Simon spun his glass on the itinerary page. The sweat rings from his ever present bottle of water smudged out the city. Not that it really mattered. They’d been trotted out to every major city for the last few weeks.

But they were finally in week four.

Acoustic gigs, small garage band gigs, hell, they’d even played a converted armory for a late spring festival. Anything to get their name out there and build buzz for the tour.

Tickets were selling out.

For them.

On a freaking headline tour.

It was insane.

Just last year they’d been the opening act and this tour they were in talks to be one of the most sought after tickets of the summer. The album had actually hit the top three on Billboard for two weeks in a row, only falling off to the stay in the top ten.

He walked to the window. On the street below there was a crowd of people—mostly women. Every city had the same scene. With increasing numbers, they were getting stalked at every hotel. He was still trying to comprehend it all.

What the hell had changed? Was this album so very different from the last one? It didn’t feel like it. And still, this was so incredibly nuts.

Jesus fuck, it was just weird to have a room to himself. He’d been living in Nick and Deacon’s pockets for years now. Once the tour started, they’d be back to the buses, of course, but even then it would be a big change. They had the married and babies bus, then the one for himself and Nick.

The budget for the tour was increasing as well. If he got one more update from Lila about what the stage was going to look like, he was going to bust his hand through a wall. All he cared about was his mic and a place to run around.

Okay, so the ramps that they’d had built were kinda cool. He had complete access to the stage from back to front, and around Jazz.

They were going to look at a set-up at the end of the week and then they’d have a week to rehearse and figure out the setlist, what worked, what didn’t, lights, and all that happy horse shit.

Singing to an empty amphitheater wasn’t his idea of a good time, but he’d do it. The fact that he didn’t have much choice was only part of it. With each successive mini-show they did, he was learning that he couldn’t just scream out a song and bounce back.

It was fucking annoying.

He glugged down another bottle of water and watched the people wander into the street. The bar across the street was either taking the overflow or creating it, he wasn’t quite sure.

He wanted to be out there. They were in freaking Boston, for fuck’s sake. The bar capital of the damn world and he was stuck here.

He had an early radio show to rest up for. Between the shows and the interviews, he was constantly talking or singing. He hadn’t been able to just chill out and drink a beer.

Or sing a cover song.

He loved singing their stuff, but man…there was something about the way a room lit up with an old tried and true song.

He’d been mostly singing to ugly carpeting and soundproof glass. The inspiration factor had been about minus five hundred. The little shows were good, but they were rushed through five or six songs then pushed on to the next city.

Right there, with those people down on the street is where he wanted to be. He uncapped another bottle of water and tipped his head back.

“Fuck it.”

He grabbed his leather duffle that he’d been living out of and dug through to find a shirt. He grinned when he found the burgundy rolled up T-shirt. Not one that he could wear to the radio shows Lila had set up for them.

But damn well fun for a night out. He unrolled the once black pants that had faded to a charcoal gray with a million washings. His favorite non-stage gear. Before he could talk himself out of it, he stripped off the ratty sweatshorts he wore around the hotel and dressed.

He scooped his hair back and grabbed a condom, his wallet, and his phone. Maybe the pussy fairy would like his shirt and get him laid. He paused before he went through the door. Maybe a little bit of a disguise to at least get outside.

Or at least through the lobby.

He snagged the Fedora off the desk, thought better of it and went to grab his suspenders. No one would recognize him.

Maybe.

Fuck it. Who cared if they did? He needed to get out of his room.

He snuck out. On the way down the hall, he heard the low murmurings of Deacon and Harper talking, Nick’s music, and Lila on the phone as always.

He just might make it to the elevator without anyone paying attention. The doors opened and he slid inside. Just as they were closing, Nick stuck his head out of his room and gave him a “what the fuck” look.

Simon waved and grinned.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out.

Simon grinned and typed back.

Before he could even send back his text, he saw the reply coming through.

Simon grinned. Nick so wished Lila was his keeper. At least of his dick. The boy had a serious case of blue balls over her.

Not that he was one to talk.

He hadn’t been able to seal the deal with a chick since he’d gotten his hands on Margo again. Maybe tonight would finally turn that around.

A bar, too much vodka or beer to be smart, and the streets of Boston might be just what he needed.

Right, so both of them could try to hide who they were? Was he high?

Simon grinned and typed back.

