“This is awesome,” I answer.
There are leather couches and bookshelves lining all the walls. Patrons are crammed into the space, congregated in circles of friends, with drinks in hand. It’s loud and busy, so we manage to make our way through without any interruptions. I glance over my shoulder before we head up the stairs and notice a few people starting to whisper. Despite knowing Anthony dreads the attention, I can’t help but grin, kind of digging this famous thing, if even for one evening.
The hostess leads us up a flight of stairs through another room, a bit wider, but similar, until we make it to a pair of glass doors. She opens them and steps aside, letting us pass.
This room is a smaller version of what we’ve seen so far. We’re the only ones in here, something I’m sure Anthony did by design. He leads me over to a pair of leather couches and we sit down.
“This place has the best cocktails,” he says. He hands me the menu and I notice the drinks are named after story titles and characters.
“How quaint,” I say. “I think I want the Secret Garden.”
“Good choice.”
A waitress materializes and he places our order, adding a seafood platter after he makes sure I’m good with it. He leans back on the couch and stares at me once we’re alone again.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.
“That doesn’t look like nothing,” I insist. “Are you thinking about getting into my pants again, Mr. Castillo?”
Anthony rumbles with laughter. “Maybe.”
“Good.” I’m not entirely sure what’s gotten into me this evening, but I feel sexy and free. Maybe it’s the glam-squad treatment I got in preparation for this date, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m here with the entertainment world’s most eligible bachelor, but either way, I like this feisty new version of myself. And honestly, I kind of wouldn’t mind taking Anthony home tonight.
“You amaze me, Darya.”
“Do I?” The waitress walks over with our drinks and places a martini glass in front of me. There’s a flower design floating in the center, bright against the light peach liquor. It’s almost too pretty to drink. Anthony is sitting across from me, sipping on an old-fashioned. His gaze is smoky and thoughtful. “What’s your favorite thing about being famous?” I ask when we’re alone again.
“The singing.” He answers immediately, without thought. “I do it because I love the art.”
“You mean, you don’t dig the status?” I smirk. “You just closed down an entire part of what seems to be a really popular restaurant. That can’t be easy. Or cheap.”
“I guess. The perks are definitely an added bonus. But honestly, if I didn’t have the guys, I can see how being famous could be lonely.”
“Lonely? I can’t imagine anyone being lonely living like this.”
His expression clouds over. “Don’t be fooled, Darya. Fame is all smoke and mirrors. It’s not real. We’re acting, being who the crowd wants us to be. Or who our PR team says we need to be. No one can just be themselves. There’s never any privacy, and the simple things in life no longer exist for us.”
“Like what?”
“For instance, this. I can’t just take you to a restaurant and hang out in the main dining room with all the other people. I mean, I could, but my bodyguards would be creating a perimeter and everyone would know someone famous was here. Paparazzi would find us, lights would be flashing in our faces. It would be a total spectacle. One I’d hate. So this private room is the best I can do. Even the waitress had to get vetted, and have her cell phone removed. If it weren’t for the big tip she’ll be getting, I’d guess she’d be pissed about it.”
He shifts on the couch, leaning forward as he pulls up his sleeves. He rests his forearms on his knees and I get a view of all the tattoos that are suddenly visible. They clash against the red of his shirt, looking bold and vibrant beneath the chandelier lights. I get the urge to reach out and trace them.
“You have to admit, this is pretty cool, though.”
“It is. And I know I’m lucky to be able to do it. I don’t want you to think I’m some spoiled complainer or anything. But it gets old. And touring is exhausting, which I’m sure you already know.”
I nod, not sure how anyone keeps going at this ridiculous day in-day out performing schedule for months at a time.
“Sometimes I wish I could just go back to being normal. Not recognized everywhere I go.” He gazes at me, his expression full of truth and struggle. “Our date would have looked so different if I could.”
“How so?”
“I’d have loved to walk along the streets of Chicago with you and show you all my favorite places. We’d have gotten greasy deep-dish pizza at this joint I used to go to all the time when I lived here. Then I’d show you the art painted on the walls of a neighborhood I fell in love with.” His eyes soften. “I’d take you on the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier and not have to worry that by the time we got off, Travis and the guys would have to push us through a crowd of people with their phones out taking pictures and plastering our night all over their Instagram pages before we even made it to the car.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve never thought about what it would feel like to be famous all the time.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “I’m happy I can give you this experience. You deserve to be wined and dined.”
As I take in the contours of Anthony’s features, serene and at peace in this quiet, private room, I realize that his life doesn’t afford him many silent moments. I can’t imagine how stressful it must be to never stop moving, to always have someone wanting something, to have to keep smiling despite what your real life entails.
“How do you deal with it?”
“Deal with what?”
“The fame. The constant hustle and bustle. The never-ending expectations.”
He shrugs. “You just get used to it, I guess. I’m doing what I love, right?”
The idea of living constantly in the spotlight, under the scrutiny of strangers who think they have a right to an opinion about his life, makes me feel sorry for him. I know I couldn’t do it. But if doing what I love—helping people, keeping them healthy, saving their lives—came with the price of fame, I’d be willing to make the sacrifice, too.
