Libby

My little bedroom at the back of the tour bus is dark and cool, swaying slightly as we speed along toward Cleveland. Boneless and limp with exhaustion, I can only lie here and stare up at the ceiling. I’m too stirred up to sleep but can’t seem to make myself move.

Every second of tonight plays like a movie in my head. The blinding light, the darkness beyond. The way the crowd moves like a living thing. And singing, playing my guitar. It had been…everything. The high of my life. Transcendent.

I had no idea.

And playing with Killian? That was pure joy. I could have laughed like a giddy kid riding a coaster. I want that feeling again and again. And I want that release of pure heat and lust that came afterward, Killian’s thick cock driving in me, nailing me against the door. It was hard, fast, and everything I needed.

I want him now. But it isn’t as if he can be in this room without raising questions. Hell, we were lucky to get away with screwing like jacked-up rabbits in the bathroom. He’d had to scramble, shoving his dick back in his pants and running out to meet the guys in their dressing room before doing two encores.

Now he’s out in the main area of the bus, jamming with his guys. It’s three am, and they haven’t slowed down. I can’t blame them. Energy courses through my limbs and makes me twitchy.

“Fuck it.” I wrench back the sheets and tug on my ratty sweats.

Music flows as I trudge down a narrow hall, flanked by four bunk spaces, and into the main sitting area. The guys stop playing as I enter. I probably look a sight with my overlarge Massive Attack concert tee and baggy pants.

“Heligoland.” Whip gestures to my shirt with his chin. “Fucking love that album.”

I find space on the couch between him and the wall. Killian’s dark eyes are on me, a smug, satisfied smile lingering there. I’d be annoyed, but my smug, satisfied lady bits refuse to be hypocritical.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks me. His big hand is wrapped around the neck of his guitar, a gorgeous 1962 Gibson J-160E. John Lennon played that model. And now Killian James, capable of making that beautiful instrument sing, does too.

Those long fingers have played my body just as well. I press my knees together. “Too jittery.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Rye says. He’s holding a pair of maracas, which makes me smile. He smiles back. “You know, by staying up all night.”

The guys laugh.

Jax peers at me. “Didn’t hurl on stage.”

“Yay me,” I deadpan. “Thanks, by the way. You saved my bacon.”

“Mainly, I saved the rest of us from having to smell your breath,” he says with a shrug, but the corners of his eyes crinkle with humor. “I’ll ask Jules to keep extra ginger ale and toothbrush kits in stock.”

Jules is one of the assistants and is riding on another bus. So many buses. A bus for roadies. One for Brenna, Jules, wardrobe coordinators—that the guys have a wardrobe kind of made me snicker, but it’s basically the shit job of doing their laundry—and press coordinators. One for the Not A Minion. And one for Scottie. Yes, he has his own bus. The guys, however, have always travelled together and stick with that tradition. And none of the other buses is as nice as ours with its black-and-cream leather interior, full kitchen, bath, and dozens of luxury perks—well, maybe Scottie’s is too, but he won’t let me in to check.

Killian hands me a bottled lemonade from the ice bucket at his side. There are also beers in it, but he knows me well. I take a long drink, refreshed by the sweet-tart flavor.

“So,” Whips asks, tapping a quick beat on the small djembe drum he’s holding. “How did it feel busting your rock concert cherry?”

I grin around my bottle and absolutely refuse to look at Killian. Memories of our bathroom visit are like handprints on my skin. “Once I got on stage, it was…perfection.”

Whip laughs. “Yeah. It’s something, isn’t it? And you did good. Better than you think.” His blue eyes crinkle with glee. “I remember our first big gig.”

“Madison Square Garden,” Rye puts in, chuckling.

“We’d done dozens of smaller clubs,” Whip explains, “but finally we had hit our stride and were on a major tour. So there we were. Opening night. Jax is puking up a lung behind a set of speakers, sending roadies scattering like roaches in the light.”

I laugh, and Jax shakes his head.

Whip continues with a big grin. “Rye’s pacing back and forth, babbling about how he can’t remember any of the music.”

