Three Nights With a Rock Star

by Amber Lin

  His expression softened. “Come here.”

  She crossed the room, feeling a little silly. It was just a meal. Even rock stars had to eat. Nothing sinister or scary about that. He stood and grabbed a cushion from the sofa. Still not scary. He took her by the hand and led her the rest of the way.

  Kind of sweet, actually.

  But he didn’t pull out a chair for her or even let her go to one. He put the cushion down beside his chair. Beside his chair, and her mind latched on to that like a clue. Like a footprint dried in the mud, and here she was with a magnifying glass to follow the trail.

  The next clue was even more telling—the smoking gun of clues. He slipped the robe off her shoulders, leaving her naked and shivering in the sunlight. He was clothed, wearing a black T-shirt that draped his broad chest. His jeans were also black but faded. Meanwhile she was…naked.

  “Lock?”

  He pulled the sash from her robe and caught her hands behind her back. He tied them there, using the sash like handcuffs.

  Pointing to the cushion, he said, “Kneel.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice shaking. He’d ordered her around before. Into the elevator and over the sofa. He had even spanked her butt, and she’d never felt fear. But this, the act of kneeling, somehow seemed scary in a way the other things hadn’t been. Maybe because his eyes had burned with lust. And now they were opaque.

  He stepped behind her. She could feel the rough hair of his chest on her back. She could feel the abrasive denim against her ass. He completely covered her from behind, leaving the most vulnerable parts of her exposed.

  “Just let me serve you, okay?” he murmured in her ear. “It’s not going to hurt.”

  She found herself nodding even though she didn’t exactly know what she was agreeing to. He was going to serve her, and his service felt terrifying and sublime. It stripped her to ribbons, but he was at her feet. It left palm-shaped bruises on her ass—but his erection pressed against them, soothing all over again.

  If he’d wanted her to deep throat him, she would have been fine. She would have understood. But service? It reminded her of charity and helping hands. And she thought it might hurt after all.

  With his guidance she knelt on the cushion, her hands resting at the small of her back. He took his seat in the dining room chair, seeming a thousand feet tall, so far above her. But he could reach down, and he did, holding out a strawberry he’d plucked from a bowl. She stared at the succulent red fruit, wondering why her heart beat wildly in her chest. She’d taken his sex and his pain, his spanking and his coldness, but taking nourishment from his hand felt like too much.

  “Open your mouth,” he muttered.

  He nudged the berry against her lips, and she opened. Sweetness burst on her tongue, and she swallowed thickly, wondering how she could have changed so much, wondering why she felt so at home with a stranger. Did he do this with all the women who signed his contract?

  He carefully cut a syrupy pancake and fed her pieces from his fork. He ripped off pieces of a croissant and pushed the torn pastry between her lips. When she was thirsty, he helped her drink from a glass of orange juice, wiping a drop from the corner of her lips.

  He looked at her, examining. What did he see?

  She swallowed. “Is this what you want?”

  A silly question. Of course he wanted it—that was why he’d directed her this way. But the other times it had felt natural to her too, a wild dance that clashed together. This was more like a procession, with him at the fore and her following behind. There was more dominance in his studied contemplation of her than in the thrust of his cock in her mouth.

  Her body hummed. Her skin flushed hot and her nipples pebbled under his gaze, even though he mostly looked directly into her eyes. She stared at him too, unable to look away. There were words in those looks, but not the kind she could say out loud. These were messages in a bottle, cast out to sea and found years later, when she’d be ready to have them read.

  His erection hadn’t ebbed during the meal. It jutted up beneath his jeans, proud and urgent. Her mouth watered to taste him. To drink him down.

  He laughed softly. “You’re eager, aren’t you? But I have to get ready for my show.”

  It came as a surprise that this wouldn’t end in sex. That was the only reason she let loose such a sound of disappointment. And embarrassment too. Without sex, her nakedness just felt…obscene.

  He knelt in front of her, lifting her chin with two fingers. His eyes studied hers. “You’ll be at the show tonight, won’t you?”