A server brings in an enormous platter that looks like a seafood tower toppled over onto a ridiculously large tray. She places it on the table between us.
I gawk at the platter. “Geez, did they leave any fish in the sea?”
“I hope you’re hungry,” Anthony says, grinning.
Suddenly the painting of Alice and the white rabbit on the wall across from me is pulled into the ceiling and there’s a man dressed in a crooner outfit standing behind a microphone. I yelp, caught off guard, making Anthony laugh. He gets up and joins me on my couch, inching close until our thighs are touching.
“You’re going to love this. He’s really good.”
Tunes of Frank Sinatra fill the room, our own personal concert. The singer is young, his features boyish, so the deep baritone voice that comes out of him is unexpected.
“Does this happen in all the rooms? Or just for you?” At this point I’m not sure what’s star treatment and what’s business as usual around here.
“They do this in all the rooms. That’s what’s so famous about this place. They have different performers all the time who appear like this while you’re eating.”
The chandeliers start spinning slowly in time to the music and I grin. “I love that.”
We sit side by side, eating and drinking, for the next hour and a half. When I’m thoroughly full and sufficiently buzzed, Anthony turns to me and says, “Now for dessert.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Anthony
We walk down the hall to her room, hand in hand. She looks happy, which makes me happy. It’s almost midnight but, desp
ite it being late, we’re taking our time, like maybe she doesn’t want the night to end as much as I don’t.
“Ten fans rushing us, eight selfies, five hugs, and three sets of tears. Entirely too many humans to jot down in the book of encounters in one evening, if you ask me. And,” she adds, “that’s with us being smuggled in and out of places.”
“I didn’t know you were keeping score.”
“Can’t help it. I love statistics,” she teases. “I do wonder, though—do fans ever stop jumping out of bushes or stalking you as you go to the bathroom?”
For a moment, I worry the fame thing is getting to her, and I study her face. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman hated the attention I get from other females. But I’m pleasantly surprised when I see the glimmer of fun dancing in her eyes.
“No, it doesn’t stop,” I admit. “But you start to realize that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not real. It’s just fog machines and strobe lights. At the end of the day, I’m just a regular guy.”
We reach her door. There’s nothing I want more than to follow her inside. There have been plenty of women who wanted only sex from me, and plenty more who want to be able to brag they fucked the lead singer of Ternura, but that’s not what we’re doing here. Darya makes me want to prove over and over again that I’m worthy of her time and affection.
“Hmm. I don’t know about that. You’re kind of special if you ask me.” She leans against the door and stares up at me through hooded eyes. My dick goes hard in response, and I have to fight the urge to pick her up and carry her to bed. “Thanks for the date.”
“It was my pleasure.” I lean down and hover an inch away. I hear her sharp intake of breath. “Can I take you out again?”
“Yes.” Her voice is airy and sensual, making it impossible to think straight.
She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me in to her, closing the space between us. Her tongue finds mine, the warmth of her mouth thrilling and inviting. Maybe it’s the alcohol making her less inhibited, but her boldness stirs a need in me that I haven’t felt in a long, long time. She’s sexy as hell and I can hardly contain myself. Don’t want to.
I bet she’d look even better naked in my bed.
I kiss her softly at first, letting myself get lost in the fullness of her lips. I have no expectations, but when her hand finds the back of my head, pulling me closer, anticipation burns through me. My hand slips beneath her shirt. My fingers explore.
She somehow manages to swing the door open, and before I know it, she’s dragging my shirt up over my head. My body needs to be on top of hers. She’s kissing me hard as we yank at each other’s clothes and I manage to get her top off. My lips find the crook of her neck, kissing and teasing her skin, and she moans. My body’s burning, my dick pulsing, my mind exploding with thoughts of what she’ll taste like.
Neither of us is paying any attention when her heel catches something on the floor. She yelps as the two of us tumble ass over feet. It catches me by surprise, but I manage to grab her around the waist, trying to break her fall with my body as we crash to the ground. Now lying flat on my back, I look up at her, searching her expression to make sure she’s not hurt. Her eyes are wide with shock and her hand flies to my face. She cups my cheek.
“Oh my God, are you okay? Did you hit your head?” She’s in doctor mode, her fingers pressing into my skull as she rubs them across my scalp. Her worry is endearing.
“I’m fine.” I smile. “How about you? Did you hit anything?”
She pauses, slowly moving each part of her body. When she tries to wiggle her feet, she winces. “Ouch. I think I slammed my ankle on the side of the bed.”
I carefully scoot her off me and she rolls onto her back. I move to her feet, softly touching her legs until my fingers find her skin darkening on the side of her left ankle. “Yeah, looks like you gave yourself a nasty bruise.”
She sits up and inspects her foot. She moves it around and manipulates it with her hands. “It’s not sprained. But it’s definitely going to be purple by tomorrow.” I surprise her by scooping her into my arms, picking her up off the floor. She squeals. “I can walk on it.”
