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There must be three or four hundred people squeezed into a space meant for far, far fewer. Mostly girls, mostly screaming their lungs out.
Everything is dark, almost black, save the bright white stage lights.
Miles stands on the front of the stage, his fingers wrapped around a microphone, his eyes closed as if he's feeling the song so deeply he can't bear to keep them open.
All of my attention is on Miles. His voice is beautiful. Not just beautiful. It's breathy, and throaty, and wounded as all hell. Every word comes out with a thousand pounds of emotional force behind it. It's like his voice is seeping through my skin and bones, all the way into my soul. It's like I can feel whatever it is that made him write this song.
It hurts. Not as badly as In Pieces, but enough.
The songs ends. There's no break. Sinful Serenade transitions right into the next number. This one is faster, harder, louder. It's more upbeat, but there's still an undercurrent of hurt in Miles's voice. I catch a few of the lyrics. They're beautiful wisps of poetry.
Right now, he's not cocky, arrogant, or aloof. His heart is in his words. The ache in his soul is in his words.
My chest is heavy. I'm hurting with him.
I close my eyes and lose myself in his voice. There's so much sound around us—the screaming, the guitar, the bass, the drums—but all I can hear is Miles. It's like he's singing to me.
The song ends. I open my eyes, startled by the quick return to reality. The room feels darker and brighter at once. Miles feels closer and farther away.
The singer smiles at the crowd with that same cocky expression on his face. He waves and blows a kiss. A dozen girls squeal, sure his adoration is meant for them.
He looks back at his bandmates. Can't say that I'm paying much attention to the other guys. They seem to be in some kind of blissful, meditative state. They're all so effortlessly cool.
Miles looks back at the crowd. "I'd like to dedicate this next song to a very special girl. I'm not sure that she thinks much of me, but Meg, I wrote this song, too."
The drummer brings his sticks down hard on his drum kit. "Only the lyrics, Romeo."
Miles sends the drummer a sweet smile then blows him a kiss. Must be some kind of inside joke. The drummer shakes his head, stands, and pulls off his shirt.
The screams are so loud I can't even think. The crowd likes him sans shirt. They like it a lot.
Hard to blame them. He's an attracti
ve man—wavy dirty blond hair, sculpted torso, a tattoo with thick black lines on his chest and snaking down his arm.
Next to me, Kara laughs. She's eying Drew like she hopes the stripping will start some kind of chain reaction. I don't call her on it.
Miles tugs at the bottom of his t-shirt, teasing the crowd to a chorus of cheers. He walks over to the equally handsome dark-haired bassist and hands him the mic.
It's unfair, having four attractive men in such close proximity. There isn't a woman alive who could resist all four of them.
Miles's eyes go back to the crowd. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's looking at me. I'd swear he's doing this solely for my benefit.
He pulls the shirt higher, higher, higher. And then it's off his head and on the ground.
There's barely an inch of fat on his body. He has a six-pack. And those v-lines. They make it difficult to think. The color tattoos that decorate his chest and arms keep my brain in a damn, he's hot loop.
Miles drags his hands over his sculpted chest like he can't bear how sexy he is.
The cheers are deafening. Mr. Miles Webb is certainly the object of lust. Hard to blame the girls staring at him with their eyes wide and their jaws dropped. No doubt, there will be a dozen pairs of panties on stage by the end of the song.
He could have any woman he wants, and he wants me.
He made me come.
He's going to make me come again. Three times. He promised three times.
Miles takes the microphone back. "Is it hot in here, or is it just me?"