He jammed his phone in his pocket and hurried through the lobby. He stopped at the desk. “Hi. Is there a side door out of here that won’t set off the crowd?”

The girl behind the counter’s eyes went wide. “Um. Hi, Sim—Mr. Kagan.”

“Simon is fine, sweetheart.”

She cleared her throat. “Right. Um, sure. If you go down that hallway to where the pool is, there’s a side door. You’ll have to go around the building, but at least there’s no one back there. At least last time we did a walk-through.”

He drummed his fingers on the counter and waggled his eyebrows at her. “Awesome.” He looked down at her tag. “Thanks, Ashley.”

Before she could stammer out a reply, Simon moved down the hallway to the scent of chlorine and the unnatural humidity of the indoor pool area. He might just take a dip on his way back in.

Sure enough, there was a side entrance at the end of the hall. If he was stalking someone famous, he’d go for the side door, but private property practices were probably enforced. And that was where he cashed in.

Ca-ching. Empty of screaming fans.

He skirted the edges of the parking lot and snuck across the street. There was a shit ton of people out. And on this side of the street, it definitely wasn’t for Oblivion.

Well, at least not all of it.

He slipped into the crowd and pulled down the brim of his hat, keeping his chin down. He jammed his hands into his pockets to look like a college kid. The closer he got to the bar, the more he realized it was an honest to God pub.

He knew Boston was full of them. Had seen them out the windows on the drive in. And now he could get in there and enjoy a pint or whatever the fuck you did in an Irish pub.

Whatever it was, he was game.

He stopped when a pair of very scuffed, very large black boots came into his line of sight. “Nice Docs.”

“Ten bucks, college boy.”

And Nicky said his disguises sucked. Simon dug a crumpled bill out of his pants. He wasn’t used to carrying cash anymore. Everything was expensed lately.

Bingo. A twenty from his allowance yesterday. Ahem—per diem. As far as he was concerned, it was a goddamn allowance. Not that he’d ever had one as a kid, but he got the reference.

He didn’t tip his hat up, just forked over the cash. The dude grunted and gave him two fives back. Simon tried to go around him but the guy clamped a hand around his arm.

“ID,” he mumbled.

Ah fuck. Maybe Mr. No Neck wouldn’t recognize his name. He fished out his California license and handed it over. The guy’s eyebrows rose then looked from him to the license and then back. Instead of saying anything, he just grunted and gave him back the license.

Simon fought his way to the bar, but it was like moving against a tide with six feet swells. The prize was a beer. And it damn well better be a good beer.

Music swelled out of the back of the bar. A deep baritone of a male voice that made the hairs at the back of his neck stand up. That was some Barry White shit right there.

He sung of the hardships of Boston, the life, the streets, and of course, the Irish. Because what would an Irish pub be without the stories of the people? And under it was a sad bit of strings. Guitar and fiddle layered until there was nothing but emotion.

As he was standing to pay, the song moved on into a lively tune. He tapped his foot to the alt-country sound. He liked all sorts of music, even if rock was his purest love.

After taking a healthy sip of his beer, he wandered the room. College kids eight shot glasses deep on what should have been a four maximum night were being a little rambunctious, but not enough to warrant a bounce just yet. Four blonds in a row were dominating the secondary bar at the corner of the room. They were all tanned legs and short shirts or shorts—hell, even by his standards, he hoped a few of them were actual shorts. Have mercy.

But the rest of the room was fixated on the small stage at the far end of the room. A redhead with the most freckles he’d ever seen was belting it out on the mic. That was the Barry White-sounding dude?

Damn, son.

And beside him was a girl in a skintight fawn-colored skirt. She had hips that made a man want to grab on and take a ride for hours and hours. And she moved with the music like it was feeding an inner part of her.

Goddamn, finally. He thought his dick had taken a vacation on him. No one had gotten him revved since Margo.

His gaze traveled up to the sleeveless white bit of lace that hugged her tiny waist and generous breasts and he froze.

Dark hair tumbled forward and covered half her face, but he knew that mouth. Had lusted after that mouth for weeks. For fuck’s sake, years.

No, goddammit.

She sawed her bow across her strings so fast that her heavy, usually pin-straight hair was full of loose curls that hid her beautiful face.

What it couldn’t hide was the passionate way she lost herself in the song. As if it was going to come out of her damn soul.

Like when she was on stage with him.

