Painting my neck with devilish kisses, I give myself to him completely. Each kiss is sweeter than the previous, each one more feverish with intent.

I want him to claim every part of me.

Brand me.

Absolutely anything the boy wants.

Pressed against the wall of the tiny dressing room, there’s no escape. His mint-fresh breath blows hot over my trembling skin. I squeeze my eyes shut as he shoves a hand down my jeans and under my cotton panties. He’s certainly not wasting time.

Tracing a finger up and down the slick length of my fold, he teases me with the promise of release.

Although as cruel as it is sweet, the feeling of being under his total control consumes me.

He’s about to use me in any way he wants, and I’m about to let him; my own kisses on his plush lips forging an unspoken contract to his every whim.

I should feel objectified and yet I will him on. Like a junkie desperate for their fix, I am oblivious to the consequences. To him I’m just another screaming fan—another girl with crazy dreams of her prince charming and happily ever after; dreams of being the one who could finally make Jay Tyler settle down and shed his rock star persona forever.

As his fingers press firmly to my beating clit, making hard and confident circles, he gnaws down on my breasts, kissing and sucking on my erect nipples. My hands do more than a little investigation of their own; each palm smoothing over the dense surface of his naked, tattooed torso. Such defined muscle, so raw and powerful: steel-lined, athletic, and hot to the touch.

His bearded jaw sets as he rips away his studded belt and yanks down his dark skinny Levis. My gaze snaps below and I gasp in awe. His arousal is clear, bulging hard underneath his snug white Calvin Kline briefs.

I could ask him to take it slow but I don’t want him to shy away from me. Jay doesn’t do slow. Jay does what he wants, when he wants it. And I’m a willing player in his game of lust.

The price for falling too hard . . . ? Eternal heartache.

Maybe.

Fuck it.

Like a caged animal set free, he tears down my panties and jerks his fingers in and out of me. I’m so wet that his entry was easy.

My soft moans get louder, as my hips buck and dance along to his expert rhythm. The sound of my pleasure bounces off the concrete walls. I don’t even try to hide my want and need for him.

“Jay, fuck me—”

“Quiet.” He rubs my clit firmer with his thumb, as he stabs his thick digits deep inside my wetness. There’s nothing pretty about this, nothing sweet or romantic, but I’m all in. The first night with him was like heaven, but this is something else. I should stop this, retreat and figure out if I mean more to him, but I can’t.

He’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I used to have pictures of him, torn away from the pages of music mags, pinned up in my high school locker. His first album, Sonic Hearts, came out when I was just fifteen. I even made my first serious boyfriend copy his dress style, although he could never dream of coming close to the real thing.

Jay pushes harder to my body, his brute strength crushing me against the wall and stealing my breath away.

I can feel a climax swiftly coming on, just like the first night with him—fast and violent in its ecstasy.

I scream, begging for him to make love to me. “Jay—”

All of a sudden, without the slightest hint that something was wrong, he pulls away from me and staggers backward toward the ripped leather coach in the center of the dressing room.

So close, so very near the edge of bliss . . .

Frustrated, I freeze. Confusion floods me. Did I do something wrong?

It’s like he wants to punish me somehow. Nothing even close to the tender introspection of the songs he writes and performs—or that first, sweet night in his hotel room.

As I begin to whisper his name he cuts me off, yanking up his jeans like nothing happened. “I want you out.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you liked me?”

He stares at me, devoid of all emotion now. “Did you?”

Panic tears at my gut. It’s like I’m talking to a stranger. “Well . . . I don’t know. Yes, maybe. I mean, isn’t that was this is?”

A cruel smirk plays across his lips. It makes him look ugly for the first time ever. He remains silent, just . . . staring. The fire in his exceptionally beautiful green eyes has been extinguished, replaced by a cold and distant gaze that cuts right through me. He seems totally unmoved by my distress.

“Jay, talk to me, did I do something wrong?”

“This is just sex . . . was, just sex.”

“Please—”

He darts for me and grabs my elbow, dragging me across the room toward the door. The power in his grip really hurts.

“Jay,” my voice raises, tears glazing my eyes.

“You’ve had your turn,” he says. “You can cross it off your bucket list.”

I try to fight him off and reason with him. “What do you mean? Why are you doing this?”

“You’ve fucked a rock star. Congratulations.”

He swings the door open and shoves me out of the dressing room with such force that I almost tumble over. Before he closes the door on me, I spin on my heel. “Just tell me what I’ve done!”

“Nothing.” His lips twist into the cruelest of grins. “That’s the point. You do nothing to me. You mean nothing to me. You’re just another lucky groupie. Forget me, Krissy. I’m not who or what you want me to be.”

And just like that, as easy and as awful as those words spew from his lips, the door slams in my face.

As if the tendons of my legs have been slashed with a knife, I drop to the floor in a heap. Tears flow like bitter champagne. Not even my pained sobs, which I’m sure he can hear through the echo of the corridor, are enough for him to open up again and at least try to explain his aggressive change of heart.

They say meeting your heroes only disappoints.

But what if you fall in love with them . . . ?

What then?