He frowned, his hands still cupping my face. “About?”
“I want you to fuck me here. Clear the room, rockstar.”
My pulse was still hammering from the show, from the tears I couldn’t quite explain, from the way he’d looked at me across the stage like I was the only person in the entire screaming venue.
Milo’s grey eyes sharpened then clouded over with pure feral lust. His thumbs brushed my cheekbones, smearing a little of the sweat and glitter from my skin. For a second, the whole noisy dressing room faded to nothing.
Then he turned his head without letting me go. “Everybody out. Now.”
Owen let out a low whistle. “Damn, bro. We just got here.”
“Out,” Milo repeated, voice rough from singing. No room for argument. Killian clapped Brett on the shoulder and started herding people toward the door with a knowing smirk. Dahlia caught my eye as she passed and winked. Burgundy grinned and shook her head.
The moment the last straggler was out, and the door closed with a soft click, I looked up at Milo. “Okay, so let’s be professional about this.”
He grinned and let go of me, moving for the couch. “Let’s,” he said, dropping down.
I reached inside my little bag for my phone. “Okay. Right.” I didn’t know why the hell I was so nervous about this — but I was. My hands were literally shaking, and for no good reason. I blamed the adrenaline. “I’m thinking you rip the fishnets, right? Maybe eat me out for a bit—”
Milo reached for a glass on the coffee table. “You want to come?” He sniffed the drink, tasted it, winced, and put down, opting for the bottle of JD instead.
“If it’s not too much trouble.” I smirked.
Milo took a long pull from the JD bottle, his throat working as he swallowed. Then — “I’ll do my best, doll. Anything else?”
I licked my lips, surveying the dressing room. “You ever filmed a sex tape?” I asked, trying to find the best spot to set the phone for the best angle.
“Yeah, a couple.”
“I meant not the ones with me.”
Milo took a deep breath and laughed. “Yeah, baby. A couple that I filmed not with you. Why?”
“I dunno. Just trying to gauge where your head’s at, I guess.”
He looked at me. “You’re fucking nervous. That’s cute.”
“Shut up.”
I fiddled with the phone, trying to find the perfect angle — propped against a stack of water bottles on the makeup counter, tilted just right so it would catch both the couch and the wall. My hands were still trembling.Adrenaline, I told myself again. Not nerves. Definitely not the fact that I was about to let the man I’d just realized I was in love with fuck me stupid in a room that smelled like stale beer and rockstar sweat while thousands of people were still screaming his name outside.
Definitely not that.
Milo watched me from the couch, legs spread wide, that lazy smirk playing on his lips. His chest was still glistening, my name on his bicep catching the soft dressing-room lights every time he moved. He took another slow mouthful from the Jack Daniel's bottle, eyes never leaving me.
“You’reactuallycute when you’re nervous,” he said. “Never seen you like this.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lied, hitting record and stepping back to check the frame. “I’m a professional. This is content. High-value content.”
“Uh-huh.” He set the bottle down and crooked a finger at me. “C’mere, professional.”
I walked over, hips swaying. When I got close enough, Milo’s hands shot out, grabbing my waist and yanking me down onto his lap. I straddled him automatically, knees sinking into the worn leather couch on either side of his hips.
His mouth was on mine before I could say anything else — spreading the bitter taste of whiskey from his tongue to mine. I melted into it, fingers threading through his damp hair, tugging at it to make him groan into my mouth. One of his hands slid under my skirt, palming my ass, fingers digging into my thigh.
“I want to leave bruises all over you,” he growled against my mouth.
I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, my breath shallow. “Rough?” I asked, trying to figure out what he was thinking.