He recognized that drugging pull of Margo in the middle of a song where the melody had taken hold. The singer barely kept up with her fiddling. Because no way was that the smooth, sad song of the violin he was used to.

This was hyper and folksy with just a little bit of grace. Fuck, she was amazing.

The song ended and she flipped her hair back, her chest heaving as if she’d run a mile.

Or fucked him blind.

Dammit.

No.

He was not going to picture her naked again. Fuck all, he didn’t even have the full naked in his memory, anyway. They were too busy pushing clothes out of the way to get to the pleasure.

Like a drug.

A drug that would have a million dollar street value. Anyone would want that endless loop of lust, fuck, release, and repeat.

He sure as shit did.

No matter how much she messed with his head when it was over, he wanted inside her again right now.

Damn the consequences.

“That was our new friend, Margo. Man, we do love when she comes in to play with us.”

The crowd clapped and hooted. And the flush of happiness on Margo’s face hit him low. As amazing as she’d been on stage with them, he’d never seen that smile before.

Pure enjoyment.

With him, it was intensity and just like they were having mind-blowing sex in front of thousands of people. Here, it was the simple glow of enjoying her instrument and a crowd.

Why the hell did he want to do just about anything to see that smile on her face?

Such a fool, Kagan.

He finished his beer as they did another song. The band flag behind them touted them as a Flogging Molly cover band. The crowd seemed to love them.

Christ. With all the cities they’d been to, why did he have to find her in the one random bar he’d escaped to?

He hooked his thumbs along the straps of his suspenders and tried to give his cock a pep talk about the virtues of finding another pussy to fill.

That one was trouble.

Too bad his dick wasn’t listening.

It wanted that pussy.

That woman.

And the appendage was about as stupid as its owner.

“Holy shit.”

Simon stilled with his thumbs at the middle of the straps. Jesus.

The lead singer hopped down into the bar area and weaved his way around tables. “I can’t believe it.”

Ah, fuck. He hadn’t been paying attention to his disguise. He’d just kept moving forward like a freaking lightning rod looking for its next power source.

“It’s Simon Kagan from Oblivion.”

The room started talking all at once and people got up from their tables.

Oh, shit.

Simon waved. The best thing to do was move forward and get to the safety of the stage. He’d never been afraid to jump into a mob of people, but they were usually making room for him, not crowding in.

The crowding thing was new.

He was still undecided if he was a fan of it or not.

He met the singer in front of a table right near the three stairs that separated the dais from the bar floor. “Hey, man.”

The ginger dude with a beard that put lumberjacks to shame held his hand out. Simon gripped his hand and the guy slapped his arm. “This is awesome. Would you sing with us?”

“I really shouldn’t.” He was supposed to be resting his voice tonight. He’d really overdone it that week with the morning gigs.

“C’mon. The crowd would love it.”

Simon’s gaze found Margo on the stage. He wasn’t used to the more classical-looking violin that she was holding. She usually played the purple Starfish one.

This was a small room and she didn’t need the amplification of the electric. Her long, graceful fingers were curled around the neck of her violin.

Was that unease he saw in her eyes?

He climbed the stairs and went right to her, crowding her in until his boots bookended her mile-high heels. She was nearly the same height as he was now and she didn’t back up.

He lowered his mouth until he was a breath away from her lips before detouring to brush his mouth over her cheek. “Nice to see you again, Violin Girl.”

Ginger Beard clapped. “Oh, shit. You know each other?”

Simon stepped back and slid an arm around her back. “Margo has done some studio work for us.”

“Wow. This is awesome. Well hell, we all have to play now, right?” The singer of the band turned to the crowd. “Right?”

Beers in hands and loud cheers hit the rafters. Simon leaned into the mic. “Think you have a guitar I can borrow?”

“Yeah, man.” The guy turned to a bandmate and an old Gibson acoustic was handed forward. Simon slid his fingers over the fret board with a grateful sigh. This was what he missed.

He loved running around the stage unencumbered, but some nights he missed his acoustic. With an adjustment to the height of the guitar against him, he settled the strap against his neck and across his body.

“I’m sad to say I don’t know a Flogging Molly song well enough to play. How about a cover?”

The crowd cheered and started shouting out songs. Simon took the mic stand and slipped the guitar around his back. “All right, how am I supposed to figure out what you’re saying?”

Margo stepped up beside him. “I have a request.”

His cock went rigid in an instant. He turned his face to hers. Her dark eyes dropped to his mouth before she licked her lips. “Vivaldi?”

