by Quinn, Cari
“Priming the pump already?” Ry walked into Michael’s bedroom carting a pair of black trousers and a white button-down shirt. So far he’d spent almost as much time in Michael’s room as he did his own, though their suite was so huge they barely even had to see each other. “You know they aren’t going to let you into the Foundation Room like that, right?”
Michael smirked around the mouth of his bottle. “Let’s see them try to stop me.”
Ry shook his head. “Dude, you’re feeling it tonight. Just don’t get arrested, all right?”
Still carrying the bottle, Michael went to the nightstand and rooted through the top drawer. “Nah, I have something else in mind.” He pulled out a strip of his preferred brand of Magnum condoms and stuffed them in his back pocket.
Ry’s eyebrow climbed toward his hairline. “So much for your supposed abstinence program, huh?”
“When did I say that?”
“You didn’t, but considering you claimed to be such a good boy, so misunderstood by the masses…”
“Hey, safety first. I am a good boy.” He flashed a grin at his buddy and checked his phone. “Get a move on. I need to get upstairs.”
“Hot date?”
“You could say that.” More like he needed to find Chloe, then they’d go from there.
Obviously, he had hopes for how the night would go, and the half dozen condoms he’d just shoved in his pocket were proof. But even if things didn’t progress that way, he had to find her. To hear her voice, watch her laugh, feel her rub up against him.
It was probably just the atmosphere. Something chemical that would burn off by morning. He’d definitely never felt that jolt in her direction before, although he’d pretty much steered clear of her. Understandable, since his first glimpse of Chloe had been in the photographs taken by the PI he’d hired a couple of years back.
The PI hadn’t been a real one, just a former high school friend, and Michael hadn’t been trying to get pix of Chloe. He’d been trying to get photos of Lila with Nick—back when she was still married to Michael’s father—in the hopes of showing her how indiscreet she was being. He’d only wanted to remind her what was at risk if she got caught cheating, not cause her any trouble.
Yeah, it sounded crazy even in his own head. Which was why he’d swiftly disavowed the whole thing, including Chloe. She’d become persona non grata in his mind. Any reminders of the period when he’d been so worried about Lila had been shoved to the back of his thoughts.
And that included the cute redheaded preggo girl inadvertently captured with Nick in the PI’s pictures.
Fuck, she’d been pregnant. She had a baby. So much for being just some young girl out having fun. She was somebody’s mother.
He took another long swig off the bottle and glanced around the empty hotel room. Ry had probably gone to shower.
Chloe might be showering too right now. Getting ready for the night.
For him. And wasn’t that a kick in the ass?
Talk about unbelievable.
He and Chloe had bumped into each other a few times on holidays and such, since she was now on the fringes of their group of friends and family. He didn’t know her whole backstory, just that she’d dated one of the guys who’d started Oblivion and had his kid. The guy was dead, and he’d caused a bunch of trouble for Oblivion before he passed.
And this is who you want to have a meaningless hookup with?
He took another belt from the bottle. He didn’t give a shit about what was right or wrong. Not tonight. She’d been flirting with him just as much as he’d been into her. So what if they kind of knew each other? Everyone knew what happened in Vegas stayed there.
One night. One morning after. Two satisfied people.
Hell, if she sucked in bed, or their chemistry fizzled out, well, he’d just avoid her end of the dinner table at family events. No big. Lila wasn’t exactly Chloe’s biggest fan anyway, since she had some past with Nick too.
He rubbed at his temple. What past, exactly? Why couldn’t he remember? Shit was already getting a little fuzzy at the edges, which on one hand—fucking awesome. On the other, his lizard brain didn’t have the best track record.
Especially since the serpent in his pants didn’t know the meaning of the word discriminating.
Things were getting too serious. He’d just had the best show of his life. Mal had disappeared before he could speak to him, even to say thanks, but that was okay. The rest of Warning Sign had stuck around through Brooklyn Dawn and Oblivion’s kickass sets, and the amount of excitement flowing through Michael’s veins was nearly at the illegal limit. He’d be damned if thoughts about Chloe’s home life lessened his buzz.
She was just a pretty girl. He’d get her over or under him, or maybe they’d just dance and flirt. If she wasn’t into it, or she wasn’t around, there would be someone else.
Even if he didn’t want anyone else. He wanted her. Just her.
Fuck, he needed another drink.
He traded the first bottle of whiskey—hey, it was empty, look at that—for another. He tucked it into the inside pocket of the jacket he shrugged on just before Ry stopped by again to remind him to bring ID.
His buddy wouldn’t let him open carry into a party. Even if everyone else and their cousin was tipsy, his best friend would make sure Michael kept up appearances.
Still, he managed to get more than a few sips off the bottle as Ryan finished getting ready. The alcohol was definitely doing its job. When Ry made some comment about him needing to beg Mal to come back for their next show, Michael only laughed. Mal was his brother. He wouldn’t need to beg.
Damn, he loved whisky.
He’d cleared a quarter of the bottle before they passed through security at the front door of the club. They met up with the rest of Warning Sign just inside the entrance, along with a few members of Brooklyn Dawn and Oblivion. For once, no one was pregnant in the Oblivion crew, and it looked like everyone was in the mood to have a good time.
