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“What you said earlier, about my performance.”
“I’ve never lied to you,” I whisper.
He nods slowly, like he’s considering that.
“Why are you mad at me?” I ask.
“I’m not mad at you.”
“You stormed in here. Then told me I’m ‘fucking infuriating.’ It sure seems like you’re mad at me.”
“I’m mad at myself.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve never needed anybody and I feel like I need you.”
I stare at him, stunned.
“I’m so tired…of everything. But the most exhausting thing is trying to pretend like I’m not thinking about this—you—all the time.”
I’m not sure who moves first, me or him. But we’re kissing again. And it’s shocking, but notasshocking, so I can relax into it more. Savor the slow sweep of his tongue and the way he leans forward so I’m caged between his hard body and the wall. He steps closer, his knee sliding between my legs like it belongs there, and sparks skitter across my skin at the friction.
This is a situation I’d usually be overthinking and second-guessing. A situation Ishouldbe overthinking and second-guessing. But any alarm bells are blissfully silent. It feels like reaching the top of a mountain, knowing there’s only one way down. Seeing the first domino fall and already knowing the fate of the last one.
Inevitable.
We stare at each other, both breathing heavily.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Yes.” I’ve never felt so sure, but that sounds too honest.
And Ishouldn’tbe this sure.
This is Kyle fucking Spencer. He’s not just a hot guy with a cowboy hat and a sexy voice, and he’s not just part of my job. The artists who walked into Empire Records, acting all high and mighty and too important forthank you, didn’t have a tenth of the fame he has. He’s a superstar who sells out stadiums and has screaming fans. Who has success in an industry that makes it hard to find.
It shouldn’t make any difference in a situation like this.
But I’m picturing all the gorgeous women he’s undoubtedly been with as I walk into his bedroom, wondering how I’ll measure up and hating that I’ve created a competition in my head.
It smells like him in here, wood and leather and laundry detergent. Spicy cologne.
Nerves prickle in my stomach as I approach the bed. It’s the only furniture in here, aside from an armchair in one corner. The only sign of habitation are the two shirts slung over one arm. The bed is neatly made, the floor bare.
I climb onto the mattress and then roll onto my back, watching Kyle approach.
He left the bedroom door open, the yellow light from the hallway spreading across the hardwood.
His steps are deliberate. I rise up onto my elbows to gain a better angle, swallowing hard when I watch him unbuckle his leather belt, one-handed, then tug it free from the loops and toss it onto the floor. Theclangof metal hitting wood makes goose bumps rise on my skin. His shirt disappears next, revealing the ridges of his abdomen I’ve already ogled at every opportunity. Without the belt, the waistband of his jeans slips lower, the carved V impossible to miss.
Every action looks practiced and purposeful, but I banish all thoughts of his experience from my head.
If I’m going to do this, I’m going to enjoy it. Not compare myself.
Also…because caring about Kyle’s past suggests caring, period.
And this is just sex. Scratching an itch.