“No, smart ass.”

His eyebrow winged up. “Did you just swear at me?”

“I did.”

“I like it.”

“You would.”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

She sighed. “Request.”

“Listening,” he said into the microphone.

“Well, you are in Boston…”

He lowered his hand to the strings and plucked out a few notes. He stared at her as he opened his mouth and the first verse of Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” rumbled out of his chest.

She laughed and lifted her violin to her chin. An echoing set of strings matched his guitar note for note.

Ginger Beard picked up the electric guitar part, while Simon focused on the acoustic. He concentrated on his fret board so he could pick out the notes. It had been a damn long time since he’d fallen into a song.

Three long weeks at least.

Since her.

And because that was so close to the truth, he slung the guitar around his back and leaned into the crowd. They screamed back the words and he pulled the mic away from his mouth as he battled back a cough.

Damn that guy from Boston could sing the high notes. He cleared his throat and followed through with the last verse. And by the grace of Callahan’s loving crowd, they lifted their voices through the end of the song.

He laughed and clapped against his arm. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He hauled the guitar back up in front of him and strummed the first few notes of a famous singalong song.

He waved to a roving waitress and motioned to the water bottle on the stool. She nodded and rushed to the bar. Way too much singing and talking this week. He lowered his pitch and wiggled his hips to take the focus off how shredded he sounded.

The group of people cheered and three girls stood on their chairs in the back, pumping the air as they sang “Jessie’s Girl” back to him.

As if they’d been playing for years, Ginger Beard came up to the front and played the solo. Simon picked up the rhythm section of the song and brushed his lips against the microphone. Not his mic, but it did well enough, especially for a bar. He smiled broadly when Margo leaned in and shouted out the words to the song.

Simon leaned over to Ginger Beard and said the first Journey song that came to mind. The guy threw a startled look his way, but nodded.

He followed suit when the guy went for the long, distressing notes. Simon curled his fingers around the mic and as his voice cracked, he pulled his mouth away and held it out to the crowd. When the waitress came back, he wiggled his fingers at her for the bottle.

Margo gave him a look before she touched his arm.

He shrugged her off and uncapped the bottle as the bar sang the well-known lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believing” for him.

He didn’t want to look weak or incapable in front of this woman. Pouring every ounce of energy into hamming it up for the crowd, Simon strutted down the stage and then turned to find Margo in his space. Her expressive dark eyes searched his face.

When he crowded her space and curled his arm around her back, worry turned to heat. She lifted her bow again and he turned them in a circle.

Margo’s bow bounced and her gaze never left his. The classic rock song was so entrenched in his brain that he didn’t even have to think about the lyrics. They just fell out of his mouth.

Their feet moved together as if they’d done this forever. Too intense, too perfect—just another reminder of how good they were and how quickly she ran off.

He dragged his hand across her lower back and cupped her ass before he moved to the other side of the stage. The tickle in the back of his throat was back and he held up his arms for the crowd to sing.

Thank fuck they were right there with him. He clapped against his arm, then fit the mic back into the stand and clapped for real. “You guys are awesome.”

They thundered to their feet and cheered, whooped, and hollered.

“I gotta go.”

The resounding no from the crowd made him smile and stack his hands over his heart. Another song and he’d crack for sure.

He scanned the crowd and spotted Nick at the back. “But I spy with my little eye someone who might like to take over.”

Nick’s arms fell to his sides. He mouthed, “You fucker,” and waved. “Only if I don’t have to sing Journey.”

Ginger Beard waved him up. “Guys, Nick Crandall from Oblivion is here too.”

Nick trudged through the crowd and tried not to shrink away from all the people pawing at him. He had a black ball cap on that covered his blond hair, but he hadn’t bothered with that much else disguise-wise.

Simon lifted the guitar off his head and placed it around Nick’s neck.

“You prick.”

Unrepentant, Simon waggled his eyebrows. He downed half the bottle of water before burying his face in his elbow to cough.

“You aren’t getting sick, are you?”

Simon shook his head. “Just tried to reach too hard for the Steve Perry notes.”

“You and your stadium rock.”

Simon slapped his arm. “You love it. They don’t make guitar solos like that anymore.”

Nick lifted a shoulder. “True.” He turned to the mic and tipped his head. “You guys know how to rock?”

They screamed back an affirmative and Simon jumped off the stage.

