Rock It

by Jennifer Chance

  “You’ve got to get that look off your face,” Dante groaned, and he hitched his hips toward her as she stroked his balls, balancing the weight of them in her fingers, marveling at how his erection seemed to get wider, fuller, his entire body clenching and unclenching because of her.

  “Come for me, Dante,” Lacey whispered, aghast at the words coming out of her mouth, but rewarded by another half-choked moan that told her he had heard her words as well. “Let me do it—show me how you like to be touched, to be stroked, to be—”

  “Shit,” Dante bit the word out as he pressed her away from him and his seed spilled into the stream of water and was swept into the drain, his body convulsing with thudding pulses as Lacey watched, marveling at the strength of him, at the power of his orgasm, at the power she felt knowing he had broken because of her, for her, with her. She reached out, drew her hands down his back, pressing her forehead against his shoulder as she sighed in deep and luxurious pleasure.

  Then Dante turned and gathered her into his arms, the water streaming over both of them. When she would have hidden her head against him, he tilted her chin up until she was staring into his deep, dark, chocolate eyes. “That,” he said, speaking the words with an intensity that set her body into another tightening spiral, “was not the way this was supposed to go.”

  “You didn’t like it?” she asked, knowing he had, but feeling suddenly uncertain, as if this man before her wasn’t the man she’d known—thought she’d known—at all.

  “I fucking loved it, sweetheart.” Dante shook his head, but his gaze remained serious, focused. “But I’m not a guy to leave a girl to do all the work, and the last I could tell …” His fingers were sliding over her breast again, her nipple tightening painfully in his grasp as he pinched it hard enough for her breath to catch, then soothed the abraded skin with a gentle stroke. “We still have some unfinished business.”

  “Really, Dante, I’m fine—,” Lacey began, but both of his hands were moving now, squeezing her breasts, and his mouth had dropped to the column of her neck, her collarbone. When he pulled her toward him to adjust the controls behind her, it just seemed natural for her to fall back against the slick surface of the shower wall, her hips tilting forward before she could stop herself.

  Even as she tried to regain her balance, Dante caught her around the waist, his long fingers splayed against her ass. “Uh-uh-uh,” he said, smiling at her wickedly as his other fingers dipped down, separating the folds of her labia and pressing into her with such an easy confidence that Lacey would have sworn he’d studied a map of her body for weeks. One finger became two and she gasped at the stretch, looking up to see his dark eyes intent upon her. “So tight, so sweet,” he murmured, the fire banked in his gaze flaring to life. “I want to put my mouth on you and taste you, taste what I’m doing to you—”

  “No—,” Lacey began, suddenly mortified, and Dante chuckled darkly.

  “Not this time. When I do it, I’ll do it right.” He drew his fingers away and Lacey couldn’t help whimpering, shuddering as he dipped back into her, pulled out, then returned in a maddening ritual that seemed to wind her tighter at each touch. “And make no mistake, I will be tasting you soon, Lacey.”

  She closed her eyes against the explosive reactions he was setting off within her, and Dante murmured her name, his fingers still swirling, teasing, circling the one spot that she needed him desperately to touch, to ease. Her hips were now shaking in anticipation, wriggling to get forward, to get him to just shift. It was only the sound of his soft laughter that drew her back to semiawareness, so deeply had she sunk into a haze of sheer need. “You want me somewhere?” he teased, his words dripping with knowledge and heat. “Maybe here?” As he spoke his fingers touched—too lightly, too quickly!—the very focal point of all of her need, and she gasped and tried to squirm toward him even as he pulled away, teasing her overheated skin, his other hand kneading her ass, which was causing her attention to split and fracture, only to return inexorably to the pulse point he was avoiding.

  “I think you want it here, don’t you?”