“I know,” I answer, nipping at her chin. I gently place her on the bed and slip off her shoes. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
I sprint down the hall and fill up the ice bucket. Then I grab a hand towel from her bathroom and sit down beside her. I make a makeshift ice pack and press it against her bruise.
“Is that okay?” I ask.
“That’s perfect.” She smiles, leaning back against the headboard. I put her foot into my lap and stare at her while I play doctor. “I’m not used to being the patient.”
“I’ll be your doctor anytime.”
Her grin widens. “I’m sorry I ruined the moment.”
“I don’t think you ruined anything. Matter of fact, tonight has been perfect.”
She’s staring at me, in her pink lace bra, the fire still burning in her eyes. When she reaches out and motions me toward her, I do as I’m told. I slide up beside her and she slides under me. Her fingers trace the tattoo on my heart, then her lips lay kisses across its outline. She continues, one after another, her tongue tracing the images across my skin. When she looks at me with a mischievous grin, I dip my head and kiss her ear, pulling the lobe between my teeth. She shivers in response.
I move to her breast, flicking my tongue over her nipple through the lace. Her back arches as she pushes her body closer. I suck and nibble on one nipple, then the next, until they’re straining against the fabric. She reaches over and unhooks her bra, dropping it to the floor. When I take her breast into my mouth, she tangles her fingers in my hair and moans.
She hooks her legs around my waist and presses her hips into mine. My dick jerks in my pants, dying to be set free. But no, not yet. I want this to be about her, want nothing more than to make this buttoned-up doctor, who’s way more than she seems, scream my name. I continue worshipping her breasts with my tongue, pulling them into my mouth as I tease her nipples with my teeth. She twists and turns beneath me, each sigh and moan urging me forward. When she’s panting wildly, I kiss her belly and glance up, dragging my fingers down her hips, silently asking for permission to slip off her pants.
Her body is smooth and soft beneath my fingers. Her nod is wordless, and she arches her hips off the bed to help me as I roll the fabric down her legs. I take my time letting my lips graze her skin, my stubble rasping against the goose bumps that my touch brings out in her. My tongue draws swirls across her flesh as I inch closer to her center until my lips find her wet and ready. Her back arches and she lets out a throaty groan. She squirms with yearning, and I grab her hips to steady her against my mouth. I lick and stroke her, over and over, until she’s clawing at my back and whimpering my name. I want more than a whimper, though. When I add a finger, her breath gets ragged, her body suddenly tenses, and she stills for a few beats before she cries out and bucks against my mouth. I let her ride it out on my tongue, working her with my fingers, until her muscles release and she sinks into the mattress with a sigh.
I slide up beside her, grinning as she rolls toward me, flushed and breathless. I reach out and pull a stray strand of hair behind her ear, dampened with the heat of what we’re doing. I’m dreaming. No way did I get so lucky.
But just when I think Darya couldn’t be any more perfect, she surprises me again and rolls on top of me, kissing my neck.
“My turn,” she whispers in my ear.
I almost lose my load before she’s pulled off my pants. When her hot mouth finds my cock and those delicious lips of hers wrap around me, I swear I go blind. Each time she runs her tongue across the length of me, I have to run through chord progressions to keep from coming. I’m losing control. She picks up speed and coming in her mouth starts to sound really good. That’s not wha
t I want, though, no matter what my dick thinks. Needing to feel myself inside her, I pull her to my mouth and flip her onto her back. She wraps her legs around my hips and I damn near slide right in.
I choke on a groan. “Hold that thought,” I urge, fumbling with the pile of clothes beside the bed until I find a condom. She giggles, taking it from my hands and expertly sliding it onto my cock. Her fingers urge me forward, and I breathe, trying to hold it together. I’ve never been so turned on that I finish too soon. But as Darya gazes at me with her big brown eyes, it’s a serious possibility.
I slide inside her, welcomed by the hot, wet, pulsing of her sex. She tightens around me and I get lost, pushing my hips against hers, sinking myself in deeper with each thrust. Her fingers dig into my flesh.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop,” she urges.
I drive into her once, twice, three times. Her head falls back and her eyelids flutter shut as she screams my name, just the way I desperately wanted her to. With a growl I’m sure half our hotel floor can hear, I empty inside her, pounding into her like my life depends on it. And maybe it does, because this woman has fucking ruined me.
Darya grins as she wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me softly.
“Guess I took you home,” she says.
“I guess you did.” Damn if my body isn’t shaking as I hold myself over her.
Staring at her beautiful smile and the wild mess of curls spread out across the pillow, it becomes crystal clear that in a single night she’s managed to make me hers.
And I’m pretty sure I’ll never want to belong to anyone else.
Chapter Thirty
Darya
Chimes begin to ring, a cascade of bells pulling me from my dream. My arm immediately reaches toward the nightstand, my lids halfway closed, grabbing for my phone with irritation.
“Shut up.”
I check the time to find it’s six in the morning. I hit snooze and roll over, wrapping my arms around the pillow as I chase ten more minutes of sleep. Just as I’m drifting off, I notice the shower is on. It takes me a minute to realize someone is singing.
Set to Music Page 16