  She didn’t want to go to the show. Didn’t want to see a hundred thousand girls throw their panties at him. Didn’t want to see him pour his heart out to them in song. But the way he had invited her sounded just like the question let me serve you, okay? And though it couldn’t have mattered if she came, though she couldn’t matter to him, she knew he’d be disappointed if she said no.

  “I’ll be there.”

  His slow smile was satisfied. “Good.”

  He untied her hands and rubbed them briskly until the tingles subsided. She dressed in the bedroom, leaving him tapping his pen over ink-smeared notes and lyrics. She had things to do between now and then anyway, people to question. Puzzles to solve, and not just the question of Chloe’s lover. There were more questions in her mind, multiplying, dividing. Tripping over themselves until she envied Lock’s undivided focus on his notes.

  Only when she had gone downstairs did she realize he hadn’t eaten a thing.

  Chapter Eleven

  Stage fright. He hated it. Hated the sick swirl in his belly. The prickle in his palms. The irrational pound of his pulse. Stupid. He slipped his hand into his pocket, searching by touch for that soothing patch of plastic. His jaw clenched, molars grinding, when he remembered that it wouldn’t be there.

  “Looking for something?” Moe grinned, a flash of orange wedged between his teeth.

  “Give.” He held out his hand, and Moe leaned forward like he was going to spit the damn thing into his outstretched palm. He didn’t care. He’d take it, if it meant having his pick back before the show. He wasn’t superstitious about much, but he’d had that guitar pick in his pocket for every single show since he’d been sober. It had been the only thing left in his possession the morning after rock bottom. The only thing he’d taken with him to rehab. He’d turned it over and over in his fingers during group therapy. During the long, lonely hours when he’d had nothing to do but think about wanting a drink, about never having another drink again, about only not drinking today. There was something about touching it that calmed him, let him step onstage, when for years the only way to get there was to drink half a bottle of Jim Beam. He didn’t want to fuck with that kind of luck.

  “Just kidding. Only candy.” Moe opened his mouth wide for inspection. “Speaking of candy, your girl looks sweet.”

  He turned to follow his bandmate’s leer. And she did look sweet. Standing by the craft services table talking to one of the roadies. Interrogating, probably. She had on a little black dress. Emphasis on little. It stretched tight over her body, revealing every dip and curve. He could just see the outline of her underwear. Can’t have that.

  “We’re not done,” he growled to Moe without turning back, then stormed his castle.

  Of course she was talking to that kid. Shit. He didn’t want to get sucked into another painfully awkward conversation with Colt. He didn’t have the time or the patience for his hero worship. And he didn’t have the stomach to sugarcoat some follow your dreams bullshit. The last time he’d sent the kid away looking like a kicked puppy. And he’d tried to be kind. Better to ignore him completely. He focused on Hailey, sidled up behind her, gripped her hips and pressed his mouth to her ear. “Am I interrupting something?”

  She tensed. “Actually, yes.”

  Colt blinked in horror, coughing and stammering “I got work” before fleeing. If he’d moved any faster, he’d have left a cartoon dust outline in his wake.<
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  “That was rude. Colt and I were just getting somewhere.” He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the pout in her voice, the chide. He wanted to kiss it right out of her mouth. Swallow it.

  “I bet.” He nudged her forward until he had her pinned against the wall. A position he was starting to recognize as his favorite. He was going to have to mix it up. The last thing he needed were routines where she was concerned. This was temporary.

  “You promised I could have access to the crew to ask questions.”

  He kneaded the flesh of her ass, and she made a noise that was half moan, half yelp. A sharp sound that reminded him she was still sensitive there. Still marked. He squeezed one more time, savoring her squirm, and stepped back. “You made promises too.”

  She turned to face him, eyes downcast, veiled under heavy lashes, lips wet. “What do you want?”

  “Give me your panties.”

  Her eyes flew open then. “I thought you didn’t want me walking around naked.”

