Eye contact.

She was beautiful in a toned-down way. While the other women at the party were dressed in tight clothes showing lots of cleavage, she wore a pink blouse, capri jeans, and simple black sandals. Her reddish hair was tied back in a high ponytail.

Definitely toned down.

And that was what struck me.

Those gorgeous eyes widened just a bit, and then she glanced down at her phone while turning and walking away.

My cock reacted.

Lindy had unbuttoned my shirt and was nibbling on my chest. She palmed my hard-on. “There’s the Jett I know and love.”

Problem was, the erection wasn’t for her. I could make it work if I had to, but the beautiful woman walking away was pulling at me to follow.

I had to meet her. Had to get to her before she got away.

I nudged Lindy off of me. “Hey, sweetheart, I need to go.”

“Go? What do you mean?”

“I mean I need to go. I’m sorry.”

I stood, and she tumbled off me. I wasn’t rude. Not usually. But blind determination swept through me. I had to meet this woman. Besides, Lindy wouldn’t go home alone. Not with all the horny dick available in this room. She would be happy to show any of them a good time. I wasn’t anything special to her. Already she was headed toward Zane and Janet.

Though my legs wanted to run, I walked steadily toward the exit and looked around. No sign of the woman. I raced through the concert hall and outside to the street.

She stood under a streetlight, waiting.

I walked toward her, though I had no idea what I’d say when I approached her.

“Hey.”

Damn. I wrote Grammy-winning lyrics, and all I could come up with was “hey?”

She looked up. God, her eyes were beautiful. Big and deep-set, and the warmest brown I’d ever seen, like milk chocolate. I heated all over just looking at her, and my cock started to respond as well. I held myself in check. I didn’t want to frighten her.

“Uh…hi,” she said.

“Need a lift?” I asked.

She looked over her shoulder and then back at me, meeting my gaze. “Are you talking to me?”

I chuckled. “Who else would I be talking to, beautiful?”

Her cheeks flushed under the harsh glow of the streetlight, and her hair looked even redder. Was she a true redhead? I shifted my gaze down her gorgeous rack to her crotch. Or maybe she shaved or waxed. Maybe that pretty pussy was right beneath her jeans.

“My ride is coming.”

“Who’s picking you up?”

“Uber.”

“I can do better than that. I’ll take you home in my limo.” I smiled.

She fidgeted with her phone. “I…can’t.”

“Why not?”

“For one, I don’t know you.”

I held out my hand. “I’m Jett. Jett Draconis.”

Her cheeks reddened further. “I know that.”

“Then you do know me.”

“You know what I mean. I’m not a groupie. I don’t just get into limos with rock stars.”

“I know you’re not a groupie.”

“You do?”

“I’ve seen a lot of groupies, beautiful. You couldn’t be less of a groupie if you had ‘I’m not a groupie’ tattooed on your forehead.”

That got a cute little laugh out of her. “That obvious, huh?”

“So obvious. Since you’re not a groupie, what were you doing at the party?”

“My roommate brought me. She is a groupie.”

“Ah. I see. You know what?”

“What?”

“This conversation would be a lot more comfortable in the back of my limo.”

She let out a huff. “I’m not going to have sex with you in your limo.”

“Who said anything about sex?”

Her cheeks morphed from pink to deep red. “You said the back. I just thought…”

“Would you believe I’m not that kind of guy?”

“Not for a minute.”

I couldn’t fault her observation. I’d bedded my share of starlets and groupies—not to mention a certain cougar heiress I was sick to death of and had grown to despise—but the scene had gotten boring.

“Your face is all over the magazines and tabloids with someone new on your arm each time.”

“Publicity, beautiful. That’s all it is.” Which was actually mostly the truth.

“You mean you don’t sleep with all those women?”

“I didn’t say that,” I teased.

“Seriously? You get publicity photos with women and then take them to bed?” She shook her head as a small brown sedan drove up. “Brown Ford Fusion. My Uber’s here. See you.”

“No, wait.” I grabbed her arm. “Let me take you home. Please.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t sleep with them. Not all of them.”

She unlatched the car door. “I’m Heather,” she said to the driver as she slid into the backseat. Then she shut the door.

Heather.

Heather with the dark auburn hair and warm brown eyes.

Heather, who had just turned me down.

Turned down Jett Draconis, lead singer and guitarist for Emerald Phoenix. Grammy winner. Voted sexiest rocker two years in a row.

Myriad groupies waited for me upstairs at the party. I could easily sate the granite hard-on I was sporting with one of them. Or two. Or three.

I raced back up.