Killian flails his hands as if to mimic Rye, and his voice rises to a falsetto. “‘What’s the opening song?’ ‘What do we play after?’ ‘How do I fucking play my fucking bass?’”

Rye’s cheeks pink. “Fuck, it’s so true. I was a total blank.”

“And you?” I ask Whip, because he’s telling the story.

“Oh, I was a hot mess. Poked myself in the fucking eye with my stick.”

“What?” I laugh.

“Seriously.” His eyes gleam. “I don’t even know how I did it. But the motherfucker was so swollen, I couldn’t see out of it.”

“Oh, God.” I wipe my own eyes, now blurry with tears, then catch Killian’s smiling gaze. “Where were you in all this?”

“Oh, Killian was right in the center of the storm,” Whip says. “He just stands there, hands on hips, looking at us. And then yells…”

At once Jax, Rye, and Whip shout, “That’s it, I want my mommy!”

Killian laughs, ducking his head.

The guys crack up.

“It was so fucking random,” Rye says, practically choking. “We all stopped our shit and just gaped at him. Pulled us together in an instant.”

Killian catches my eye, and I smile. Happiness and a tender, finer emotion swell in my chest. I adore this man. Everything about him. As if he reads this, his expressive eyes darken, and I feel his care, his need as clearly as if his arms were wrapped around me.

I blink and look away, not wanting the others to see what has to be clearly stamped on my face. “Well,” I say, “I guess my vomit session wasn’t so bad after all.”

“You were golden, Libs,” Killian tells me, his deep voice encouraging. “And it will only get easier.”

“Says you,” Jax retorts. But he turns his attention to the guitar in his hand and plucks out a familiar tune.

On cue, the guys follow suit and start to play The Beatles’ “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” with Killian and Jax harmonizing, Rye playing a small lap keyboard, and Whip beating on his djembe.

Whip nudges me with his elbow, and I join in singing.

We go like that all night, singing, playing, and trying to best each other with choosing obscure songs to perform. And the bus speeds down the endless dark highway. I have no idea where we are. But that’s just geography. For the first time, I have some inkling of who I really am.

* * *

“Like sex on Sunday, sliding skin to skin,” Killian growls to a crowd of sixty-thousand screaming fans, but his hot eyes are on me. “I’ll sink into your grace, lick up your sweet sin.”

Jesus. I was there when he wrote those lyrics, and it still makes me weak at the knees when he looks at me as though he’s remembering every touch between us. Then he sings with his deep, raw voice, as if promising me more.

My words come out raspy, needy when I sing back, “You think you have me figured out. You think you want in, but that’s not what love’s about.”

At my side, Rye bumps shoulders with me as we play, and Killian sings the refrain of “Broken Door.” Stage lights turn everything into a white haze. Their heat caresses my skin. Energy flows through me on a wave, making the tiny hairs along my body stand on end. My nipples tighten, slick need swelling between my thighs.

If I hadn’t already had sex with Killian, I’d think this was the most addictive thing in the world. Because, in this moment, I’m not Libby, the woman who has fears or doubts, who worries about where she’s going in life or where she’s been. In this moment, I’m just me, in my most basic version.

There is freedom in that. Joy.

It’s the long crash down that sucks. Every time a concert ends, I’m disoriented, buzzing, and slightly dizzy. There’s one thing that truly breaks the tension and brings me back to reality. Unfortunately, it’s also the riskiest.

The risk doesn’t stop me, though. Or Killian. We both need it too badly.

Minutes later, we’re hidden in a storage closet that smells of Lysol, and I’m bent over a stack of old amps, Killian buried deep inside me. His big, rough hands cup my breasts as he thrusts hard and fast. Frantic, his hips meet my ass with a slap, slap, slap, the sound mixing with our muffled grunts.

The way he fills me, wide and thick, each thrust hits a spot within that I feel in my throat, in my toes. Cool heat ripples down my back, up my thighs. So good.

I push back, meeting halfway, needing the hard hit of him.

“Jesus,” he grunts, his hips jerking. “That’s it. Show me how much you fucking love this.”

Faster, harder. It almost hurts. But it isn’t enough.

