Even if I’m not exactly sure what’s happening between Trent and me right now, I know one thing: Gavin does not need to know about it. For fuck’s sake, I’d at least like to know about it before I go broadcasting it to my bandmate.

Who I imagine won’t be thrilled. Who I imagine will just see it as another pitfall that Dirtshine could fall into, another hurdle to get over. We’ve never discussed intra-band relations before but I’ve got a feeling that Gavin — particularly new, sober Gavin — isn’t going to be a fan.

“Yeah, it’s late,” Trent rumbles. “Better get some sleep before practice tomorrow.”

“Sleep is really important,” I add, sounding fucking stupid.

Gavin gives me a slight side-eye, and I imagine it’s because it’s dead late at night and I’ve obviously been up to something that wasn’t sleeping. But then he kinda shrugs as we turn the corner into the hall where our rooms are, and I glance at Trent.

He glances back at me, the side of his mouth just barely hitching up and I know exactly what he’s thinking: sleep’s not that important.

I walk ahead. Gavin starts chatting about something else, but I’m not listening and I don’t think Trent is, either. Instead my whole body is alive, humming, waiting. It’s the feeling I get when we’re out on stage, the lights down, seconds before we start a show. When the crowd is screaming and stomping and losing their minds, just before we start.

Like I’m swimming through pure anticipation, like swimming through cement toward our rooms. I don’t think anything’s ever gone slower, but at last Gavin stops and pulls his key from his pocket.

“This is me,” he says. “See you all bright and early, yeah?”

“Heh,” Trent says, pulling his own key out. Our rooms are all clustered together at the end of this hallway, so I grab my room key as well, figuring I may as well keep up the charade.

“Sure, bright and early,” I lie, and stand there, my key hovering over the lock.

Gavin gives me a slightly weird look, but then he seems to shrug it off. He unlocks his door, the light flashes green, and he turns the knob.

“Goodnight then,” he says, and disappears into the dark beyond.

Trent and I look at Gavin’s door, like we’re waiting for him to reappear, point at us, and say I know what you’re about to do.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. The door stays shut and after a long pause, we turn to each other and now my nerves are singing, fucking vibrating, strings wound so tight the notes could shatter glass.

And Trent grins.

In a second he’s in front of me, pushing me against my door, his mouth on mine as he takes the key out of my hand and puts it into the lock while I grab the front of his belt and pull him against me because I’ve waited years for this and I don’t fucking think I can wait any longer.

The door beeps. Trent bites my lip, growling, pulls the key out and reinserts it.

It beeps again, flashing red, and I start laughing.

“It’s upside-down,” I tell him.

“I hate these fucking things,” he mutters, flipping it around.

This time it works, the door opens behind me, and I stumble backward into my hotel suite. The door swings shut by itself, Trent tosses my key somewhere, takes me by the hips and walks me backward until I’m pressed against the counter in my tiny kitchen.

He kisses me, hard, grinding me against the fake marble, his erection against my belly and his tongue in my mouth. I grab his shirt and pull as hard as I can, even though every inch of his body that can be is already touching mine, alive and electric.

There’s a tearing sound, and Trent breaks the kiss, laughing.

“Did you just tear my fucking shirt?”

I look down, laughing, my fingers through the hole.

“I only made the rip bigger,” I say, but he’s grinning, his face above mine, a hungry, ferocious grin with a light in his eyes I swear I’ve seen a thousand times.

“You’re so fucking eager for this you tore my shirt,” he goes on, and slides both his hands under my tank top, his palms rough against my skin. Even though it’s warm in here, I shiver as he pulls my shirt over my head and I’m half-naked in front of him.

It’s not the first time, but it’s the first time like this. The first time he grabs my breasts in both hands and pinches my nipples while he claims my mouth, then chuckles as I moan.

“I wish I’d known,” he murmurs.

I yank on his shirt again. It tears more and I can feel his hard, warm skin underneath.

“You know now,” I say, and shove the fabric up, tugging it over his head.

I’ve seen him shirtless before. We fucking toured in a van together, of course I’ve seen him shirtless before, but suddenly I get to touch. I get to feel him, every muscular ripple, every tattoo, every raised white scar. The dent in his collarbone where it got broken once, the three pale partial rings on the front of his shoulder from a hot stove.

They’re covered with ink, some good and some shitty, and they’re hard to see. But I know where they are because he’s shown me, and I touch every single one. Trent just watches my face, his hands holding onto the counter on either side of me until at last, I grab the back of his neck again and pull his face down to mine and we’re skin-to-skin, so close I can feel his heart beating.

His hands are everywhere on me, insistent and urgent, except he’s careful of my back. Even as he rolls my nipples between his fingers and I gasp his name, my nails digging into his skin, he doesn’t touch my back, because this is Trent and for all that he’s broody and glowering and I know he’s capable of serious damage, he’s never hurt me and I know in my bones that he never will.

I yank on his belt, fumbling with it, my tongue in his mouth as he grinds into me, his hands everywhere. I finally get his belt undone and shove my hand into his jeans.

