the tension between us, then mission accomplished. I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing him. Couldn’t stop fantasizing about what would happen once tonight’s show was over, and we were on our way home to Colorado.
Then again, he’d probably want us to wait until tomorrow, just to be sure he could handle the aftermath of the second show on his own the way he had the first. He’d kept his word. No alcohol. No drugs. No other women. And while he’d occasionally brush his lips over mine when we were alone, he hadn’t taken it further, even after the first show. Plus, I was pretty sure he enjoyed torturing me.
Like right this very minute.
I didn’t need to turn around in the dark, hidden little spot I’d found offstage to know those were his hands on my hips, his lips at the shell of my ear, his chest pressing against my back. The second he touched me, my entire body started to hum.
And it was humming.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“The bass guitar is bringing them down,” I lied, motioning to the stage, where a local band was opening. Not that it wasn’t true. Seven to One was pretty damn good. The vocals were hot, lead guitar impressive, and the drummer was on point. They had the sound, the talent, and the looks…except for the bass. I’d watched about a hundred videos of their live shows, and they all told the same story—the problem was the six-foot-three model with shit timing.
“Really?” He leaned forward, molding my curves to his frame. There was another act before Hush Note went on, which meant we had a little over an hour.
“Don’t you think?” I reached up and tangled my fingers in his hair, turning slightly so my mouth brushed his jawline. Six days of mental foreplay had me ready to back him against the wall, regardless of who might see us. Six days of hidden looks, barely there touches, and secret smiles. He hadn’t so much as given me a proper kiss, and I was starving for it—for him.
“He’s dragging the tempo,” he agreed. “But what I really think is that you’re trying to kill me in this dress.” He swept his hand from my waist to my thigh, ruffling the light, flirty material.
“I thought you hated the dresses,” I teased.
“I hate my inability to concentrate when you’re in a dress.” He nipped my earlobe.
The curtains moved to our left, and Nixon stepped to my side, putting a friendly but professional distance between us.
Quinn and Jonas appeared.
“Here you are!” Jonas grinned and clapped Nixon on the back. “Checking out the competition?”
“They’re not competition,” Quinn noted, her attention focused on the drummer, then slipping to the bass guitarist. “The bass is lagging.”
“Told you!” I swatted Nixon’s chest. Not that it mattered, since they were already managed, though still unsigned by any label.
“I didn’t disagree!” Nixon smiled down at me, and my heart stuttered.
This was going to be bad. Maybe not now, but eventually. There was no way something that felt this wild ended with anything but heartbreak. I knew it. I just didn’t care.
“I want your opinion on something. You got a second?” Jonas asked Nixon.
“Yeah.” Nixon turned toward me, blocking me from sight. “I’ll see you in my dressing room? I have to change my shirt.”
“I’ll be the one in the dress.”
His smile hit an all-time high for sex appeal.
Yeah, you’re screwed.
He winked, then turned and walked back through a set of curtains with Jonas. I shook my head to clear it from the sight of those new leather pants and focused on the band.
“You have a good ear,” Quinn said, coming up next to me, her sticks protruding from her back pocket.
“Thanks.” It was a huge compliment coming from Quinn, who was pretty much as brutally honest as they came. “They’re already managed, but poorly. It’s a shame.”
“You’re smart too.” She watched me carefully, and I had the feeling she saw way more than I wanted her to.
“Thank you?” My gaze drifted sideways.
“Too smart to get yourself tangled up in Nixon.” Her tone softened.
My gaze jerked to hers, and I felt the blood drain from my face.
“Shit,” she muttered. “I really wanted to be wrong.”
“I’m not…tangled.” I knew exactly what I was getting into.
She sighed. “Look, I love Nixon like a brother. You know that. But you should cut your losses and run. He’s not stable.” Her words were at odds with the kindness of her tone.
“I’m the stable one.” I fidgeted with