I press a quick kiss to her forehead, then grab her hand and start for the stage door. I wave to Zane on our way out, but I don’t stop to chat, and he doesn’t seem surprised.
Guess my song made it pretty clear to everyone where I want to be tonight.
Alone.
With Theo.
Right now.
Chapter Seventeen
Theodora
In the car on the way to the hotel, his hands are all over me, finding their way under my skirt and skimming up and down the sensitive skin at the back of my neck. He keeps me in such an intense state of erotic agitation that the second the valet whisks Cutter’s Beamer toward the parking garage, I pounce, wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him down for another long, lingering kiss.
God, how can he taste this good? Like every sweet and savory and delicious thing in the world wrapped up and sprinkled with fairy dust?
“Fuck, Theo. You’re driving me crazy,” he says, his breath coming faster as his fingers dig into my hips through my dress.
“You started it,” I whisper, biting my lip to keep from kissing him again. “You should have kept your hands on the wheel.”
“But you’re so much more fun than the wheel.” He wraps his arms around my waist, half-carrying me across the thick outdoor carpet to the giant revolving glass door leading into the hotel.
I glance up, seeing The Starlight etched tastefully into the gold paneling on the outside of the building as we move inside. A part of me wants to insist that we find somewhere more affordable—The Starlight is the most exclusive new hotel in the city, and I’m guessing it runs at least five hundred dollars a night—but my frugal side is no match for the hunger roaring it into submission.
I don’t know if I can wait the ten or fifteen minutes it would take to get to another hotel. I want Cutter now. Right now.
Every second that passes without his bare skin against mine and his hands all over me is a frustrated eternity. I have never wanted anyone or anything as much as I want to be naked with him, a truth that would scare me if I were in my right mind.
Thankfully, I’m too drunk on lust to worry that I might be jumping headfirst into an addiction that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Cutter said he would probably always want more than friendship from me, but probably isn’t “absolutely,” and he didn’t say anything about wanting that “more than friendship” with me and only me.
Yes, he wrote me a love song that turned my heart inside out. But I know that the way Cutter loves and the way I love are two vastly different things.
What I’m doing is risky.
Dangerous.
I’d be better off juggling butcher knives. At least then the worst that could happen would be a major puncture wound.
Instead, I hold tight to Cutter’s hand as he books a room on the fourteenth floor, finding I’m not at all troubled by the knowing—and openly jealous—expression on the pretty young night clerk’s face.
Yes, girlfriend, I’m here to have sex with a rock star, and I’m going to enjoy every single second of it, memorize every kiss and touch and shared sigh of pleasure so I have plenty of material to keep me company when Cutter is gone.
Because—one way or another—he will be gone way too soon.
“Thank you so much,” Cutter says to the clerk, accepting the key card she slides across the counter with a smile.
“Have a great night,” she replies, but Cutter is already hurrying me along, moving swiftly across the lobby to the elevator bank with my hand firmly in his.
He punches the up button before turning back and pulling me into his arms, whispering into my ear, “It’s been a while for me, princess. Will you forgive me if I get a little trigger happy the first time?”
Threading my fingers into his hair and shivering at the feel of his breath warm on my neck, I ask, “What’s a long time for you?”
“Two weeks,” he says.
I pull back, shooting him a disgusted look. “Two weeks? Try six months, friend. And it’s been even longer since I’ve totally sealed the deal.”
Understanding sparks in his eyes, followed by pleasure. “So I was your last one-night stand?” he asks, his hand drifting down to cup my ass.
“My only one-night stand,” I mutter. “And yes, you were.”
He makes a growly noise deep in his throat. “Fuck, that’s sad. But hot. But mostly sad. But don’t worry, my little workaholic, I’m going to take care of you tonight.”
I smile up at him. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“You trust me to deliver?” he asks with a naughty wink.
“I trust you, period,” I say, brushing his hair from his forehead.
His mouth softens as he nods. “You should. I’m on your side, princess. I can’t wait to make you feel good. I’ve been dreaming every fucking night about feeling you come on my cock.”
My brain and bones turn to jelly, and the next thing I
know, we’re stumbling off the elevator on the fourteenth floor, unable to stop kissing long enough to walk down the hall like normal people.
But there’s nothing normal about the way this man makes me feel.
I’ve never been so turned on or had as much fun on a date as I did tonight. It isn’t just sexual attraction with Cutter. It’s the way he makes me laugh, the way he surprises me, the way he keeps showing me who he really is no matter how hard he tries to hide his softer side behind the big, bad rock star façade.
His song was right. I do see him, and he sees me, too, a fact he proves as we push into our room, the heavy door slamming behind us.
“I have condoms,” he murmurs against my lips as we kiss our way toward the bed. “And I’ve been one hundred percent safe since the last time we were together.”
“Me too.” I laugh softly as I add, “Can’t get much safer than sleeping alone every night.”
“Well, we’re going to put an end to that nonsense right now, princess,” he says, just as the back of my knees hit the mattress.
And then I’m falling backward, and he’s on top of me, kissing me hard as I let my hands roam over every delicious inch of him. He feels so good, so strong and warm and perfectly heavy as he settles between my spread legs, pressing the ridge of his erection against me through our clothes.
“Oh, yes,” I breathe, diving my hands under his shirt to get to his skin.
He sucks in a breath. “Fuck, woman, your fingers are like ice.”
“Sorry,” I squeak, pulling them away.
“Don’t you dare,” Cutter orders with a growl. “I want your ice-cold little hands all over me. I’m going to warm you up the old-fashioned way.”
I find myself giggling even as my pulse spikes when Cutter tugs off my boots and skims his hands up the outsides of my thighs. “Weird, but this doesn’t feel old-fashioned to me.”
“It’s totally old-fashioned,” he says, hooking his fingers in the top of my panties, making my breath catch. “There’s nothing older or better in the world than this.”
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