  She squirmed again, hands behind her back, and he knew she was thinking about that spanking. Could only think about that, remember the feel of his palm against her ass. God, was she cupping her own ass? Protecting it? Soothing it? Warming it? It was all he could think about too.

  “I want you naked now. That’s all that matters. Take them off.”

  “Here?” She tried to peer around his shoulder, but he had her view blocked with his body.

  “I don’t like to wait, Hailey.”

  She sighed, and it wasn’t a sigh of frustration. It was a release. His turn to squirm. He shifted his weight, covering the movement with an attempt to widen his stance and shield her body from any prying eyes that might wander by.

  She hunched over, bringing her face far too close to his crotch for comfort, and hiked up her skirt. With a shimmy she yanked the panties down her thighs and awkwardly stepped out of them.

  “Here.” A pant—not from exertion, from excitement. Oh, he could tell she liked this. She thrust a wad of warm cotton into his hand. Lips curved into a sly smile, an unspoken challenge, a saucy what next?

  He resisted the urge to press them to his face and shoved them into his pocket instead. Not his lucky pick—a new kind of talisman.

  “Good girl. Now go sit in the wings. You can talk to anyone here, but you stay put. When we go on, I want you right there.”

  He pointed to the spot stage right where he needed her, where he’d be able to see her while he performed. He tugged the lanyard around her neck. “With this on, no one will give you a hard time.”

  “Okay.”

  Disappointment edged her voice. She tried to step around him, pushing her palms into his chest, but he stopped her. If she wanted shocking, he’d give her fucking shocking.

  “Keep your legs crossed, Hailey. Unless…” He hesitated. Would she do it? Could he make her do it?

  “Unless?” She stared at his mouth. Waiting. Waiting.

  “Unless Krist looks at you.” He gripped her ass again, slid his palms down her thighs, and hoisted her up until her legs were wrapped around his waist. Her skirt rucked up to her hips, her naked cunt pressed against his jeans. Not so prim anymore. His lips found her ear, and he trapped the lobe between his teeth. Tugged. She shuddered against him.

  He’d forgotten all about his stage fright. “Krist looks at you? I want you to flash him.”

  *

  Hailey bit her lip. “What?”

  “You heard me.” His eyes twinkled with mischief. Man, he was cute like this, all dolled up for his show. His hair was a beautifully arranged mess of midnight blades. His eyes were traced in kohl, reminding her of a pharaoh. That was how he seemed too—like some sort of god, deigning to speak to a mortal like her. He had everyone’s attention, the backstage crew casting him glances as they bustled by.

  But his attention was only on her.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well? I want to hear you say yes. When I’m out there, I need to know you’re going to obey me.”

  A faint sound escaped her throat. Reluctance? Lust? They two were tied up so tight she couldn’t tell the difference. “I want to…to obey you. I just don’t know if I can.”

  He leaned in. “You can. I’m about to go onstage in front of fifty thousand people. Expose myself to them. The least you can do is show yourself to one person. Can’t you?”

  Her breath sped up. She hated that he sounded so reasonable. It made sense when he whispered low and hoarse in her ear. She’d follow him anywhere, do anything when he cradled her body with his heat. The Pied Piper of sex, and she was drowning.

  But he wouldn’t be holding her when she was supposed to flash Krist. He wouldn’t hold her ever again in two days’ time. His hold on her was so temporary it made her ache. If all they had was now, she’d make it count.

  “Okay,” she breathed. “I’ll do it.”

  He closed his eyes. “Jesus. You don’t know what you do to me.”

  That was when she noticed the slight sheen of sweat across his forehead. At first she thought it was some shimmery makeup, but he seemed jittery too. Was he nervous? She’d just assumed that he’d done this so many times, at even larger venues, that this would be old hat. Apparently not. And feeling nervous, he’d come to her. He hadn’t come for her panties, not really. He’d come for comfort, and that she would freely give.

  Sliding her hand behind his neck, she tugged him down. And nipped his earlobe for good measure. Comfort disguised as sex, the Trojan horse of bodily interaction.