  “Dante!” Lacey gasped. “Please don’t—don’t stop—just …”

  And this time he didn’t, and Lacey felt the roar of a body-splitting orgasm sweep over her like a wave she knew was coming but couldn’t escape. It caught her up in its undertow and flung her forward, and she shattered into a million pieces in an experience so sharp, so strong, so impossibly intense that she couldn’t feel her legs, her arms, her feet—just the powerful convulsions that shook her from the inside out, and she thought she heard Dante’s growl of triumph and then …

  She floated back to earth a few moments later, suddenly aware of the water still streaming over them, her body cradled in Dante’s arms, and the soft pressure of his lips on her forehead as they simply stood and shuddered and breathed.

  Then Dante tightened his arms around her, chuckling as he apparently realized she’d returned to him. “There you are, Ms. Dawes,” he said, his voice deep with satisfaction. “I guess it’s time to get back to work.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Make a hole!”

  Lacey pressed herself against the side of the corridor as roadies lugging replacement equipment pounded down the narrow concrete passageway, then looked up to where Harry was waving her forward. Three days had passed since the mind-blowing shower in Dante’s bus, and Lacey didn’t think she’d ever look at another shower stall the same way again. But the moment they’d hit the first venue, things had subtly shifted between the two of them. Maybe Brenda had it right all along that once sex was out of the way—even near sex—everything could be normal between the two of them.

  She and Dante were perfectly polite, of course. But she’d returned to her veneer of professionalism, and he’d, well, he’d let her. Which sort of pissed her off, and yet it was for the best. It had to be for the best.

  She watched now as the crew went through their “show-in-process” routine that was already becoming familiar to her. They spent hours setting up and taking down the elaborate stages that became Dante’s and Paradiso’s platform to the gods. Still, nothing was ever fully finished, even after the band went on stage. Amps blew, cords got disconnected, and the entire machinery of what went on backstage was like a huge, roiling iceberg of which the performance in front of the crowd was only the pinnacle point.

  And, just as Steve had predicted, the roadies had already begun to accept her somewhat. The first day, sure, everyone had been leery enough, particularly with the YouTube videographers around every corner. Lacey herself had to keep from jumping every time she saw a camera. But the members of Dante’s band and crew were people used to living their lives in the open. Once they’d adjusted to the video guys being there, it was a slippery slope to going back to what looked like was their usual hard-partying, pranking ways. Some of that had to have been caught on video. Probably most of it.

  But that was what the sponsors were paying for. And tonight was the first big test of that footage, which had everyone on edge. The YouTube gang had been finessing their final video for most of the day, and not even she knew what to expect. Neither did the rest of the roadies and crew, she guessed. Putting everything out there for all the world to see, while cleverly positioning the seemingly endless supply of products that IMO had lined up for this adventure—if it worked, it would be a masterstroke.

  Lacey had received the injunction not to tell the roadies about the surprise viewing from Brenda as soon as she’d keyed her phone on again, but she’d texted back that it was too late. Still, they would react with appropriate levels of shock and awe to whatever they saw on the Jumbotrons. Everyone in the expanded Paradiso family was willing to do what it took to make the YouTube series a hit.

  She wondered about that, even as she wandered through the backstage area, careful to stay out of the way. If Dante was stockpiling all his money and fame to avoid touring, what would his roadies do? They’d been working the Paradiso run for the past three years, off a
nd on, and from what she could tell, they’d all known one another for far longer.

  Find another band, maybe. There was always another band, another show.

  She rounded the corner and looked up, her eyes going wide at the monster of the stage in front of her. An hour into the show, and the place looked like the hive of an alien world.

  “You’re back again, are you?”

  Harry’s voice was no longer damning when he said the words. It was her third show, and she’d dogged his heels at every one of them, trying to be useful while watching, learning, and offering to get him whatever he needed. “This crew is newer,” she said now, frowning at the union team who were running around with tight, desperate looks on their faces.

  “Yup, they were just called up from the union hall. Damn idiots didn’t think we had such a big production until it was right up on them.” Harry eyed her. “How’d you know they were new?”

