by Quinn, Cari
Margo trailed her fingers over the steel walls and grommets that were part decoration, part construction. Industrial all the way from floor to ceiling. The glowing red and blue lights were making her dizzy as she fuzzed with alcohol and fatigue.
Her only focus was the corridor she was headed toward. It was roped off with a VIP sign over the doorway. She skimmed around people and ducked under the velvet ropes.
She didn’t know they actually still had velvet ropes anymore. New York City, ever the glam under the slick. The holes in the steel walls teased her fingertips as she used the support to keep steady.
The noise brought her around first.
The club was so very loud, but here it was almost insulated. She heard the sigh followed by a groan.
“Turn around, Margo.” She took a step back when she caught two people wrapped around each other. But her feet wouldn’t move.
Long legs ending in heavy, unbuckled motorcycle boots tried to dent her consciousness. Were those familiar?
She couldn’t focus. Not when long fingers pulled a woman’s knee up on his hip and slid under her denim skirt to cup her bottom.
The man’s other hand was in her wild blond hair. The grip was strong and sure as he dragged her head back so he could get at her neck.
The woman moaned and ground herself against his front.
Turn around.
Turn around now.
But she couldn’t.
The slash of a nose and furrowed brow with ebony eyebrows locked her feet in place. Wild silver-blue eyes rimmed in smudged kohl zeroed in on her.
He stopped for a moment then dragged his teeth over the woman’s chin and to her lips.
Memories flooded her belly and thighs, instantly pulsing between her legs.
Simon.
His eyes never strayed from hers as he licked his way into the woman’s mouth. She sucked on the tip of his tongue and his attention wavered for a moment. The fingers that were under her skirt tightened and she saw the bunch of knuckle under the material.
Was he touching her? Or just gripping the flesh there?
Why couldn’t she look away?
Six
Simon tasted peppermint schnapps on Melissa’s tongue. The exuberant fan had cornered him at the bathrooms and asked for a signature, then asked for a hug and a kiss.
Somehow it had become more than that.
He’d dragged her down this hallway to get the memory and taste of Margo out of his system and he’d almost succeeded.
Until now.
Until she’d appeared at the end of the hallway to the side door. Her bee-stung lips bright red as she scraped her teeth over the lower one, her gaze riveted on him.
On them.
The instinct to pull back and away from Melissa was strong. So strong that he forced himself to deepen the kiss.
If Violin Girl wanted to drive him crazy tonight, she was succeeding. On stage when they were so in sync, off stage when she tried to pull the veil of class over her shoulders like a shawl even with a corset and black skirt that barely covered her ass as her costume. And now here, watching him.
The lust lit her dark eyes like a gas lamp.
He hadn’t had nearly enough vodka to keep her in that shadowy, fuzzy realm that he liked to keep her.
No, he could see perfectly clearly as the blue and red lights glowed off the too pale skin of Margo’s arms and neck. And the shirt that was obviously making a valiant effort at keeping her tits in check.
Too bad the hot pink and black Oblivion shirt was stretched so tight. He might have been able to put an end to the madness until her nipples tightened under the cotton like bullets.
His grip tightened on the Melissa’s hair and she groaned in reaction. Completely into this. And he was performing.
Again.
For her.
Guilt throbbed under the pulse of blood that filled his cock. The girl in his arms didn’t deserve to be a replacement for Margo.
Because she was.
He could see it now. And why could he see it? Because he was too goddamn sober for this shit.
Simon dragged his lips down Melissa’s neck again. His teeth sunk into her shoulder as he pushed her bra strap out of the way.
Turn around.
GO.
He urged her in his head even as he dragged his tongue over Melissa’s pulse point before latching his mouth around that throbbing vein.
There was something so fragile and consuming about feeling life under his tongue. Probably why he loved the taste of a woman.
Some men hated the thought of getting between a woman’s thighs. He loved it. Each one of them tasted different. Some more memorable than others.
Like Margo with her honeyed spice and smoke flavor.
And now he knew the scent of cloves would stick to her skin.
Would it change the taste of her?
Would he ever know the taste of her again?
He lifted his fingers from under Melissa’s skirt and brought them to his lips.
Margo’s lips went slack and her hand went to her neck. In the process, she rubbed her forearm across her tight nipple. He wanted her to tug on it.
To pull it away from her skin so he could watch it snap back tighter and redder.
He slid his hand down between them and under the girl’s skirt. She was wet for him. Hardly a surprise since she’d been grinding against his dick since he’d led her down the hall.
Margo’s fingers gripped the long column of her neck and her chest heaved.
Was she wet?
Would he find that silky rich come between her thighs, soaking her panties?
Was it from watching him with this girl? Or was it a memory of that long ago night?
Melissa panted against his neck as she held onto him while his fingers circled the plump lips of her pussy and teased her clit until her cries echoed down the hall.