  “You look great.” She brushed her lips over his Adam’s apple. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better now,” he rasped.

  “I’ll be waiting right here, after the show. Ready for you. Wet for you.”

  His breath caught, and she went to find it, licking along the seam of his lips, darting inside to meet his tongue. I want you, she said with her kiss. I believe in you. He responded with groan of gratitude.

  When he broke away, he pressed his face into the side of her neck and took a long, slow breath in, as if it were a drag and she were the drug. It warmed her in a way that made her want to protect him. It made her want to run and hide, and, torn between the two impulses, she could only remain still, pinned by his smoky gaze.

  “Break a leg,” she murmured.

  He winked, already sliding into character. “You got it, babe.”

  She watched him stalk away and disappear into the crowd. Man, she had no idea who all these people were. Some of them worked at the stadium, while others followed the tour.

  Standing on her tiptoes, she searched the hectic crowd for sight of the guy she’d been talking to before Lock interrupted. His name was Colt something. He worked sound for the band, which meant he had a backstage view of every show. He would have seen Chloe around. He’d know if she was hanging with a specific band member. She’d been just about to ask when Lock had barged in and scared the guy away. Now she’d lost her informant…and her panties.

  Someone rushed past her, sending a breath of cool air up her skirt. God, why was it so short? Chloe was two inches shorter than she was, sure, but even so, this was ridiculous. Keeping her knees together, she slid onto a wooden stool just beside the tall black wings of the stage.

  This way she’d be able to see Lock…and he’d be able to see her. All of her, if her legs parted. Did she really want that? A shiver ran down her body and clenched right in that freshly exposed place. Yes, putting on a show for Lock while he put on a show for the world. She could see the appeal.

  But that’s where her eagerness ended. She’d signed a contract with him and him only. Hadn’t she? She wanted him and him only. Not Krist.

  Even if Krist did have that tattooed-bad-boy thing going on.

  She wasn’t into bad boys. She’d always wanted white picket fences and two-point-five kids. She’d wanted to know that her husband would come home every night, that he wouldn’t bail, that he wouldn’t leave her with nothing but a sperm donation and half a pack of cigarettes. Whic
h was all Lock was really offering her. The donation process might be fun, and whatever the band smoked, it was probably sweeter than Marlboro, but it didn’t change the bottom line.

  She crossed one foot over the other, undecided about following his orders. She preferred to follow through when she gave her word, but this was…uncharted territory. Panty-less in a public place. Flashing a virtual stranger. She’d tumbled into the wild west of sexual exploration, and she had no choice left but to draw her gun. Figuratively, that is. In reality the only weapon she was packing was far softer, far wetter, and far more dangerous.

  The opening act went on, and she lost sight of the guys in Half-Life. She supposed they were together, ready to go on next. The crowd didn’t need much warm-up. They clapped in appreciation and clamored for the main act, their energy turning the air electric and raising the hair on her arms.

  She hadn’t fully understood the scope of Lock’s celebrity. She hadn’t wanted to understand. Why would he be into a girl like her? She knew the answer. He’d spelled that out in the contract: lots of sex and a short fuse. All the benefits of a relationship, but with a ticking time bomb in the middle. And if this awful, inappropriate yearning was any indication, she’d be caught in the blast.

  The floor beneath her feet rumbled, the whole building shuddering in anticipation as the opening act left the stage. Lock made his entrance from the other side, and she watched him with a sort of detachment. That sexy saunter and überconfident smile—at once familiar and so foreign. It angered her suddenly, this act of his, even as it endeared him to her. She had an act too, with this too-short dress and her pathetic little plan. They were both pretending, both seeking refuge in a game, in a contract, but none of it could make the pain go away. She’d already figured that much out, and she suspected he knew too.

  Moe was the drummer, which fit him perfectly, a wild cacophony in perfect beat. Lock was on the guitar, and Krist played bass. Unlike Lock, with the single black tattoo on his arm, Krist’s body was painted with colors: the blue of the sea, the red of a woman’s lips, his skin left bare to fill in the lines of hers.