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“Take what you need from me, baby, or I’ll take back control and fuck you until you can’t walk.” He forcefully thrusts upward, nearly knocking me off. But I grab hold of his shoulders, my knees up and my feet at his sides, pressing against the mattress, and I begin to move.

I start slow, using my thighs as leverage, and I move myself up and down on his dick.

“Fuck yes. Don’t stop,” Rafe croons out, while he holds on to my ankles with a vise-like grip. I lean in, spreading my knees wider, and snuggle my face into the crook of his neck. I suck at his skin, then bite that tender flesh.

Needing more friction, I move faster, until I’m slamming myself onto his rigid cock like I’m the sledgehammer to his nail. The rough and fast friction, the hard slap of his body meeting my body, has me keening out.

As the familiar buzz at the base of my spine explodes, I slam down one last time on his dick and come, untouched, on his stomach. Rafe shouts his release soon after, rumbling out my name while he grips my hips and pours himself into me.

We lay there for a while, me still fixed on his cock, until my legs nearly cramp from being in that folded position so long. Rafe senses this and gives me one last hug before he eases out of me and turns me onto my side.

Between the scent of our sex permeating the air and the heat from his body, I’m lulled to sleep. Rafe’s kiss is the last thing I feel before I fall deep into slumber.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Rafe

As we stand in the back room, peeking out from behind the closed stage curtains at the standing-room-only crowd that has gathered for our first concert outside the U.S., it feels like being back at the Battle of the Bands contest we entered all those years ago. We didn’t win, but we got Ron instead, and that was a far better prize. He made our careers take off.

Ron may no longer be technically here with us, but I can’t help thinking that the man is still here in spirit. He would be happy for us, ecstatic even, that we are venturing into uncharted territory. Granted, Korea isn’t uncharted, but for us, it’s new.

What’s even more exciting is that at the end of our show, Lyric is going to sing. It will prove to everyone that he still has it, and prove to himself that he’s not the leper he said he’d been feeling all this time.

I just hope his father comes, because when Lyric’s on stage, power-housing his voice to our chart-topping song, it’ll show that fucker that he threw his son away over something as stupid as a video.

“Are you ready?” Danny asks each of us, including Lyric, who’s skin is flushed. He looks like he’s hyperventilating and going to throw up.

“As ready as I can be,” he finally says with a false smile to Danny.

“Come here.” I pull him into my arms. “Relax. Just remember, don’t look at the crowd. Keep your eyes on me.”

“What about when I have to sing the last song?” he asks, his eyes widening with worry.

“I promise, by the time the last song starts, you’ll have forgotten the crowd and be able to sing your ass off.” I kiss him shamelessly, not giving him a chance to reply, until the band is announced over the sound system.

The second Rafe’s mouth breaks free from mine, I lose the safety of his body and I go into panic mode. Fortunately, my feet are on automatic pilot, following Callum out on stage and moving me in front of the keyboard.

A riot of cheers and roars explodes from the crowd as the emcee announces us individually. When I’m announced last, the guy doesn’t use Lyric, but my given name. The same name I used when I was in the K-pop group, which only ramps up my anxiety.

I anticipate hearing boos and other nasty things from the crowd, so I keep my attention fixed on Rafe, trusting that will keep me from throwing up right then and there. It takes me a few agonizing heartbeats before what I’m hearing sinks in. Not boos or jeers. Instead, they are chanting and whistling. The decibel level of the cheers is rattling my eardrums.

The emcee does his best to calm the audience, but I can still feel the enthusiasm of these Korean metalheads resonating through the stage floor.

Don’t look. Keep your eyes on Rafe.

Once Connor counts off, we begin and I play my part. And whenever my hands aren’t on the keyboard, I watch Rafe do his thing. With each song, my body relaxes a little more and I find myself singing along.

Then it’s my turn. And Rafe was right. By this last song, I’m calm enough and ready to finish the night with this ballad love song.

Right as Danny calls me forward, I see my father. He’s standing in the back of the room. Though the back area is shadowed, I recognize his familiar, stiff posture. I can imagine the scowl on his face at seeing the room full of people, nearly shoulder to shoulder, having a blast listening to Warrior Black dominating the stage with their performance.

To my surprise, my father steadily walks forward until he’s standing about three rows back from the stage. I can see his scrutinizing face and his eyes zeroed in on me.

I swallow hard as my brain scrambles on what to do next.

Suddenly, Rafe steps up beside me, his solid presence grounding me. I turn to him, and he winks. “You can do it.”

His confidence sparks something inside me. I draw a deep breath and stride to the center of the stage, lifting my chin. He’s right. This is my chance to prove to myself—and my father—that I’m nobody’s shame. I belong on this stage, and I refuse to bow down to anyone.