As one girl fell apart in his arms, the one he’d always wanted finally stumbled back. She disappeared around the corner and he concentrated on getting his partner off.
The ability to lose himself in her scent and touch was gone.
She smelled of hairspray and roses.
Innocent mewling at his ear as she shuddered in his arms.
He slipped his hand from her panties to curl it around her hip and let her sag against him. She kissed down his chest and into his open shirt.
The lower she went, the more his cock stirred.
She wrapped her fingers around him through his leathers. But he caught her chin before she could slide down the line of his belly to his buckle.
He drew her mouth up to his. “Not tonight, baby.”
“Are you sure?” Melissa looked up at him with her eager blue eyes.
“I liked making you feel good.”
“I’ve never come with a stranger like that.” Her lashes lowered and her smile was hesitant. “I couldn’t.”
“Obviously you could.”
“Only with you.”
He heard the worship and eased back. “Ah, no, darlin’. It’s just the moment. The stage and the excitement.” He brushed a kiss over her forehead. “I got a little carried away.”
“You could have whatever you wanted tonight.”
Simon shut his eyes against that thought.
No. No, he couldn’t have whatever he wanted tonight. Who he really wanted had just walked away.
Again.
This time, he’d chased her away.
How many nights had he lost himself inside an eager woman? Now more than ever, he should take Melissa up on the offer.
But he couldn’t. Not with that look on her face.
This wasn’t a woman who knew the score. She was a girl with stars in her eyes.
“I have to get back to the band. Do my thing for the cameras.”
“Oh.” She nodded. “I understand.” She curled her fingers into his hair and reached up on her toes for his mouth.
Because he didn’t want to crush her, he kissed her. But h
e didn’t allow her to deepen it again. He forced his lips to curve into a smile as he nudged her gently away.
He walked her down the hall and urged her into the crowd with a wave. He could see that she wanted to say more, to keep him engaged, but he needed a minute.
Simon ducked into the bathroom and took care of business then washed his hands, washed her scent and her feel off his fingers. He couldn’t have that imbalance clogging up his already fucked-up head.
Margo’s heated stare and a strange woman’s scent on him at the same time was too fucked up for him just then. He cupped the clean water into his hands and over his face, into his hair and let the droplets slip down his neck and into his shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Nick stood in the doorway. “Talking to yourself?”
Simon swiped his hand over his neck. “I’m in here hiding.”
“Have you been in here the whole time? I’ve been looking for you.”
“Nah. Just washing up a little.”
“Some young thing on your cock?”
Simon grinned in spite of himself. “Not quite.”
“Losing your touch?”
“Like that could happen.”
Nick laughed. “Whiskey dick?”
“Number two reason I usually drink vodka.”
“Because you’re an uncouth bastard. Only girls drink the clear booze.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
“I will, with the eighty-year-old bourbon I have stashed in my bar.”
“Now that I could get behind.”
“Nope. Not for the likes of you.” Nick came over to the sink that Simon stood at and slapped his arm. “I’m here to collect you for a photo op.”
“Eh, fuck.”
“I had the same sentiment, but Lila beckons and I answer.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Simon muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Got something to say?” Nick crossed his arms over his chest.
“Nothing worth mentioning,” Simon said with a waggle of his brows.
“Then you ready to blow this joint?”
“Picture op then beer pong?” Simon asked hopefully.
“Hell yes.”
Helluva better alternative than schmoozing with a room full of people. Once the show was over, he wasn’t interested. Either a babe to fall under or over, or his bed as a solo project.
Didn’t matter which happened as far as he was concerned.
But tonight he’d go with a belly full of beer and insults. It was a helluva lot easier.
* * *
Margo escaped the party with her dignity in tatters and her body on fire. Sleep had been elusive—not shocking—since she was so wound up she couldn’t even think, let alone settle.
She sighed as her phone buzzed. With one eye open, she read her sister’s text.
Had a blast. Behave in LA, but don’t behave too well.
Margo rolled onto her back and dropped her phone to her chest. The fact that her sister had texted Margo an hour before her alarm was supposed to go off meant Juliet had far more fun than she had last night.
She stared at the ceiling of her room, counting the bands of shadow from the balcony that she hadn’t had time to look at, let alone stand out on.
And because that was much more appealing than brooding in her very big, very empty luxury bed, she slipped out and across the room to the sliding door. Lemon-tinged skies peeked from the crowding spears of steel and glass that made up Times Square.
She opened the door and let the cool morning air in. The rattan couch on the small patio was inviting. She swiped the throw blanket off the bottom of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. The sights and sounds of the city had never really stopped, but this was a different version of New York City.
This was the business of the city. Commuters coming in to work the shops and the corporate buildings that constantly crept into the tourist areas because they were all running out of space.
