Simon rolled to his feet. Three hours of zombies was enough. He’d gotten most of his aggressions out on the murder and mayhem that video games provided.

Gray and Nick were in it for the long haul. He guzzled one of the half dozen bottles of water that Lila had stashed on the plane for them. Hydrating was a new thing. He was used to either hungover or drunk, with not much in between.

This album was much more taxing on his vocals so he had to actually remember to take care of himself. The last song of the night last night reminded him of that.

“Kashmir” was tough for anyone, even Plant, to sing. He’d felt the crack during the last verse and had pulled his mic away before it had gone out to the speakers and to the people.

He’d rather look like he forgot the lyric than his voice couldn’t hack the song.

He finished the one bottle and immediately opened another. Which of course made him realize he’d been sitting too long. He made his way to the front of the plane for the bathrooms.

He’d all but forgotten that she was on the plane.

Right, like you could forget.

Simon curled his fingers on the bottle until the plastic, and the water dribbling down his fingers, let him know to dial it back. She was curled into a ball on one of the couches.

His couch to sleep on, usually.

With her sweater under her cheek and her phone clutched against her chest, she looked like a little girl. Until he got a better look at that lush mouth.

Nothing about that made him think of a girl. No, that mouth was all woman and incited far too many thoughts about his cock. He walked past her and closeted himself into the bathroom.

Get a hold of yourself, man.

After the first pressing concern was taken care of, he washed his hands and cupped water over his face. Even unconscious, she coated his skin like a sunburn. Hot, sensitive to the touch, and goddamn annoying.

Getting his hands on another woman should have cleared those cobwebs, but he’d let Melissa go without taking what she was so eager to give him.

Because of this woman.

One more day.

Then he could put her back into her place. A memory. A memory far too entrenched into a song he had to sing every goddamn day, but still a memory.

A soft knock at the door pulled him out of his funk. “Just a sec.”

“Sorry.”

Fuck.

He knew that voice.

He opened the door and because she was inhabiting his brain and his sleep, he figured it was quid pro quo to make her just as uncomfortable.

Margo with her back up kept him focused and put her in her place in his head.

He lifted his hands to the top of the doorway and leaned out. “Couldn’t wait your turn, Violin Girl?”

Her huge dark eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep. Her defenses were down and he immediately wanted to pull back. This Margo was one he’d never seen before. Curious Margo, impassioned Margo, music Margo—all of those lived in his brain. But all of those facets of her were enhanced with emotion.

This was a woman who hadn’t put on her layers and shields yet.

Her gaze drifted to his neck and his mouth then to his eyes before she curled her lower lip behind her teeth. Then she seemed to realize what she’d done and she retreated against the wall of the small cubby that made up the bathroom area.

He stepped out and rested his hand on the wall beside her head. “Nervous?”

“Why would you get nervous from me being half awake?”

“Not me. I meant you.” He chuckled. “Why else would you back up a step?”

“To let you pass.” Her chin lifted. “You know that archaic thing called manners.”

“Yeah, we don’t know much about those now do we, Violin Girl?” He lowered his head until his cheek brushed hers. “Uncouth rockstars and all.”

She shivered and he wanted so much to bury his face in her neck. The honeysuckle scent of her urged him closer, clogging his brain and dissolving any better judgement.

His knee slid between her thighs. When she laid her hand on his belly, he stilled. Instead of pushing him away, her thumb slipped under his shirt and through the arrow of hair above his zipper.

“Playing with fire,” he said into her ear.

She turned her face so her lips brushed his ear. “Which of us is the flame?”

He drew back and looked down at her. She didn’t try to look away, didn’t veil her eyes, and didn’t even try to hide behind her many cool masks.

No.

There was naked need there.

The kind that he remembered from that day and even more damning...the kind that echoed inside of him. As if there was no other option, they moved closer. There were only a few inches difference between them. She was tall and stacked in ways that made him itch to possess.

He drew her minted breath in and their lips hovered between touch and tease. Part of him didn’t want to connect. The almost kiss was strung so tight between them.

He flicked his tongue along the divot of her upper lip and the shaky breath could have been hers or his own. When her fingertips curled into the top of his jeans, the light scrape of her nail along his lower belly made him groan.

“Christ, get a room.”

Nick’s disgusted voice had her ducking under his arm and flying into the bathroom.

“Well, shit,” Nick muttered. “I needed to go in there.”

Simon thunked his forehead against the wall. “Jesus.”

“You think it’s smart to go there again, man?”

