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But then I spot him, and I know exactly why. He’s slightly behind the rest of the band, sitting at the drums, belting the hell out of them. His eyes are shut, his head dropped back likehe’s really riding the beat, and for several moments I forget my insecurities as I feast on the sight of Danny Colton doing what he was clearly made to do.

He’s not wearing a shirt, the tats on his chest and abs and neck practically glowing under the pulse of lights, his skin slick with sweat. Sweat sprays from his hair as his head snaps up, the droplets caught by the light. His blue eyes blast open as he leans into a lick and the crowd screams for more.

There’s a lot of women, dressed in not a lot considering it’s freezing outside – a brisk forty-five. Not in here though. Hence all the skin on display. Bare arms and lots of leg in skirts and short shorts that flash hints of ass cheeks as well as plunging necklines, and skimpy shirts that cover only what needs to be covered.

And that’s not just the women.

I’m wearing a skirt that comes to my knee. Also tights and long boots that end halfway up my calves. I took my jacket off as I entered the warmth of the bar and it’s hanging over my arm, which leaves me in my form-fitting Henley. It clings to my breasts, the row of buttons that fasten down the middle pulling slightly across my cleavage.

Ordinarily, the V-neck draws attention to my cleavage, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about that when I’d tossed it in my bag this morning along with the skirt and boots. But as I’m probably the most dressed person here, I doubt anyone’s looking.

Damn it… Why did I come?

Because the other night I’d told him I didn’t always look like a bridge troll and with another late start tomorrow and him constantly on my mind, I wanted to prove it to him. But I wasn’t expecting Danny’s world to be so different. This isn’t the sparkly world of an arena concert with pyro techniques, backup dancers and big screens that bring the artist closer.

This is the up-close grungy rawness of the bar scene, and I’m intimated in a way I’m pretty sure he was not when he was in my world.

After the other night when Danny had fixed my hot water bottle and massaged my feet, I’d really started to think that maybe he was into me, but now I’m here, I wonder what the hell he sees in me when this is his world.

And he is so in his element here.

I have, literally and figuratively, let my hair down and yet the feeling that I stick out like a sore thumb presses down on me. I should leave but he is mesmerising to watch, and even though I tell myself to get the hell out, I can’t pull myself away either. The play of his muscles as he works sticks that are nothing more than a blur makes my nostrils flare.

Or maybe that’s the pheromone funk in the air.

But knowing how those muscles have bunched in my palms, how they’ve flexed over and under and inside me, suspends me in a useless kind of thrall. A thread of something that feels like web silk wraps invisible fingers around my waist and holds me to the spot. I could watch him do this all night.

The drumbeats rise to a crescendo along with the lyrics before they abruptly stop and the crowd breaks into applause. ‘Thank you all,’ Nester says, his mouth pressed to his mic. ‘We’re taking a break for a bit but we’ll be back. Don’t go away.’

The crowd, now released from the clutch of the music, surges forward as the band downs instruments. The raised platform is mobbed by mostly women and in the melee, someone calls Danny’s name as he scoops up his shirt, wipes it over his forehead and hair then pulls it over his head. He grins at them as he emerges and gives then a lewd wink, and before I know it I am storming forward, pushing my way through the throng, my pulse an indignant hammer through my head.

Back off, bitches.

Music pumps in over the sound system in lieu of the band as Danny’s gaze lifts and meets mine. His eyes widen a fraction, but then he slow-grins and even though others are vying for his attention, it’s like we’re the only two people in the room.

The rest of the band shuffles off stage, but not Danny. He strides purposefully in my direction, stepping off the stage with a single-minded focus that makes me shiver. He’s big and hot as he pushes through everyone, staring at me – just me – as he ignores the grab of hands all around him, the sighing, the screaming.

There’s an intensity to his gaze which makes my pussy – vagina! – quiver. My heart rate picks up as he bears down on me and I swallow, my mouth as dry as the concrete beneath my feet as he finally reaches me, his hands sliding up my arms.

‘Hey,’ he says, ‘you’re here.’

I nod helplessly. I’m breathless, and I don’t know what to say. All of my imaginings of him being a drummer in a rock band and it’s nothing like I thought it would be. It’s… more. He’s more. More intense. More raw.

‘Why?’

I’m not bothered by his question because I understand why he asks it. This isn’t my usual scene and we both know it. I must look like a fish out of water, but… I don’t feel it. Not when he looks at me like I belong wherever he is.

‘I wanted to prove to you I could rock something other than a duvet and a pair of scrubs,’ I say and laugh nervously.

His gaze drifts to my cleavage before drifting back again, appreciation making his eyes glow hot. People all around are trying to get his attention but he ignores them as he says, ‘You wanna get out of here?’

I frown. ‘Don’t you have another set?’

‘Not for another twenty minutes.’

He takes my hand then and tugs, and I stick close to him as he drags me through the crowd. I’m super conscious that all these women reaching for him want him – but he’s chosen me. I know as they look me up and down, they’re wondering why Danny, the drummer/sex god, is with a woman whose knees aren’t even visible, and I wonder the same.

How does he want me in this stupid fucking skirt?