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“What’s her problem?” Elle whispered, trading her Gibson for her Stratocaster.
“Almost sure she thinks I like her butt too much.”
“It is a cute butt.” Elle winked at him, and he laughed.
“Hers or mine?” he asked, unable to resist. Hell, he had a freaking hard-on onstage from some sexy as hell redhead in the second row, who he was trying not to look at until the next song started so he didn’t tear through his jeans.
Elle pretended to think as she put the strap over her head. “Gotta say hers. Looks firmer.”
“You suck.”
She laughed again then dipped her head close. “He isn’t really your brother, is he? Tell me he isn’t.”
“Afraid so.”
“He’s a beast.”
At the dark, moody chords of “In Your Arms,” heralded by Ry on the blues harp, Michael glanced back at Mal. He was tapping the skins in almost perfect time. “Hell yeah, he is.”
“Men.” Elle snorted and surprised him by pulling her own Juliet-type routine, going back to back with him as they slid into the song.
Elle didn’t grind or dance, just challenged him to get his fingers moving as fast as hers. He kept up, rippling up and down the strings so fast that he didn’t dare look at the audience. His shoulders hunched and he bent closer to his instrument, cradling it, imagining again that he had the redhead in his arms. That hot, lush body he’d scarcely glimpsed curling against his as she pressed those glossy lips to his ear and said dirty things that didn’t fit such an innocent face.
Pure face, smokin’ body, hair like a goddamn siren. He wanted to hear her voice to see if it matched the sexiness of the rest of her. Perhaps she’d sing to him, maybe while he was going down on her. He’d part those creamy thighs and lean in for a taste—
A crack overhead caused him to jerk, then he remembered the shower of lights that they’d scheduled for this part of the show. A million colors arced and crisscrossed across the stage while his and Elle’s guitars screamed.
In the midst of the chaos, he sought the redhead again. He had to. She stood out for him like a jewel, glittering so brightly that even the dazzling array of lights that shimmered at the edges of his vision couldn’t compete. There were just those eyes, and those full lips moving as she mouthed the song.
He sang the lyrics too, and he was singing with her. To her. Imagining she was beneath him, silently pleading.
All I want is to be in your arms.
Make me yours tonight.
Every night.
Open up, take me in.
Close your eyes, feel me there.
Inside.
Sweat popped out on every inch of his skin, and just moving in the jeans and tee that stuck to him was torture. But he played on, singing for her. Making his guitar shriek so she’d laugh and jump and clutch her hands between her breasts. She was so into it, her body as electric as the instrument vibrating in his hands.
Shit, if this show didn’t end soon, he was going to soak the damn front of his pants. His cock was already so rigid that his usual stage embellishments were becoming a problem. But he had to keep going, had to perform for her, even sinking to his knees as he worked the frets.
Knowing she was watching every single thing he did.
For the rest of the set, he alternated between focusing on her and his brother. But Mal was doing just fine, and the redhead dominated every brain cell, swiftly crowding out everything in his head except her. Her wild hair, her seductive movements, and the longing in her eyes were his undoing.
His fucking personal Waterloo.
He hadn’t planned on hooking up with anyone tonight. Definitely hadn’t expected to be riding a high like this. But the buzz in his blood and the look of her ate at him, tempting him to seek her out for real after the concert ended.
Backstage pass, hell. He’d give her a bedroom pass, then tie her to his headboard right through the next morning.
She could be taken. Possibly even married. Could be a psycho. Damn, she might even be underage. She definitely had that whole schoolgirl thing going on, even with her hot clothes and gyrations. But he didn’t care. Oh, he would—later. After.