Just like him.
He’d made it about three steps before he bumped into Lila. His luck was in, however, since she was currently engaged in a conversation with her husband and didn’t notice Michael behind her.
“I told you that we shouldn’t have done the new single first. You just bowed to Donovan’s pressure.” Nick tossed back whatever he was drinking and set aside the glass. “As usual.”
“I don’t bow to any male’s pressure, thank you very much. Including yours.”
“We’ll see if you say that in ten minutes.”
Michael shook his head as Nick grabbed Lila’s hips with the subtlety of a bear with a trout. She shoved at him, but when Michael looked back a moment later, she was whispering in his ear and he had both hands on her ass.
So much for Lila standing firm.
Michael kept going. Speaking of firm, apparently alcohol made him horny, or else he still hadn’t come down from the stage. Below his waist, he had a situation going on. A serious one, just from the possibility that Chloe might be there. He had no way of knowing if she would be. She could’ve gone home for the night. Maybe even hopped a plane back to her kid.
Babies everywhere. He just wanted to practice. A lot.
Hell, he should get Chloe’s digits from L. His stepmother would love that. Assuming she glanced away from Nick long enough to care.
Michael did a quick visual search for Ry or West, but they’d both disappeared. Likely together, since West tended to drag Ry out on the hunt. Michael preferred to do his thing solo. Fewer witnesses. Fewer people to tell him to rein it in, or throttle back. He just wanted to let loose and celebrate after pulling out an improbable win. No one would get hurt.
At the bar, he smiled at the brunette waitress and ordered—what else—a whisky. Might as well keep the theme going. Handily, he could take care of his own refills.
And shit, he was clearly feeling it already if he was laughing at his own lame jokes.
The song changed to something with an undulati
ng club beat, the kind that made people get up and dance. He sipped his whisky and surveyed the crowd, ignoring the hopeful smiles he received from a few of the women, all dressed in their Saturday night best.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew he appealed to the opposite sex, which was handy since they damn sure appealed to him.
At the moment, he only wanted one. Fiery red hair and big eyes and full lips, meant for sucking…things. He was a gentleman until he’d had a few more drinks, so she could pick the appendage she wanted to start with.
He already knew he’d go right for what was between her thighs. Why save dessert until after dinner?
“Hey, honey, you looking for some fun?”
“Yes,” he admitted, glancing at the woman who’d wound her arm through his. “Just not with—” He cleared his throat as her eyes shuttered. “Sorry, I’m waiting for someone.”
“You’re with the band, aren’t you?”
“Which one?”
“Any of them.” She pinched his biceps through his jacket. “Who would keep you waiting?”
He smiled and started to answer, but a flash of red caught his eye. Those curls stood out even in a swanky place with women who had hair color of every shade. Somehow Chloe had trapped flames inside each strand.
Then again, he was pretty drunk.
Still, he recognized the waves bouncing down her back. Knew that rounded ass in a tight skirt, moving in self-conscious circles. She had nothing to be shy about. A woman that beautiful should be worshipped.
A task he’d be happy to take on for a night or a lifetime.
“Gotta go,” he said to his admirer, pressing his whisky into her hand. “Here, enjoy. I didn’t spike it,” he tossed over his shoulder.
He wasn’t going up to Chloe with a drink in his hand. Hell, he was already loaded enough. If she wanted to drink and party, he was on-board, but he had to try to collect the last of his remaining wits to bring this one all the way home.
She was dancing by herself, gripping one of the gold wrap-around bars that ringed part of the dance floor. Men kept circling close to her, but she flicked them off with a word and a smile, making those glorious curls shimmer with each movement. When one persistent guy cupped her hip, Michael grunted and stepped up behind her.
“She’s mine,” he said, surprised that it felt true.
They hadn’t just met, but they were virtually strangers. And they hadn’t met in this space, on this night. They hadn’t talked or been close enough that when she glanced at him over her shoulder, he could see the fringe of eyelashes shadowing her cheek. Beneath her makeup, she had freckles. Just the barest dusting of them on her nose, and over the dark bow of her mouth.
The other guy mumbled something and vanished into the crowd.
Michael brushed closer, sliding his hand over her waist until it rested low on her belly. So low that he could stretch his fingers and feel the rise of her mound under her skirt.
But above her waistband, she was bare. Midriff exposed, revealing all that warm, silky skin.
“Keep dancing,” he said against her ear.
She bristled. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“It feels like a great one to me.” He rested his chin on her shoulder, drawing in the scent that clung to her like the night. There were a million different ones surrounding them, but the spice of hers reached him as if they were all alone. “What are you wearing?”
The corner of her mouth tugged down. “How much have you had to drink?”
He chuckled and turned his mouth against the side of her neck where her scent was strongest. Cinnamon, warmed by her skin. He flicked his tongue over the space behind her ear, not to seduce but to see if she tasted the same. She moaned and the reverberation fluttered against the hand still low on her belly. “Do you smell like cinnamon all over?” he asked, pressing his lips against her throat to gauge her reaction.
