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“Garth Brooks?” I asked, laughing. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I had the whole getup, from that solid black colored shirt to a black cowboy hat. The only other song I could get the chords to was Shania Twain, and I looked like hell in a dress.”
I smile at our mutual laughter. “So, what happened?”
“Well, I was nervous as hell when I got up there, even though I’d practiced for a month straight. But I closed my eyes and started singing. The response was good, and so I kept going. Everything was good up until the bridge.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s just say I’m a better singer than dancer,” Keith says with a laugh. “There’s a reason I don’t do dance numbers in my shows now. A whole month of practice in front of the mirror at home . . . not enough. Still, I got a standing ovation, which I guess set the bar pretty fucking high for future performances.”
I snicker to myself and work in some backstory of his years perfecting his craft on small stages in dive bars before I segue into my experience with Keith’s local show, the way he kept it pretty low-key and wasn’t some hard-to-work-with diva star but instead was easygoing and casual with the small backstage crew and band.
I add in how he talked about his fans with sweeping compliments and appreciation, making sure to highlight the little girl he’d stopped and signed an autograph for. The guys’ stories from the green room add a bit of a rock ‘n roll element and tour absurdity that makes Keith feel like a perfect blend of country good ol’ boy and rock star god that I know will tickle the fancy of even the non-country fan readers.
It’s hard to stay objective, though, when I talk about the concert itself. More than once, I find myself deleting whole passages as I gush like a fangirl about his command of the room, the way his voice vibrated through my body to enflame my desires, or the sexy swagger and the way his ass looked in his jeans as he strutted back and forth across the stage. Sure, some of it can be in my final cut. I need to entice the readers and maybe make a few panties wet, but I can’t come off like some newbie with a total crush on him . . . even if I’m starting to feel that way.
I most definitely leave out the moments in the dark backstage. Those are ours, whatever they were. Even now, with his voice talking though the recorder, my body heats as I remember the feel of his hand smacking down on my bare cheek, the taps on my clit. I can feel the blush in my cheeks as I remember our agreeing that we can’t pursue anything and then seconds later, going at each other again.
It’s like we’ve crossed a line, and no matter what, it can’t be uncrossed. The pull between us is too damn strong.
I’ve never felt anything like this before. Even though we haven’t seen each other that many times, the time we’ve spent together has been intense, full of deep conversations and sharing about ourselves over long hours. I’ve had whole relationships that lasted months that haven’t been as deep as the sharing that Keith and I have done. Add in the explosive chemistry, and we’re so fucked.
Well, I am.
If something happens and people found out, Keith comes out like a famous music star. The worst someone might accuse him of is slumming it with a reporter to try and get a better angle. A little naughty, but nothing all that bad.
I’m the one who’s compromising her professional morals. Even if I’m not doing it for the story, which I’m definitely not, no one would believe that. They’ll think I’m just as bad as Francesca, using my body to get ahead professionally. And quite frankly, too many girls get chewed up and spat out by the industry once it gets out that they fuck their way around. There’d be no chance in hell of my ever getting out of the sleazy tabloid circuit. No chance of getting the job that I really do want.
As much as that should give me pause, and normally it would, I know that if Keith had come upstairs last night, there’s no way I could’ve said no. Underneath my desk, I have to cross and uncross my legs just to relieve some of the pressure as I think about the ridge I felt in Keith’s jeans, the jealous possessiveness as he punished me in the dark.
My hands drop from my keyboard to press against the top of my shorts just over my pussy. My mind is back to picturing him stroking himself, imagining his groans as he cries out my name when he comes, thick spurts of cum coating his hand.
