landed across his lap—his free hand coming to rest on my thigh.
Holy shit. This fucker is good.
“So, what’s your name, Tinker Bell?”
As the dimple-cheeked devil beamed at me, I became aware that he was also nonchalantly rubbing a slow circle on my thigh with his thumb. I felt my cheeks heat with a blush that I was sure could be seen from outer space. I was sitting on the lap of quite possibly the sexiest man I’d ever encountered, and my brain chose that exact moment to forget how words worked. All it could process was heat and rhythm—heat in my face, heat where his massive hand was absentmindedly kneading my body, a virtual fire being stoked in my belly, and the tempo of his fingers strumming my thigh, which seemed to be in perfect concert with the blood thrumming between my legs just inches away.
When my brain finally registered that the expectant look on his face meant I was supposed to be answering a question, I frantically searched my recent memory for whatever the fuck it was that he’d asked me.
Something, something, Tinker Bell. Something…
Shit.
Taking a lucky guess, I blurted out, “BB?”
Why did that sound like a question? Oh God. He’s going to think I’m already drunk.
I swallowed and tried again, forcing myself to meet his gunmetal-blue gaze. “I’m BB. Hi.”
Jesus, that was smooth.
“So, Bumblebee, why were you in there, getting your own beer? Don’t you know it’s against the rules for pretty girls to get their own drinks? You’re lucky I found you.”
He could say that again.
It was a cheesy pickup line, but the tattooed mystery man delivered it with such a flirty playfulness that I felt myself relax a little and blush even more.
I looked down and continued our conversation through my eyelashes, trying in vain to hide my hot pink cheeks. “Well, who else was gonna get it for—”
“Me,” he interrupted with an arrogant grin.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Tattooed tilted my chin up with the hand that had been resting on my shoulder, encouraging me to look at him.
“I have a feeling I’ll be getting all your drinks from now on, Bumblebee.”
Squeal!
To anyone else in the room, I’m sure it probably looked like I was being glamoured by a sexy vampire who was about to dine on my jugular. This cocky stranger had absolutely no boundaries, and my inner rape whistle should have been blaring, but for some inexplicable reason, I felt completely safe. There was no desperation, no salacious neediness, no predatory pheromone being emitted from him at all—just a warm, fuzzy cloud of flirt and familiarity.
Although I’d literally just met the man, he made me feel more secure, beautiful, and interesting than any man I’d ever met. And I didn’t even know his name. Not that it mattered. He was seventy-five inches of snuggle bunny disguised as a pierced, tattooed rock star.
I was home.
Standing in the pit waiting for Phantom Limb to take the stage always made my stomach do back flips. Not because of all the PBR I’d funneled in the parking lot. Not because I was nervous for Hans. But because of my stupid fucking territoriality.
Everyone with a uterus in that audience was about to find out how incredibly sexy and talented and gorgeous and tall my boyfriend was, and I might or might not have to pull one of those bitches off of him before the end of the night. Hans was just too goddamn nice. If some coked-up cock-nest monster started dry-humping his leg backstage, he’d simply let her and possibly pat her head sympathetically while she came. God forbid he hurt her feelings or embarrass her by pushing her away.
Seriously, Journal.
So, guess who got to run groupie recon after every show? I’ll give you a hint. She’s the jealous type, and her name rhymes with meanie.
On one such night, Phantom Limb was actually headlining at a legitimate club and had been given the star treatment backstage. Well, it was at least fancier than the shallow graves those guys were used to playing in. They had a private greenroom with their band name adorning the door (okay, so maybe it was written in Sharpie on a star-shaped Post-it note), free food (Bugles and Combos, but the Combos were the good pretzel kind with the Cheese Whiz stuff inside), and chilled champagne (sparkling California white wine in clear plastic flutes). Not bad for a bunch of twenty-year-old high school dropouts.
Headlining also meant a higher caliber of groupie—as in, they had enough