Nick leaned away from the mic. “Where are you going?”

Simon turned around and mimed that he couldn’t hear him. His best friend’s eyes blazed fire and he held his arms out in the universal gesture of what the fuck.

Simon did a thumbs up with each hand and Nick smiled weakly at the crowd. And because he didn’t have time to stress about it, the song took him over and Nick had the first verse of “Back in Black” pouring through the sound system before Simon escaped to the side exit.

* * *

Margo tucked her violin into her case and placed it under her chair at the back of the stage. She scanned the crowd, catching Simon heading outside.

The frustration in his eyes tugged at her. She’d only seen him struggle with his voice once, but there was no doubt it was happening again. He’d covered it well enough by making the crowd sing louder and longer, but she knew the signs.

She just wanted to make sure he was all right. Like any good musician would. Like any friend would.

Not that she could exactly call Simon a friend. A few good orgasms didn’t exactly put them on a friendly basis. Not when all they did was walk away from each other after said orgasms.

Fool.

She pushed through the door marked deliveries and found an alley. No sign of Simon. The door shut behind her before she could catch it. “Dammit.”

“Following me, Violin Girl?” The eerie blue of a phone lighting up cut the dark. Simon stood against the brick side of the building, his hawkish features and the shadows from the Fedora accentuated by the low light.

“I wanted to see if you were all right.”

“And why would you care?”

The zing of danger in his voice caught her off-guard. Simon was usually sarcastic and playful. He was the definition of the guy who had walked in the bar with his T-shirt slogan, Pussy, the most expensive meal you’ll ever eat, emblazoned over his chest.

Tongue-in-cheek.

Nick was the guy who was more sardonic. His comments a little more biting.

“Of course I care.”

“Funny, I don’t ever get that vibe from you. The only thing you care about is my cock. Is that why you came out here? I’m in the same town as you so you want a bounce? Not sure you’d like what you got tonight, Violin Girl.”

“That is not why I came out here.” Her clit pounded like a heartbeat at the tone in his voice. And that simply wasn’t allowed. She’d finally gotten herself back to an even keel since she’d played with Oblivion.

Finally had been able to turn the sound down on her overactive dreams that included a mashup of stage time and Simon’s hands on her.

Oh, they still came nightly. And even some nights she found herself with her hand down her panties to ease the ache, but she was dealing with it.

“I’m in a dark mood tonight, Margo.”

She closed her eyes at the way he said her name. Not the sly Violin Girl. No, this was his lips and rough voice curling around her given name. He used it so rarely that her system burned in reaction.

“Why?”

His phone light extinguished, leaving them in the dark. “Because I’m pissed that I still get hard when you’re within three hundred feet of me. Because I’m tired and miss my cat.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Your cat?”

“I miss my bed.” She heard the scuff of his feet over the debris of the alley. “I miss my sanity. I miss banging a random woman to ease the tensions of the day.”

She frowned. What did that mean? She’d seen YouTube videos of his exploits in the towns he’d visited. A weakness she couldn’t seem to get a handle on, but seeing him in a video eased the late night visits in her dreams.

As if her mind’s eye could be sated with a taste of him and let her rest.

Sometimes.

It didn’t always work.

If she touched him again, she knew it wouldn’t work for a good long time.

But she’d seen him with women. Seen his hands on them, his mouth—even right after he’d had sex with her, he’d had his mouth on another woman. This wasn’t a man that would ever be able to be faithful.

It didn’t matter. She’d gotten what she needed from him and they’d both known it wasn’t going to be anything more than a few stray minutes on that catwalk.

She’d gone after him because it felt wrong to end it like they had. But seeing him with that woman had sewn up her regrets and second thoughts.

She’d been able to walk away again.

This alley with him and that dangerous voice certainly would set her back for weeks. When Simon touched her, everything inside her came alive. She couldn’t deny that she wanted it again.

But she could control herself.

“I do believe that you could walk into that bar and get your wish.”

“I can get a woman whenever I want, Violin Girl.”

She clenched her jaw. “Then why are you bitching about it?”

“Oh, the ice princess has a little fire in her belly.”

“I’m not sure exactly who you think I am.”

“I think you’re a well-bred, moneyed young woman who has been following a plan since she was in her…what? Early teens?”

Margo took a step back.

He advanced, his eyes glittering in the dim light from the street. “I think fucking a rockstar wasn’t in the plan, but you can’t help but want to slum it sometimes.”

