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And why would he have an extra VIP ticket if he came alone?
Great.
Now he’s got me paranoid.
Trent Nichols is not stalking me.
It’s just a fluke, or in my case, a stroke of bad luck that he’s here.
Because let’s face it—this is the worst thing that could have possibly happened to me tonight.
With this romantic setting, added with how mouth-watering good he looks, I’m bound to break my one rule and find a dark corner just so I can jump his bones and end my dry spell.
With each song that plays out, I’m tortured by the way his scent invades all my senses, but my agony doesn’t end there.
No.
Trent might pretend that his sole focus is on the concert happening in front of us, but the way his knuckles discreetly caress the back of my hand tells me that, in reality, I’m his only point of interest tonight.
I’m proven right when I feel his patience waning thin, needing to touch me in any way he can.
The pads of his fingers start to play lightly with mine until his large hand engulfs my dainty one completely in his.
A little smile plays on my lips as his touch sends a wave of warmth through me. The stage fades away as I focus on the sensation of his fingers intertwining with mine. It’s as if this small, intimate connection is a secret language only we understand—one that promises a night filled with depravity and wild ecstasy.
I steal a glance at him, seeing the familiar twinkle in his eyes that matches the flutter in my chest. Even in this crowded space, we’re in our own dark and depraved little private world—one where our sweat-filled bodies take full advantage of each other.
After the concert officially ends, and mayhem ensues backstage with everyone fretting about, I’m a ball of want and need.
When we’re both invited to an afterparty to meet the singer, I gratefully decline.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Trent asks suspiciously after we’ve left the venue.
“I get enough of rubbing elbows with celebrities at work. This is one of the few nights I have off, and I intend to enjoy it. My way.”
With a frown stitched on his lips, he nods, watching me hail a taxi.
When one arrives, I open the door and quickly slide in, leaving Trent on the sidewalk, looking a bit peeved for getting into the cab without so much as a goodbye.
“Where to, Miss?” the taxi driver asks.
Before I give him my address, I lean towards the open door, making eye contact with a flustered Trent.
“Are you coming or what?”
Trent’s frown is quickly replaced with a crooked grin before gliding into the seat next to me.
“And where are we going, just exactly?”
“My place,” I reply, before giving the cab driver directions.
Neither of us says a word the whole ride through, but I feel the electricity in the cab crackle and pop.
The air feels hot and heavy.
Summer nights in Boston are usually cool, but not tonight.
It feels like an omen.