Shit, he’s big. It’s not like I didn’t know — van, remember? — but I’ve never seen him hard and as much as I thought about this, being here with Trent growl-moaning as he bites my lip while I stroke him, it’s kind of a surprise.

With my other hand, I frantically get the buttons on his jeans undone, jerk his fly open, and the whole thing springs out. Trent’s breathing goes ragged, his hand locked in my hair, his face against mine.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he whispers, so I bite my lip and stroke harder.

“Handjobs, huh?” I tease, and Trent smiles.

“I just like it when you touch my dick,” he says, half-laughing, so I stroke him again, the bare tip of his cock against my belly.

He kisses me, grabbing the waistband of my jeans, and somehow with one yank he undoes them, slides the fly down, and then his hand is inside my underwear, between my legs.

“Seems like you like it too,” he murmurs. I know I’m wet as hell, throbbing and aching as his fingers explore me.

He strokes my lips, just barely dipping one fingertip inside, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to shout, but as he finds my clit and rubs it slowly, I can’t fucking help myself.

“Trent,” I whisper.

He nuzzles my face and growls.

“Say it again.”

I swallow.

“Trent?”

“Not like it’s a question,” he laughs, his fingers still moving. “Say it like you’re half-naked, wet as hell, and I’m about to find out how loud you are when you come.”

I grab the back of his head with the hand that’s not on his cock and pull his face to mine, my eyes closed because he’s fucking right about all of it.

“Trent,” I say, and before I can say anything else his lips are on mine, hungry and desperate, his whole body pressed against mine as my legs start to weaken.

But he stops. His lips still on mine, he pulls his hand out. He yanks my jeans and panties down, lifts me by the hips, sits me on the counter. Pulls them the rest of the way off and shoves my knees apart, his body between them. I wrap my legs around him, still throbbing.

His lips land on mine, my neck, my throat, my collarbone. One by one he sucks each nipple into his mouth as I gasp, my head back against the cabinets, his hands still on my inner thighs as I reach back and grab a cabinet knob, just to grab something.

It’s strange as hell, but it’s right. I don’t do this, let anyone see me this way, naked and vulnerable and wanting. I don’t fucking spread my legs on my kitchen counter and gasp someone’s name.

But this is anything but usual. Sex is usually infrequent and drunk, under the covers when the itch gets bad enough I need to scratch it.

Trent’s mouth moves to the valley between my breasts, over my ribs. He dips his tongue into my bellybutton and I gasp.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

He looks at me, eyes laughing, like I’m an idiot.

“I’m eating you out,” he says. “The fuck did you think I was doing?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, because then his face is between my thighs and he licks me with one long, slow swipe from my swollen lips to my slit and back. My whole body jerks. My toes curl. My hands tighten, one on the edge of the counter and one on the cabinet pull. I think I grunt.

“Okay,” I whisper, and I swear to God he laughs but as long as he doesn’t stop, I don’t care.

He doesn’t stop. His fingers dig into my thighs, my head back against the cabinets as his tongue swirls around and dear fucking God it feels good. I can’t remember the last time something felt this good.

I’m sky-high in what feels like seconds. I’m squirming, gasping for air, trying not to kick Trent, and I do but he doesn’t seem to care. I’ve got one hand in his hair and the other still on the damn cabinet pull.

“I think I’m gonna come,” I whisper.

Trent licks me harder, faster. He sucks my clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue across and I think I fucking shout, just about to go over the edge.

Then he does it again, and I shout, “Oh, fuck!” and I fall. I come fucking hard and I’m fucking loud. My whole body jerks, my hand jerks, I open and slam the cabinet by accident. I definitely kick Trent but he doesn’t stop, not until I feel like I’ve melted, tremors still running through me as I gasp for air, feeling like a blissed-out dying fish.

He kisses my inner thigh. Then he bites it and I laugh, head still back against the cabinets, pretty fucking sure I can’t move.

“Try not to break any dishes,” he murmurs, his face against mine. He’s grinning and he smells like me, but I don’t give a shit so I give him a long, slow kiss. “The answer is loud, by the way.”

He pulls me forward, off the counter, and I stand on shaky legs and kiss him again. I reach into his jeans and stroke his cock again and this time he moans, shuddering, leaning into me.

“You might make me come like this,” he growls, but he doesn’t stop thrusting slowly into my hand, letting me stroke him.

“Don’t,” I say. “I’d be fucking pissed.”

“Why?” he asks, teasing even as he’s breathless.

I tighten my hand on his cock, stroke harder, slower.

“Say it,” he growls.

“I’m in no mood to wait.”

“You mean you’d be pissed if you couldn’t fuck me now.”

He tweaks one nipple, and my whole body jerks.

“Don’t be fucking polite, Darcy. There’s nothing fucking polite about this. It’s pure I fucking want you and it’s pure you drive me out of my mind.”

“Trent.”

He just growls.

“Go get in my fucking bed.”

He grins, kisses me.

“There it is,” he says.