Madison

Club Sugar Daddy is about my future. Tonight is about tonight. I don't have the right kind of wristband to be served alcohol and, anyway, I suspect everybody backstage knows exactly who I am and how old I am. It's a weird feeling, but it's a good feeling too. Noah Hammond picked me out of a crowd in a line.

Me.

Somebody touches my elbow during one of the slow numbers, and I turn. An expensive blonde lady of about my mother's age, although I'm not sure how I know that, since the skin around her wide purple eyes is almost unnaturally smooth. Her diamond earrings are too big to be real, except somehow you just know they're real anyway.

It's something about the hair. That blonde with all the different shades hand-painted into it doesn't go with cubic zirconia.

“Lydia Goldmann.” She offers me a hand, and we shake. It's a very cold hand because, until a moment ago, it was wrapped around a tall chilled glass. “I'm Noah's agent.”

“Nice to meet you.”

She hands me the glass, and I take a cautious sip. It's piñacolada, and it's good. I sip more.

“No problem. Just between you and me, there might be a tiny drop of rum in there.”

“Thanks.”

Agents aren't famous for how nice they are. I have to assume she's checking me out. But it's still a thoughtful gesture and a tasty drink. It doesn't take me long to finish. Somebody else shows up to whisk away the glass, and then I'm dancing faster. My cheeks feel warm, and so does my blood. Standing in the wings like this, I have a profile view of Noah and, oh God, he's so sexy...

My knees jello for a minute, and I wobble in my dance.

“Thank you all for coming out today.” He pulls off the guitar and walks back into the wings, and somebody takes the guitar and then he's wrapping his arms all around me. He's hot and a little sticky, and there's a delicious fragrance of natural male musk. My nostrils sing as I breathe him in, and then we're kissing.

There's the usual screaming and clapping and holding up of lighted phones from the auditorium. Everybody knows he's going back out for the encore.

“I hate to let you go,” I say.

“Yeah. But there's gonna a riot if I don't play ‘Five Sparrows.’”

“Yeah. That's the one I came to hear myself.”

“You came to hear all of me.” He doesn't mean to sound arrogant. It's just the truth, and we both knew it. If he sang all night, if he did every song in his catalog, I'd be there for every minute of it.

“Yeah. I did. I'm a fan, I'll admit it.”

“Kiss me, fan.”

I do. Knowing he's supposed to be back on that stage, hearing the scream of the crowd in the background, I try to make it a quick peck on the lips, but hell. That was never gonna happen. His mouth takes control, hard and firm and insistent, and then he's leaning into me, and I'm bending back to lift my face up, and my mouth is opening to welcome the long slide of his hungry tongue.

I don't even need to breathe.

Neither of us does.

He has a way of curling his tongue around my tongue and then somehow sucking our curled-together tongues...

A shudder runs all the way down my spine and into the floor and back up again. It's like lightning zipped down and bounced back up.

I don't ever want to let him go, and the way he's clutching at me suggests he feels the same.

Somehow, I'm not hearing the screams anymore, although I'm distantly aware they're getting even louder. Somebody's touching his arm, and somebody else is thrusting his guitar in his hands, and somehow we've been split apart again, and I feel too cool where I was too warm only a heartbeat before.

I blink. Did that kiss happen?

It happened.

You don't imagine a kiss like that. You only experience it.

Already, he's front and center stage, and even though he's playing something loud, all the fans are screaming even louder. My legs feel as hot and sticky as his body did when I was holding him. My knees wobble a little as I recognize the few chords of Led Zeppelin's “Stairway to Heaven” that he often uses to tease before he launches into his biggest hit, “Five Sparrows.”

That song isn't about lyrics. It's about the music, the bluesy howl, the sound of his voice. But, considering my membership in Club Sugar Daddy, the lyrics suddenly jump out at me in a way they never have before.

Five sparrows, five chickadees, dee, dee

Five sparrows, five chickadees, dee, dee

Five sparrows

Five sparrows

Only one of them is mine

There are five girls in Club Sugar Daddy. A lot of musicians are psychic, for lack of a better word. They tap into something. He writes his own stuff, and I can't help thinking it's almost like Noah knew about me before he ever met me.

