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Finding out that the lyricist was Diana changed the entire game.
We’d gone international before, but deep in my gut I believed this tour would be life altering.
As a young musician, I’d based my style on Devan Johnson’s work. I knew every song Diana’s father wrote, and I knew the sheet music for everything his band ever performed.
While building my first aspiring band, I’d also admired Diana’s music. There was a reason her career exploded a decade ago. Everything she wrote was magnetic. In every way, she was an artist, an undeniable genius.
Diana and her father were pivotal in my foundation, and she had no idea.
Years ago, I’d loved Diana Winslow in the way most teenage boys love attractive pop stars. I fawned over videos of her performances and did more than stare at her posters.
And I’d been stroking my cock to daydreams of her every night, and most mornings, since we signed our contract to ease the ache in my loins that her angry little glares provoked. She’d turned those mesmerizing jade green eyes on me like they were daggers, and I’d be rock hard in the next second each time.
Diana was mean to me, and I fucking loved it. Perhaps that said something about me, but I didn’t know what. Nor did I care.
After my Saturday night show, the grueling performance exhausted me. That reporter caught me off guard when she asked if I had anyone special in my life.
Diana popped into my head, and I answered without thinking. And I’d meant it when I said she was too good for me. She was out of my league by miles.
As a musician, I couldn’t compete with her raw talent. As a man, I wasn’t good enough for her.
After all, I knew what Diana thought of me. To her, I was no better than any other rockstar stereotype. The trauma she suffered through was half the reason she hated me, but I couldn’t blame her for those feelings.
Changing her entire mindset would be one of the biggest challenges in my life. Getting closer to her and showing her the real me would make it all worth it in the end, because I intended to make Diana sing for me.
One way or another, I’d hear that angelic voice crying out my name over and over again.
The sight of her scowling at me and my bleeding nose in my dressing room the night we signed the contract brought long forgotten desires back to the forefront of my mind. Having her soft frame in my lap, rocking her hips against me, and her pretty lips on mine had fulfilled a buried teenage dream.
But it wasn’t enough. I craved more than that singular taste of her cum on my fingers. I had to have all of her.
Diana shone like a star even without a spotlight. Her inner light wasn’t the glow of innocence. Despite the revelation that she was a virgin, she wrote the raunchiest songs of the past decade for countless artists.
A caveman urge to throw her over my shoulder and carry her off prickled at the back of my mind. I wanted to be the first man to feel her from the inside. I wanted to sink my cock into that tight cunt and fill her with every drop of cum she could hold.
All those years I never would have guessed that Diana had never slept with anyone. Her past and current reclusiveness might be to blame, and I worried that might keep me from having her.
But I knew she wanted me. The way she pawed at me and came hard on my fingers was evidence enough. Add the heated stares in the studio and I knew our physical chemistry went both ways.
How much of her carefully crafted wall would I need to chip away before she spread her legs for me? What did I need to do to have her sing for me again?
Instead of relaxing after my performances, I spent all Sunday practicing the first song Diana wrote for me. We had different visions on how the song should be sung, but I poured hours into singing it the way she wanted until a midnight moon hung over my studio and my voice became hoarse.
Diana was the expert, and I needed to impress her. Singing the lyrics to her specifications would bring her joy, and I yearned to see that spark of inspiration in her eyes again.
That night I passed out in the downstairs studio with my guitar haphazardly leaning on the couch near my feet. Diana’s sheet music and lyrics were scattered over the stone coffee table like a messy altar meant to summon her to me in the middle of the night.
Monday morning, I jolted awake with a raging erection straining behind the zipper of my jeans. Dreams of Diana digging her nails into my shoulders as she climaxed danced through my brain. The memory lingered behind my waking eyes, cloying in my mind like honey sticking to my every thought.
My hand drifted to my zipper, and I tugged open the front of my pants. I’d shoved my hand into my boxers and grabbed my cock before I realized it. Half asleep, I stroked myself to the memory of her wet and shaking in the palm of my hand.
Outside the studio, the front door opened and slammed shut. My heart burst out of my chest. I yanked my hand from my dick and sat upright.
The buzzer outside must have been the sound that woke me up. Whoever it was knew the code to get into my studio.
What time was it?
I glanced down at my watch and my gut sank, realizing I’d slept in because of my late night.