“That’s not it.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” she whispered as he caged her in with an arm over her head and one against the wall at her hip. He didn’t touch her—mostly. His worn pants brushed her knees and his belly grazed hers.

“Tell me, Margo. Why would you come after a man like me in a dark alleyway if you didn’t want to fuck?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to…” She swallowed. The words felt right and wrong at the same time. She wasn’t a prude, but she had been trained since birth to keep crass words out of her vocabulary.

“Fuck,” he said with a hard K. “If you’re going to do that with me here and now, you best be able to say the word. Because there’s no gentle touches in me tonight.”

Part of her wanted to know why. There was something there that he wasn’t saying, but she didn’t have any right to peek into that private domain. Not when they were only this.

Sex.

Fucking.

Sinful pleasure that she’d never known before and would never know after him.

Simon with his jagged edges and broken past.

Just Simon.

She slid her hand under his T-shirt and up to his chest. She pulled back as her nail skimmed over something metal.

Simon groaned.

Margo pushed his shirt up. Had she missed that before? He was always behind her, always pushing at her until she unraveled.

And she loved it.

It was raw and God, it felt good. But she’d seen him without his shirt many times before, and she would have remembered a piercing.

He hissed as her thumb traced over the ring.

“When did you do this?”

“About a month ago.”

She pulled her hand away. “Oh, God. Is it still healing?”

“Yeah.” He held her hand over his nipple. “Feels good.”

When he hissed again, she stopped. It didn’t sound like it felt good.

“A little pain can feel good, Margo.”

When his fingers tightened on her hips, she thought he might have something there. “What if I don’t want you to be gentle with me?”

“Want to walk on the wild side with the bad boy from Oblivion?”

She wasn’t used to his rough voice, or the sharper edge to it. Simon usually had a sleepy, sexy quality to his speech. Like he’d just rolled out of bed. This Simon was almost harsh. “I just want you inside me,” she said without preamble. “I want you, Simon.”

“Jesus fuck.”

His mouth was on hers, his arm around her back, crushing her to him until he’d emptied her lungs and taken all her air. He dragged her skirt up and found her pantyhose. He pushed it up higher until he could get both hands under there. The rending of material echoed to days past.

That night he’d been impatient to get inside her as well.

The cool night air kissed her inner thighs, then it was all Simon. His fingers pushing at her underwear as he cupped her.

“This. Is this what you want?”

“God.” She clutched at his upper arm.

“Tell me, Margo. You want me to fuck you?”

She whimpered when he slowly slid two fingers inside of her. She lifted her hips to give him better access, but he stopped.

“Tell me, Margo.”

“Yes. Yes, I want you to fuck me.”

He growled into her neck. “That voice. That upper crust accent. I want you to fuck me, Simon.” He swirled his thumb around her clit. “Say it.”

“I want you to fuck me, Simon.”

He moved quickly. So fast that she didn’t have time to ready herself or her back for the brunt of his invasion. The zipper, the crinkle of plastic, then he lifted her knee up on his hip and levered himself inside her.

And no, he wasn’t the least bit gentle.

His fingers dug into her hips, his mouth sealed over her neck and the harsh suction of his lips with a bite snapped her closer to the edge. He’d marked her. She knew there would be something there, along with the tattoo of his fingertips on her hips.

There would be reminders this time.

She coasted her nails up his neck and pushed the Fedora off his head to get to his hair. And because she wanted him as insane as she was, she slid under his shirt again and found the piercing.

“Ah, fuck.”

Her shoulder burned where the brick abraded her skin, where the elastic of her panties dug into her, and at her neck where he kept scraping his teeth like she was going to give him something. But she was dripping. He took her without care or consequence. As if he was driving a demon out of himself and into her.

Her leg shook and still he came at her.

No flourishes, no laughter, just him battering into her until her skin was too sensitive to take anymore. She gripped his shoulders and cried out, surprised when the orgasm enveloped her like a black hole.

“Yes.”

His voice was raw and the friction built until there was nothing but darkness and Simon and an unending orgasm. She wasn’t built for this.

Shattered.

Broken open.

Forever changed.

Damn this man. If she hadn’t known, if she could have stayed blissfully ignorant, then nothing would have changed.

He pulled out of her and she felt him doing something with the condom, but she was too frayed to care. Her leg dropped to the ground and she slapped her hands on the brick to stop the slide into a quivering mass on the pavement.