Then I tell myself I'm being silly. I'm his fan of the night, nothing more. He meets a different girl at every concert. That's just what singers do, like it or not.

Then comes the mic drop. The buzz of the auditorium emptying out. There are people all around us picking up but somehow I don't register anybody except Noah sweeping me into his arms and carrying me away. There are stairs and stairs. At first, I think we're going to the balcony, but he keeps climbing, and then we're in some little attic room I never knew about. Of course, there's probably a dozen little rooms in the venue I never thought about, but we're in this one.

“A supply closet? Do we need supplies?”

“There's one thing that's always in short supply for me.”

He puts me down carefully, giving me time to get my feet under me. This is the first supply closet I've ever seen with no dust and no cobwebs. There's a faint lemon scent in the air, and I understand instantly that it was cleaned not too long ago.

I sniff Noah's hands and try to decide if they smell like lemon.

I can guess what the thing in short supply must be. “Privacy,” I say.

“Got it in one.”

“But a supply closet...”

“Shhhhh. Just shhhhh.”

I'm standing, and now he's kneeling. Just that fast. It gives me butterflies in my belly to look down at his wide shoulders and sculpted head. He grips my knees and then begins to slide his big hands upward, doing some kind of massage-y thing with his fingers. Damn, that move has a way of setting my flesh on fire. He has a guitar player's callouses, and they feel more real than anything I've ever felt before.

“You don't have to do this,” I say.

“I want to do this. I want to worship you.”

“But... but...”

You're the famous one, I want to say. You're the one who should be worshipped.

“Shhhh. Let me do this for you. Let me taste you. Then we can go anywhere you want and do anything you want, but just let me have one sweet taste.”

I wonder if I should tell him I'm a virgin. But his fingers are working their way up and up, and his tongue is following, and I don't want to stop the moment for some big heavy discussion. I just want to feel how good his tongue is. How does he know how to do that?

Nobody's ever kissed me like that. Not down there. His tongue walks a zigzag to tickle all the tender places along the inside of my thighs, but then he reaches my panties and I kind of press my legs together because I suddenly feel a little self-conscious. My panties are damp. They've got to be. I've been way too excited from all the dancing and the watching him perform and then the way he swept me into his arms.

He must be sniffing the damp already. My musk... what does it smell like to him? Does it smell like excitement?

Maybe I'm coming across as way too easy. But I don't know how to stop myself from being turned on when Noah Hammond's head keeps bobbing up and down between my thighs. Now he's rubbing his entire skull into the crotch of my panties, and I can feel the tickle of his shaggy hair through the skimpy cotton. Then he's pushing his nose into the slit so carefully outlined by the damp fabric. He snuffles loud enough for both of us to hear it, his way of saying how much he loves the scent.

“This is crazy.” I moan, and I don't want to moan. Not that soon. Not that easy.

I expect him to use his hands but, instead, he grips the low-riding hipband of the cotton panties with his teeth. He tugs softly, then more insistently, and I scoot my feet a bit wider apart to brace myself. At the same time, my thighs separate a little, helping to stretch out the panties as he tugs them down using only his teeth.

Look, ma, no hands!

A cute gimmick, but I know I should pretend to be unimpressed. I should make him work for it. That's what any other card-carrying member of Club Sugar Daddy would do.

The thing is, I can't. I want those panties down and out of the way as badly as he does. So I wiggle a little, and I lift one foot and then the other, and I don't put the slightest obstacle in his path. In maybe two minutes flat, my skimpies are down low enough that all I have to do is step out of them.

A rock star on his knees. His long hair separates in back to tumble over both shoulders while exposing the nape of his neck. Strange how tender it is, the back of his neck, especially considering his heavily muscled body. He can't come by that muscle naturally. He must work out for hours every day.

All for my pleasure.

Not my pleasure. The fan's pleasure.

When you're a virgin, some things sound icky and sticky. I've never understood what's supposed to be sexy about some guy giving you head. Now, after one swipe of his tongue, I understand everything.