No. Nothing about what he’d just done was smart. His iron-hard cock had other thoughts, but the head on his shoulders was trying desperately to drag his thoughts away from anything that included Margo and a kiss.

Because they never stopped at a kiss.

Hell, they rarely kissed. The one time they’d gotten together they’d been too aggressive to actually kiss much.

But fuck, he’d wanted to taste her.

He brushed by Nick and dropped onto the couch. Her phone lay on top of her sweater, the headphones trailing over the seat. His fingers itched to lift one of the earphones.

Was she listening to some classical masterpiece, hip hop, or rock? Enya?

“Fuck it.” He lifted one of the earphones to his ear and jammed his thumb into the bottom button of her iPhone and pressed play on the screen that lit up. Even in a locked position, music would play.

“The Becoming” filled his head. He flicked out the earbud and stood.

Why the hell was she listening to that? The new stuff he could understand. She needed to learn it for tonight. They were adding more violin to the pieces that hadn’t required it from the studio sessions.

This song, they knew.

Had she been drowning in memories, too?

He moved back to the big screen where Jazz was playing Mario Kart with Harper. Both women maneuvering their controllers with a belly in the way.

As far removed from his yo-yoing feelings about Margo as possible.

“I play winner.”

“You’re going down, Super Slut.” Jazz’s eyes were wide and had a maniacal gleam in them as she passed the finish line with her bonus points stacking up.

Harper tossed her controller at Simon and he caught it right before plastic met his inconveniently hard dick. He sat down and pulled his shirt out to pool in his lap.

“You’re going down, Pix.” Harper gave him a small frown but he just grinned up at her. “I’m going to smoke your rather pathetic score.”

Harper’s face smoothed. “Rematch.”

“You got it.”

* * *

Margo dug through her bag at the hotel in Los Angeles. It had been a long ride into the city from the airport and again they’d taken over a floor of a swanky hotel.

This one was glass and steel without the old world flair of New York. Much more slick and glossy like she was used to in Los Angeles.

Ripper Records had spared no expense on the hotel. It was luxury at its best with sheets that boasted high thread counts and down feather pillows and comforters.

White over gray with a pinstripe wall in the darker gray. Leather and chrome, marble over glass in the bathrooms.

Beautiful.

Cold.

It seemed even more jarring because she’d been on a slow burn for hours now. She could still feel the silky hair of his belly, the warmth of his skin, his cinnamon breath filling her mouth.

No defenses could have withstood that kind of attack.

She’d continued telling herself that after she’d returned to the belly of the plane. She avoided the couch and sat with Lila. Both of them quietly reviewing things on their phone.

She’d seemed to know that Margo needed the quiet and no questions.

Margo had read a book for the rest of the flight. What book, she had no flipping idea. The words had kept her mind busy but she hadn’t retained a damn thing.

She’d ridden with Lila to the hotel and left the band to travel together. Simon’s gaze had trailed her from stairs to concrete, to blacktop to leather interior.

His eyes had burned through the silk of her blouse, the summer wool of her pants. There’d been no escape after that move in the small hallway.

She hadn’t been able to hide the want. And she was so good at hiding it. She curled her fingers over the high-necked camisole that she usually wore under a suit jacket.

It left far too much of her shoulders and back visible to wear it alone.

Except tonight.

She’d own tonight. There really wasn’t anything else she could do. If she didn’t burn off some of this, she was fairly certain she was going to lose her mind.

She showered and wound her hair up into an intricate twist. She added a gold ear cuff that she wore on special occasions. Playing the violin meant she couldn’t wear a lot of earrings, but she did like the effect.

It climbed her right ear with a flourish of diamonds and aged gold leaves. She played up her eyes with liquid liner and a pale shimmer over the arch of her brow. She stained her lips a deep wine red and covered the matte finish with a mirror shine gloss.

Her sister’s bangles were still tucked into her travel case so she stacked them along her arm to jangle and flash against the jet black silk she wore. Two condoms also had gotten into her bag and she was damn sure she hadn’t put them there.

“Juliet.”

She shook her head, but tucked one into the pocket of her skirt. She was feeling too dangerous tonight. If she was going to do something stupid, at least she would do it with a level of intelligent preparation.

Her arches still hadn’t forgiven her for the last evening of heels, but she stepped into her suede heeled boots anyway. One more night of torture.

A column of black over the English rose of her skin.

She’d match Simon tonight and whatever happened after that would be that. She was tired of staying inside the lines.