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I huff a laugh. “Carmen. Yeah. Look at her.”
There’s a long pause behind me, and I hide my smile when Dex rumbles, “I don’t get it.”
No, I don’t think he does. Because the way Dex Kincaid looks at me—he doesn’t look that way at anyone else. I don’t think he really sees anyone else, not in the same high definition that he sees me, and that includes the Run Along Ruby merch girl. The certainty of that makes my heart soar.
And I don’t want Dex to be jealous—don’t want him to feel that cold, clammy sickness in his chest so needlessly—so I point at the opposite corner of the room. “Okay. Now look at Tudor.”
The silence stretches between us, broken by the din of the lobby. Shrieks of laughter break out across the room, and the last Run Along Ruby album blares from a speaker on the wall.
“Ah,” Dex says at last.
Yeah. Ah.
Because one look at Tudor’s expression as he stares at Carmen the merch girl… that’s enough to cure any misplaced jealousy.
The songwriter looks hungry. Raw and desperate. He leans against the wall, tucked away in the shadows with his arms folded over his chest, and he watches Carmen without blinking. Silent and intense, like a panther watching its prey.
“Damn,” Dex mutters. “Should we warn her?”
I lift a shoulder. “What, that he stares at her? He’s not dangerous. But he is obsessed.”
Ob-sessed. A man possessed.
Does Dex Kincaid ever get that manic glint in his eye for me? I sure hope so.
The rocker’s relieved sigh flutters my hair. Then those big hands land on my hips again, and I could shout for joy.
I want his hands on me so badly. Every tiny touch sends my heart into overdrive, makes my blood heat to a low simmer, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I feel like we’re getting bolder. Lingering over our stolen moments; caring less and less what people think.
Who gives a shit if Dex Kincaid is so much older than I am? He’s mine, damn it. When this tour ends, I want him by my side.
“Thanks for showing me this, baby.” Dex’s beard tickles my shoulder, and I swear I feel the scrape of teeth. The hot flicker of a tongue. “The green-eyed monster got the better of me back there.”
“I don’t mind,” I whisper, fighting the urge to press my ass back. To grind up against the guitarist’s lap, and feel if he’s as thick and long and mouth-watering as he is in the dark recesses of my brain.
I really don’t mind his jealousy. In fact, a terrible part of me loves it. Loves that he cares enough to stomp around and growl and get all possessive over me. It’s not like tons of people have felt that attached to me before.
“We should go,” Dex mutters, his voice strained. “Should get back to the green room before I do something we can’t take back.”
My cheeks flush, even as my heart sinks. Would that be so bad? Would it really be so terrible if we gave in to this endless craving?
I swallow those questions down, and when I turn and offer a smile, it feels almost real. “Okay. But you’re fixing the drinks tonight.”
Dex links our hands together. “You got it.”
* * *
I should be used to the chaos of the green room by now, but somehow it still takes me by surprise after every show. Maybe it’s because the man drinking and shouting and partying the hardest is my father; or maybe it’s because I watched cartoons with West and some of the other guys earlier, and seeing them now grinding girls’ asses against their laps makes my cheeks burn hot.
“Jesus,” Dex mutters as he leads me inside, tugging me around the edges of the dark room. Abandoned items of clothing are strewn over sofa arms and wooden chairs, and there’s a couple doing body shots on top of the games table. “It’s carnage in here.”
I squeeze his hand, choking back a laugh. “Don’t tell me this offends your sensibilities, mister rock star.”
Dex crooks an imperious eyebrow, staring at me over one muscled shoulder, and I bite my lip. God, I want this man.
“Go pick a spot,” he orders me.
I skip off, heart fluttering, and pick a squashy two-seater sofa in the corner, collapsing down onto the cushions.
