“She signed an NDA,” he said.
“An NDA? For a hookup?”
“Not a hookup. They were together for a while.” Cross leaned back in his chair, his hand kneading the top of my foot where the shoe wasn’t covering it. “It wasn’t by choice — the NDA.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kill… He’s the golden boy. The management does everything to keep it that way, which means NDAs, tight schedules, relationships the label approves of — so on and so forth.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s the music industry.” He emptied my glass and set it on the table with a soft thud. “They own his image.”
Well, I couldn’t say that didn’t get me thinking. “Should I… be signing anything?”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah. Your name on my skin.”
I rolled my eyes yet my mouth curled in a grin. “The cheesiest line I’ve heard in a hot minute.”
Milo’s grin widened, that dangerous, lazy one that always made my stomach flip. He kept my foot in his lap, thumb pressing into the arch; it made me fantasize about those hands elsewhere. “Did it make you wet?”
I kicked his hand away, pulling my leg back. “Arrogant fuck.”
“You’re mean.” He pouted and then grinned. “And hella expensive. Not to mentionmouthy.”
I rested my elbows on the table and linked my fingers together. “So leave,” I challenged, leaning forward just enough that the neckline of my sundress dipped a little lower.
And so did his eyes. He grinned and changed the subject. “So, you’re gonna come?”
“To the show?”
His foot found mine again under the table, sliding up my calf with shameless intent. “Yeah.”
“When is it?”
“Next Friday.”
I hadn’t even considered it until he asked. A month of this — stolen nights in his penthouse, quickies in his car after my shifts, lazy mornings where he’d wake me up with his mouth between my legs — and I still hadn’t seen him perform live.
“You want me there?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. The way his foot kept sliding up my calf under the table, the heat in his eyes every time they dipped to my cleavage — yeah, he wanted me there.
Milo’s grin sharpened into that rockstar smirk. “You’ll like it. Small crowd, good sound, no screaming teenagers trying to climb the barricade. Afterparty at the venue. Private.”
Yeah, a couple thousand people sure soundedprivate.
“I’ll think about it,” I ended up saying and sipped what was left of my watered-down Pina Colada — mostly ice now. He looked good like this: freshly showered, a little stubbled, that new ink on his forearm still shiny with ointment. He’d gone out earlyyesterday morning to get it done. Eight letters in cursive — Baby Doll.
“Will there be cameras?” I asked carefully.
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Not the kind you’re thinking. Label’s filming for promo, but nothing that’ll end up on your OnlyFans.” He chewed, swallowed, then leaned in. “Though if you’re still holding out on that video… I could always film us in the green room after the set. You, me, the heels, and my mouth between your legs while the crowd’s still cheering outside.”
The thing was, I wasn’t sure I wanted the world to see our most intimate moments anymore. I know it had started out that way — I know that had beenmyintention — and still was, I suppose — but the more time I spent with him, the more… precious, I guess, these moments between us became.
His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Come on. You’ve been so busy with the club I’ve barely seen you. Miss that pretty pussy riding my face, Mary.”
I didn’t say anything to that, lost in thought — watching the exposed brick of the café wall behind him.
“What?” He frowned.
