Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,82

his chest and abs a map of muscles on display. Qwest slides her hands under the shirt at his shoulders and guides it down over his arms until it catches at his wrists. Squeals from the audience pierce the air. Grip laughs, his smile as bright as the stage lights overhead, and shakes the shirt free of his hands. Qwest ties his shirt around her waist before diving into her verse.

She’s a powerful figure, the cocky feminism and hard flow of her lyrics juxtaposed with the soft curves of her body. She turns her back to Grip, pressing and circling that is-it-really-real ass into his groin. His hands at her tiny waist look huge and commanding, and I know exactly what every woman in this place must be fantasizing about right now.

Because I would be, except I’m no longer aroused. Seeing how perfect they look together, feeling their chemistry like a tangible thing permeating the whole room, cools me right off and leaves a painful lump in my throat.

“They’re fire,” Will says from beside me with a grin. “And it’s burning up the charts. People want them to happen, and it’s driving sales. Their chemistry is a huge part of why ‘Queen’ is number one.”

“It would seem.” I try to relax my face so I can smile back.

“And their night out will only fuel it. Thanks for getting the interview delayed. Qwest was very happy.”

“Good. She can show her appreciation in Dubai. Meryl’s expecting a one-on-one with her, too.”

“She’ll be more than happy to,” Will says. “You should have seen her face when I told her about tonight. I haven’t seen her like this over a guy . . . well, ever really.”

“Grip has that effect.”

He had that effect on me.

Had? Who are you kidding, Bristol? He still does.

And it’s harder than I want to admit, seeing him have that effect on Qwest.

We both clap, adding our applause to everyone else’s when the set closes.

My shoulders drop with relief. Not only because I’m no longer held captive to the burlesque show Qwest made of the performance but also because I didn’t realize how much preparing for this show has stressed me out. It was televised, and every show, every shoot, every interview counts leading up to the release of Grip. In my gut, I know this album is special. I wake thinking about it, and it’s the last thing on my mind when I fall into an exhausted heap each night. Unfortunately, that means Grip owns the first and last of my day. I keep a pad by my bed so when promotion ideas or things to do hit me, I can capture them right away. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this much anticipation and excitement for a project, for an artist. Whether it’s because it’s that great or whether it’s because it’s Grip, I don’t let myself consider.

I’m at the bar ordering my well-earned, much-deserved vodka martini, when a hand presses against the small of my back, caressing the bare skin. I stiffen and look over my shoulder.

“Parker.” I turn back to the bar and smile at the bartender as I accept my drink. “Well, that didn’t take long. I texted you, like what? Twenty minutes ago?”

“More like fifteen.” The hotel mogul I’ve known all my life grins and slides a steamy gaze down my body. “You have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to call?”

“Since Vegas?” I turn and prop my elbows on the bar. The action pushes my breasts forward in my cropped top, and his eyes predictably drop.

“A lot longer than that.” He captures a lock of hair that’s escaped from the knot at my neck, tucking it behind my ear. “And you know it.”

“I just wanted to thank you for upgrading the suite.” I force myself not to pull away from his hand and take a sip of my drink, closing my eyes in pure bliss. “God, I’ve needed this drink since I woke up this morning.”

“We make the best vodka martini at the Park.” He pauses, running a finger down my neck. “The Park-Vegas, I mean. Let’s go.”

“Now?” I take another glorious sip and cock an eyebrow at him. “Tonight?”

“Got a ’copter waiting on my helipad.”

“I love that after all these years you still think your money impresses me.” This time, my sip becomes a gulp that bottoms the glass out. “It’s charming, really.”

The bartender passes me another without my having to ask. “You, my man,” I tell him,