  “Too many trips for each section—too many people for each trip.” Lacey pointed out the knots of guys toiling under the barked commands of the crew, relaxing as Harry fell into easy conversation with her. Security guards provided by the venue stood around, their eyes glazed, their manner loose and bored. They would snap to attention if and when needed, but otherwise, this was just another buoy in a sea of shows. A blur of humanity that flowed in and out of these doors night after night, week after week.

  Suddenly, a loud clang sounded in the distance over the cacophony of the band’s wailing guitars, and Harry’s head snapped up. “Oh, for the love of—Stay here,” he barked, and she knew that tone well enough to pay attention. She should probably get herself out of everyone’s way, but she’d no sooner turned than a rough voice called down from atop a towering scaffold.

  “I need another amp!”

  Lacey turned and dashed over to the milling union workers, calling out directions, directing traffic. One of the roadies flashed her a thumbs-up. That was new—that was nice. For the first time, she thought maybe she could belong here. Dante was absolutely nailing the concert, and the band itself had been on fire tonight—milking the crowd for every cheer, rousing them to screaming ovations before the first song faded out over the brilliant summer sky. Dante had siestaed below the stage with something like thirty female fans, each of them coming out later having traded their clothes for band gear and bikini bottoms. Lacey had tried not to care about that, it was all part of the show, but she was sure some enterprising cameraman had followed the ladies backstage. Maybe she’d catch some of what had really happened on YouTube.

  Now the concert was winding down, and the roadies and crew were beginning to gather in tight knots, their eyes drifting up to the big Jumbotrons that ringed the stage like faithful sentinels. The crowd had been told to expect a special event after the show, and the true fans of Dante Falcone—and there were plenty of them—had riled up the rest of the crowd.

  Dante finished the last song of the set, “Believe Me,” and the crowd’s roar was deafening. The cameras rolled, and Lacey wondered when she’d see this particular scene played back for them on the Internet. Even edited down it was still going to be collector-quality video, played over and over again with prominent sponsor positioning.

  Two weeks, that’s all she had to worry about. She could remain polite, professional, and above all clothed for two weeks, couldn’t she?

  The crowd was still roaring when the jumbo screens roared to life. As one, the band turned, looking up as well. They had agreed to act as if they were as mesmerized by the sight of themselves on screen as the crowd was. Never mind that they’d been watching their own performances for years, they knew the game and they were willing to play it for at least a couple of minutes. Then they’d start to pack up. They were tired and strung out, and God only knew what they’d done beneath that stage tonight. Not that she cared, of course.

  The crackling screens exploded into a burst of colored sparks, and the “Dream It with Dante Falcone” logo popped up, then immediately cut to video of the band gathering before the buses after they’d arrived at their first venue, open fire pits behind them, alcohol flowing. Close-ups of roadies and crew, stock footage of past concerts, some half-filmed hookup between Steve and one of the backup singers with laughter and jeering in the background—

  Lacey heard a gasp beside her, then murmured conversation. And she thought: Here we go. Not everyone had known about that particular hookup, she guessed. Well, it looked like they did now. She glanced over at Steve, who was already receiving good-natured heckling from his bandmates. Life of a superstar, he’d said. And now he was living it.

  Their two minutes up, the band had turned their attention back to ridding themselves of their gear, but everyone else’s eyes were glued to the screen. Because the camera was on Dante, playing his guitar, while fans howled through a fence in the background. Lacey frowned, remembering that moment. It’d been that same first night out of Boston, a festival warm-up outside of New Haven, Connecticut. And one little kid—so dirty it was hard to tell how old he really was—had pressed his face up against the fence and was shouting at the top of his lungs. “I wanna be you! I wanna be you!” And Dante had smiled, but almost to himself, just playing his guitar, doing his thing.

  Then the kid had gotten shoved up against the fence, his face suddenly scraping against the wires, his excited shouts turning to frightened screams.