The thing is, Noah is so indirect in the way he licks and flicks his tongue-tip into all my little crooks and crannies. He wants to take his time. There's no sense of hurry. No rush. When he inhales, he breathes all the way down to his diaphragm, the way only singers know how to do.

“Your scent.” His murmur tickles my belly button and then the inside of my thighs. “How can you smell so sweet?”

I don't know how to answer that question. All I can do is lean in and feed him the sleek curves of my trembling delta. I've been getting salon waxes for months. A waste of money, I used to think, with only me to appreciate how sleek and smooth I am.

But now his tongue is slipsliding around everywhere to test my satin-slick surfaces, and I know it was worth every penny.

Again he nibbles my inner thighs. Again he flutters his tongue-tip into my belly button.

His scruff is beginning to rub into my pussy lips, spreading them apart like the petals of a rose.

He's teasing me. Son of a fucking bitch.

“More,” I say. “Please.”

“Mmmm. You're so hard.” He flutters his tongue over the swollen knob of my clit. “I don't want you to come too soon.”

“We're in a fucking supply closet. I doubt we have all night.”

“Ah. So practical. And yet so sweet.” His tongue thrusts between my throbbing lips, darting here and there. A tickle, and I need more than a tickle.

“Please.” My toes curl in my shoes, and I scootch my feet to about eighteen inches apart to better brace myself. My knees have turned to jelly again, and I don't want to fall. God, no, I don't want to fall. I want to dance on the edge of his mouth forever.

His hair slaps sexily at my inner thighs. His tongue thrusts deeper. His next inhalation is more of a surprised snort at how tight I am.

Can he tell I'm a virgin just from eating me out? Fuck. I'd been too swept away to think things through. Maybe that's a turn-off. Me being a virgin.

But he's got to know there's a chance when you go with a girl of just eighteen.

His tongue makes little circles just inside of my opening. I focus on the ring of muscle there the way I've sometimes focused on a fingertip. When I tighten those key muscles, he can feel me grasp his tongue.

I try to pull him in.

He grunts again, a lustful sound that comes out in a hot breath against all my most personal flesh. Oh, he knows how bad I want it.

Teasing bastard.

“Deeper,” I say. “Deeper.” I've never had the fingertip deeper, and maybe I should be afraid I can't handle it, but I'm beyond caring about what I can or can't handle.

His tongue glides in a little more, finding places where I've never had a tongue or a finger or anything before. The tip of his tongue is flexible. Searching. Dear God, how does it know how to find so many hidden nerves?

My clit feels like a hard rock grinding fiercely into his upper lip. Then it begins to wobble.

His head bobs up and down faster and faster.

It's just about the sensation, I tell myself. But when I look down at the back of his neck, which seems so pale and vulnerable, it seems like more than mere physical sensation.

I should think about what I'm doing, but there's no time for thinking now. Only feeling. My waxed delta has shaped itself to his face so I can feel everything— his nose against my belly, his upper lips pressuring my clit, his tongue stirring sensuously within my creamy hole.

It feels like being hit by lightning. Every muscle seems to cramp all at once. And then they all seem to release all in the same moment. The force of the contractions knocks me down, or tries to. Only Noah's firm face, pressed against my pussy, and his steady hands, which are clasped around my ass, keep me from falling.

He makes a loud smacking noise as he licks up the cream. Amazing. He really enjoys this, and he wants me to know it. Noah Hammond isn't one of these sulky rock stars who pretends he can't be impressed.

I don't even have to ask if it was as good for him as it was for me. When he sits back on his heels and looks up into my eyes while noisily smacking his lips, I know how good it was. His tongue is spinning to lick off his face with the enthusiasm of a kitten licking up a bowl of milk.

“Wow. I didn't know guys really liked that.” Then I hear the words in my own ears. Ugh. I sound so young. So stupid-ass.

But he's smiling. “You taste amazing. I wouldn't miss a drop.”

A knock.

Fuck.

I'm back on planet earth in a fucking supply closet. Noah, still on his knees, continues to gaze into my eyes like he hates to end the moment.

I still haven't told him I'm a virgin, and now I wonder if I ever can.