Her body said more than her mouth did by far.
“Only the places where scent should go.”
Again, he chuckled. He shouldn’t have been able to hear her responses considering the throb of the music around them, but they were sequestered away from everyone else. A force field seemed to box them in, cushioning them in a space where nothing was wrong and everything felt right.
Especially her, stiffly swaying in his arms.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Do you know who I am?” he echoed, curling his fingers into soft, giving flesh. She was a mother, and he’d always run from those, as if pregnancy was a contagious disease. He wasn’t ready for kids. Wasn’t ready to be a father, or to be with a woman who was a mother. But inexplicably, knowing that she’d given birth fascinated him, even made him want to trace the feathery marks on her belly with his tongue.
Shit, that was some damn potent whisky.
“Y-yes. I do now. I didn’t at first.” She mumbled something else and flagged down a passing waiter. She gulped some of the drink he handed her, then held the cold glass against her chest. “I never saw you play before. You’re good.”
“I’m amazing,” Michael corrected, and glimpsed a hint of a smile curving her glossy wine-red mouth. Somehow she didn’t leave a lipstick imprint on her glass.
Women were magicians, the lot of them.
“Cocky,” she said, granting him a sidelong look. “I don’t do cocky rockstars.”
“How about modest ones?” He batted his eyelashes and she giggled. “Oh, Chloe, you shouldn’t praise me. I’m really humble.”
At once, her laughter subsided. “You do know.”
“I know a few things. I know you’re absolutely gorgeous, more beautiful than any other woman I’ve ever seen.”
She scoffed. “Right. You’ve never given me a second look.”
“That’s because I never saw you like this.” He gave her hair a light tug. “All loose and relaxed, moving your hips. By the way, you’re not moving anymore.” He gave her belly a light squeeze, and she stumbled into a halting dance step. “That’s it. You know what to do. Just pretend we’re naked.”
She sucked down another gulp of her drink, but she didn’t stop moving. “So I do all the work and you just stay still?”
“Oh, Red, I can guarantee you, if we were in bed, I wouldn’t be still for a goddamn second.” Emphasizing his words, he flexed his hips against her ass. He gripped a handful of her hair with his other hand, tugging her head back until he could speak against her ear. “You gotta tell me something.”
She just kept dancing, and drinking, and occasionally darting assessing little looks at him.
“Okay then. We’ll just dance. Words don’t matter anyway, do they?”
She shook her head and turned toward him, arching up to wrap one arm around his neck. Her lip brushed the edge of her glass and he bent to flick his tongue along it, moaning at the hint of lime and vodka on her flesh. He grabbed the glass and tipped up her face with his other hand, waiting until her seductive sinkhole eyes settled on his. They were both more drunk than sober, so he didn’t want there to be any confusion.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
“Where?” she murmured, and he groaned.
“Let’s start with right here.” He tapped his thumb against her lips and they parted for him, dark red and slickly wet.
Reminding him of other wet places he couldn’t wait to taste.
He would’ve sworn he lowered his head forever. She closed the distance between them, fisting a hand in his hair to bring him the rest of the way. Their mouths collided, hungry, seeking. No finesse, no artifice. Just all-consuming lust as he slipped his tongue around hers.
She trembled at the first glancing blow, and all out shuddered as he drove in deep. Something shattered, and it didn’t take a genius to realize it was her glass. He’d simply let go, and now his hand was in her hair, gripping it so he could pull back her head. She opened for him, every part of her lush and welcoming. He was straining, hard, desperate.
He’d never been more urgent in his life.
“Ask,” she panted. “Ask your question, Michael.”
The relief that she knew who he was too sang through him like a note that went on forever. He could barely speak around the tightness of his throat. “Do you have freckles all over, Chloe?”
Saying her name again felt like a form of defiance. Yeah, they weren’t supposed to be doing this. Not the sweet, single mom with the difficult past and the asshole rockstar who wreaked destruction wherever he went. But she was still looking up at him with those glowing eyes, and her mouth was still swollen from his.
No one could tell them no. Apparently, not even each other.
Saying nothing, she gripped his hand and led him over to the woodgrain bar at one side of the club. The final stool was empty and she leaned back on her elbows, giving him room to slide her onto the bar. Up, up, up, until that expanse of bare belly was fully on display and she was stretched out in front of him.
It was Vegas, and it was crazy, and no one thought anything of her lying down on top of the end of the bar. If they did, they didn’t say, and he didn’t care in any case.
She was his entire focus.
“Why don’t you find out?” she whispered.
Nine
Hours seemed to pass while she was on that bar. Lost to him and the fire he’d stoked inside of her.
Now it was raging.
The watery tones of the song seemed to infiltrate her skin. Her hips followed the silky rhythm as she lifted her arms. She closed her eyes just enough so the twirling lights became streaky trails dragging her away from reality. Her fingers brushed over crystals dripping off the overhead lighting fixtures of the bar.
She had enough vodka in her veins to ignore the fact that Michael Shawcross was at her feet. When his fingers skimmed over her calves and around to the backs of her knees, she opened her eyes and met his hooded gaze.