  Dante’d gotten over there immediately with a swarm of guards, shouting at the crowd to move back, to stand clear, to get the kid out of harm’s way. The kid had been wailing, and Dante went to him and snarled his way through the pack of guards in search of the kid’s mom. She’d finally come forward—she’d only had the money for one VIP pass, apparently, and she’d given it to her son and snuck him inside. Dante ducked his head and talked to the kid, then handed him over to his mom. Thinking a minute, he’d unslung his guitar, and presented it as a gift.

  The crowd went insane. Both on the screen—and in the stadium.

  They were going to have to triple security, Lacey thought amid the din.

  “It wasn’t cool to film that.” Lacey jerked to the side, shocked that Dante was standing right next to her. She pulled away but he held on to her arm, keeping her close. “I didn’t mean for that to be some sort of promotional thing. I look like a tool.”

  “Are you kidding? You look amazing!” And he did—more amazing than she could fully process. For the first time he’d seemed almost … human. Not like a star, but like a man who’d just wanted to help out a kid, without thinking about how it might look or who might be watching. Lacey slanted a glance up at him, but he was still staring at the screen, and she could tell by the set of his jaw that he didn’t like what he was seeing. “Dante, the cameras are going to be everywhere for two solid weeks. You have to get used to that, but remember: This tour is going to make everything happen for you. You’re getting paid. The band is getting paid. Your fans are getting paid with unusual and unlimited access to you. That’s worth its weight in gold to them, and I have a feeling the songs you start rolling out during and after this tour will reflect their gratitude. It’s all going to work out, I’m telling you.”

  Dante finally tore his gaze away from the screen and scowled down at her. “You can’t know that for certain.”

  Lacey pushed him away, her laugh startled and loud even to her own ears. “You can’t know anything for certain,” she said. “This is a business and in business you take risks. You should know that more than anyone. When you got on that reality show when you were two years too young to perform, that was a risk. When you signed the record deal before you got your parents’ permission, that was a risk, too. Everything in life is a risk, and just about everything pays out in the end.”

  “You know, that’s one hell of a file IMO has compiled on me.” Dante said, and once again his mood had shifted. He seemed intrigued now, in a way that made Lacey just a little nervous. “What else do you know about me?”

  “What don’t I know?” Lacey grinned to take t
he truth out of the words. Because she did know way too much about him, more than IMO could ever imagine. There was information locked away in her scrapbooks that she had completely forgotten until turning the stiffly glued pages again just days ago. “I know what you like to drink in the morning—spinach. Which is disgusting. I know that your favorite color is white, and why. I know you hate yellow cabs and you secretly love cats. I’ve probably learned more about your teenage years than I remember about my own!”

  She heard the commotion behind them, and sensed the eye of a camera focusing on them then sheering away. Thank you, she thought silently. She’d begged the guys to keep her off camera as much as possible. This wasn’t her show, it was the band’s. They’d reluctantly agreed, as long as she didn’t do anything worth filming. And it looked like, for now, they were honoring her request. As long as she stayed away from Dante, she should be safe.

  Unfortunately Dante had just figured out that the cameras had shied away from her as well. “What was that about?” he asked, his voice going from intrigued to calculating.

  Lacey swallowed, trying to keep her grin intact. “What was what about?” she countered. Smooth talking, there, Lacey. “I don’t know what—”

  “You know, now is probably not the time to discuss it anyway. But I want you in my hotel room after this is over.” Dante’s lips eased into a smile that promised only danger. “We’ve got to talk.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time midnight rolled around, Dante had gotten to the point where he understood why performers set their hotel rooms on fire. He had so much energy thrumming inside him it was eating him alive.

  Harry had strolled into his hotel room around eleven with an open laptop, having just been given updates on what was going on with the Web: pictures, tweets, texts, pics, posts, some other shit neither of them had even heard of. He’d sounded as bemused as Dante had been, and they’d eventually just turned the machine off. Harry couldn’t make heads or tails of it, and Dante didn’t knock him for that. He missed having a real manager, even a shitty one. He missed having someone else between him and the world.