We’re too in tune for him not to notice my distress. He jerks a hand out from underneath my top, nearly tearing it. His fingers slide between my legs, find my clit. It doesn’t take much. I’m so primed, my clit so swollen, that he merely has to tap it, give it a little flick like he’s playing my body. And I go off.

I bite my lip, holding in my scream. He’s in so deep, his cock so big, that I feel myself pulse around him. He feels it too, because he groans long and low, arching his hips into me as he comes. For a second, we’re suspended there, straining against each other in search of our own pleasure. Then all that tension drains out in a mutual sigh.

Killian’s body sprawls on top of mine, our panting in sync. Our fingers twine as we struggle to regain our breath. I come back to myself in stages, clarity of vision first, then the scent of our sweat mixing with cleaning supplies and must, the meaty girth of Killian’s cock still lodged inside of me, and…

“There’s a wet rag under my cheek.” I wrench my head away.

Killian peers over my shoulder and snorts. The sound of it sets me off, and we both start laughing. Well, I’m laughing and also a bit disgusted, because my face was in a dirty rag.

“You were on the rag,” Killian snickers, his chest shaking against my back.

“Ugh, that was bad. Just bad. The worst joke ever.” Still, I’m laughing. Part of it is the release, but most of it is as simple as the fact that Killian makes me happy.

He eases me to standing, his arms warping around my shoulders, his cock slipping out of me. “I have more where that came from.”

“No doubt.” I rest my head in the crook of his arm.

His breath is warm as he kisses my temple and gives me a squeeze, then steps back to tuck himself into his jeans. I don’t know where he put the condom, but I’d rather keep that mystery and focus on the lean wall of his chest. Absently, I trace a line on his tattoo. “We better get back. This was crazy. Someone is going to notice.”

“Naw,” he says with a wink. “They’re all off doing the same.”

“They are? How do you know?”

“The need to fuck after a show is pretty common. It’s what we all do. You know, find a willing…” His words end on a strangled cough, and he scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing.

“Right. Of course.” My fingers fumble with my top, smoothing out the rumpled lines from where his hands invaded.

Killian steps close, his hands clasping my upper arms. “Hey, stop.”

I glance at him. “What?”

The corners of his eyes crease in agitation. “I shouldn’t have brought that shit up. I did those things in my past. My present is all you.”

“Believe me,” I manage to get out, “I have no interest in thinking about your past. I know it has nothing to do with us.”

He frowns, his gaze darting over my face. “Then why are you upset? And I can tell when you are, so don’t deny it.”

Killian, the mind reader. I roll my eyes, trying to shake him off. He won’t let me go.

“I’m not jealous.” Much. Okay, I hate thinking about him with other women. Sue me. “It’s just…is that what we’re doing? Using each other to get off?”

“No,” he says calmly. “I’m making sweet, sweet love to you. In a supply closet.” His dark eyes glint. “On a rag.”

“You just had to get that in there, didn’t you?” I sigh and push a hunk of my hair back from my face. “You know what? It’s stupid. I’m the one who practically mauls you every time we end a set.”

“I like it when you maul me.” Killian waggles his brows.

Despite my mood, I snicker before sobering. “I just… It suddenly felt a little seedy when you said that. As if you’d be doing this regardless.” Would I too? No, I can’t imagine having sex with anyone else.

Killian’s expression goes serious as he cups my cheeks. He doesn’t say anything as he kisses me, no tongue, just his lips mapping mine with tender care. When he pulls back his gaze is intent. “We are never seedy. Dirty, kinky, hot, sweet, okay. But never seedy. And if I didn’t have you tonight, I’d go jerk off somewhere.”

“Lovely.”

“I’m all class, babe.” He gives me a happy smile and a kiss on the cheek. Then, checking to see if the hall is clear, he glances back at me. “I’ll go first this time. The guys think you have an after-show vomiting problem, so we’ll just go with that.”

“Great. I’m known as Betty Barf. “

Killian laughs softly at my expression, then kisses me again. “My Betty Barf.”

The second he’s gone, my smile fades. I can’t shake my unease. My attachment to Killian, my need for him, is in danger of consuming me. When I’m with him, it’s as real as anything I’ve ever had. But if we weren’t in each other’s pockets, would it last?