She expected him to walk away. This is what she’d wanted, of course. She’d asked for it. But no, he came back and leaned into her, touching her forehead with his.

He said nothing.

Just stood there with her until their breathing evened and the night sounds intruded. Until someone opened the door.

“Oh, man. How long were you out here, guys?” The waiter lit a cigarette and drew in a deep lungful of smoke. He jammed his foot against the door to keep it open. “Aren’t you glad I came when I did?”

“Yeah, man. Thanks.” Simon bent to pick up his hat.

The crash of piano and horns, the guitars and screams penetrated the moment, reminding her that nothing about this was right time, right place. She let Simon hold open the door for her, and she held her head up high as she sailed down the hallway.

“I need to use the ladies.”

Simon nodded. “I have to get back to the hotel.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

He curled his fingers into a fist. “This is stupid.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder and he crowded her. “Margo.”

“What?”

He traced his thumb over her shoulder. “Fuck. Did I do that?”

“It’s nothing.” She pulled her hair forward.

“Dammit, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was a willing participant, Simon. Everything you did to me I wanted.”

“You wanted to bleed?” His face was incredulous as he crushed his hat between his hands.

She tipped her head. “I wanted someone to want me like that.” To see her as a woman, not just an instrument. Not just a tool. A woman.

“Someone?”

“Do you need to hear that it was you?”

Simon’s eyes glittered.

“The millions of adoring fans aren’t enough. Do you need to hear that one more woman can’t resist you?” Angry at him, at herself, and the fact that she couldn’t feel this way with anyone but him, she pushed at him. “You. It needed to be you.”

He curled his hands around her upper arms and drove her back into the wall.

She winced and he tried to back up. She could see the horror on his face. She gripped his belt loops. “You’re right about me. I had a plan. I’ve always had a schedule, a goal, an endgame. And now I’m starting over. And I like this feeling.” She brushed her thumb over the rigid muscles of his belly and the ultra-soft line of hair above his zipper. “I’m not ashamed to want more of it.”

He cupped her face, his fingers twining in her hair. His eyes blazed a silvery blue that haunted her dreams. Seeing them again, the way he looked at her—it would follow her for days. “You make me fucking nuts.”

“I like when we’re nuts.”

He brought his other hand up to frame her face. “Then come back to my hotel.”

She twisted her fingers into his suspenders. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why? Because that would make it real?”

“Actually, that’s pretty much it.”

His nostrils flared and his brows snapped down. “I’m good enough to fuck in an alley, but not a bed?”

“I’ve had guys in a bed. I want this.” She knotted her fingers into his shirt. “I’m tired of being traditional.”

Simon blew out a breath. “And I’m your ticket to non-traditional, huh?”

“Golden ticket.”

“At least there’s that.” He leaned into her. “Well, if you’re not going to use my bed for some exceptional gymnastics, then this is goodbye.” He coasted his mouth over her chin and to her neck. He skimmed down to the vee of her shirt and flicked his tongue over her cleavage. “Goodbye perfect boobs.”

She pushed him back. “Pig.”

He looked down at his chest then stuffed his hat back on his head. “This is obvious.”

“The shirt is a bit much.”

He shrugged. “I like the expressions on people’s faces when they figure it out.”

“You would.”

The smirk she’d been missing slid across his face as he hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. “Never a dull moment, Violin Girl.”

The warmth in his voice when he said that made her tuck a hand behind her back to steady herself. Simon could make anything feel like a sexual innuendo, even playing with a pair of suspenders. “You guys are almost done with the promo stuff?”

He nodded. “A few more days then we’re off to someplace in upstate New York to rehearse.”

“Where?”

“Gonna come find me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just wondering.”

“Someplace with an S. Horses—lots of horses are there or from there. Something.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Saratoga?”

“Yeah.” He frowned. “How did you pull that out of your head?”

“Saratoga Racetrack, and it’s one of the most famous outdoor venues for the ballet and orchestra.”

“Ah. Violin Girl knows her classical.”

“That I do.”

“Then if you get a wild hair to visit the venue, you know where I’ll be.”

She snapped his suspender. “You never know.”

But she did know. This was one more goodbye, but at least this one was civil. He turned on his heel and headed toward the crowds and the music, to the streets of Boston that wanted him and his band.

Watching him go shouldn’t leave her ready to chase after him.

But it did.