Everyone wanted a piece of New York.
Except her.
She’d been happy in Boston. She’d made sojourns into the city for her career—working in the studios, both small and large, that littered the boroughs—but she’d never wanted to stay. Never felt part of it.
She liked the history and winding streets of Boston. Liked being in the know about the small eateries, hidden diners, and the off-color shops that wound around the tourist traps. She knew New York City had the same places, but she’d never been tempted to find them.
But she did like to listen to the city sounds. That was one thing she always looked forward to. She curled onto the couch and tugged the pillow under her cheek. She’d just enjoy that anonymity for a little while before she was herded onto Donovan Lewis’s private plane.
She almost wished she hadn’t been invited into the inner circle. Even coach was preferable to spending hours on a plane with Simon. The early hour meant that maybe he’d spend the entire ride in a vodka-induced sleep.
It was easier than facing him.
Not after what she’d seen. What she’d watched with fascination and longing. The sounds lived inside her head and had followed her into the restless night.
Abandon.
Lust.
Pleasure.
God, so much pleasure.
She could have gotten past that. Could have turned away and given them their privacy.
Are you sure?
She squeezed her eyes tighter against the vivid memory behind her eyelids.
Maybe.
Maybe she’d have been able to turn away.
But not after he’d met her gaze. Not when he’d made sure she could see exactly what he was doing and where his hands had been.
Not when he’d given that young woman a thigh-shuddering orgasm while his eyes were on Margo.
She tucked her knees up against her middle until she was a ball. Then she could ignore the way her body flared to life again. As if he was standing in front of her and not a memory.
God, she didn’t need that back in her head.
As if it had left.
She covered her face with her hands and was about to roll off the couch and return to her room when she heard the giggle.
“I swear this kid is going to be a pro soccer player.”
“Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Kinda hard when you were snoring to beat the band.”
“I was not.”
“God, right there. I gotta tell you, big guy, if you didn’t have those magic hands, I’d have killed you in your sleep.”
Margo heard the deep chuckle. “You love my big hands for more than lower back massages.”
“Those hands are why I’m the size of the state of Texas.”
“Nah, you’re beautiful. I always liked basketball. Now my wife is carrying around one.”
“Try beach ball.”
“Perfect beach ball. My beach ball.”
Margo gripped her small pillow. She didn’t want to stand up and interrupt Deacon and Harper’s sweet dialogue, but it was hard to hear it. She’d never had that.
The baby thing she’d pass on—no aliens coming out of her body, thank you—but the rest...
Margo couldn’t even imagine a man talking to her like that. Simple adoration lingering in his tone, indulgent pacification of a pregnant wife’s distress, and most of all, closeness.
Relationships were hard when she was in practice mode all the time. The Boston Philharmonic didn’t have a huge season so she was constantly on call for studio work. She could have taught, but she didn’t have the temperament for it.
So instead of looking for someone to spend her life with, she was usually trying to beat out the other violinists in the orchestra, as well as the ones in her field.
The orchestra was often used for scores, but they didn’t need all the chairs filled like they did for a concert. It was specific to what the movie music director needed o
r what the producers and studio needed for album work.
None of it was guaranteed, and the entire business was contingent on a résumé that was constantly out of date. And her own reticence to put herself out there.
These were the only moments where she wished for something more, when she heard the soft murmurings of a male voice and the answering flirty byplay of a woman.
She didn’t even know how to flirt back with a man like that. For God’s sake, Juliet had gotten all the flirty genes and doubled down with them at some cosmic blackjack table.
The only men Margo had been involved with had been hand-picked by her mother and father for social functions. She’d had the rare hookup in college, but music had been her focus for as long as she could remember.
And where had that gotten her?
Replaced in the one job she’d been tailor-made for.
She pressed her fingertips against her eyes. No. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. It was time to go in and get ready to go.
To forget about how unsettled her future was. She had some time to figure out what she was supposed to do. Her parents were in Europe for their annual trip and weren’t focused on her career.
She peeked over the half wall to the next balcony and caught Deacon drawing Harper back into their room. The way he drew her close even with her rather large belly in the way made Margo look away.
That was a man that wanted to put his hands on his wife no matter what.
She’d never really wanted that before. Saying goodbye was a fact of her life. Small projects didn’t allow her to stay in one spot, until the season started. Then it was too much togetherness, too much competition.
Too much hate.
Some of her contemporaries flitted in and out of beds, but she hadn’t wanted a part of that. When the undercutting was as prevalent as the talent, it took the desire away as far as she was concerned.
But seeing these people who honestly loved each other under the snark and the music was different. She wasn’t sure she liked how it made her feel.
Jazz and Gray, Harper and Deacon—both of them married and pregnant. It seemed incongruous to the lifestyle, but they made it work.
Everything about them as a band shouldn’t work.