One Kiss from the King of Rock (The One 2)

“Auditions. You were terrible but so self-aware it was painfully endearing.”

Painfully endearing. “Jesus, Evie, you know how to cut a naked man down to size.”

She turned in his arms, stood on her toes and brought her face close. His whole body clenched as she traced his lips with a fingertip, her breath ghosting over his throat. “Painfully endearing got you kissed back then.” He flexed his hands on her hips to stop from gripping her too tightly. If she kissed him now he had to be cool, not try to swallow her tongue and believe in his own invincibility.

“You’re still painfully endearing, which is why I’m standing here covered in your cum.” She tapped his top lip and kissed his cheek, giving his arse a squeeze before slipping out of his arms and heading for the bathroom.

He sat on the bed, the disappointment a near physical ache. What was the point of being invincible if you had to go on waging wars and celebrating triumphs without the one person who best knew the rhythm of your heart?

It was somehow fitting that he had trouble getting the vibe ring off and had to lube his finger up again.

A half hour later, both of them showered and dressed, moving quietly, a little awkwardly around each other in the suddenly too small room that only offered the bed to sit on. He suggested calling Hassan for a ride back to the city. He didn’t want to give up time with Evie, but they were going to go stir crazy if they stayed here. Plus he was starving again.

“No need. Unless you don’t want to ride behind me,” Evie said.

“Didn’t I just do that?”

She rolled her eyes. She was right, that wasn’t painfully endearing, it was excruciatingly try-hard. The kind of thing he’d get away with if this was truly a one-night stand and he was ready to be alone again.

“On my bike,” she said.

That monster outside, all shiny black metal and chrome, was Evie’s. Should’ve guessed. She’d stashed two open-faced helmets at the reception. They argued about paying for the room. He won. They agreed on hitting a McDonald’s drive-thru. He wanted to ask her to stay with him for the afternoon, another night, the rest of the weekend, but the inevitability of her saying no felt too damning.

He climbed on behind her, the bike roomy, but still his thighs aligned along hers, and her hips were right there for his hands to settle over. When she kicked the bike over, the rumble of the engine was a satisfyingly musical hit to his bones. It was possible those vibrations would shake the untapped desire for Evie out of his head.

But not likely.

She squeezed his knee. “Ready?”

To crush the tour, to write a new album, to reach more fans, to help his old brothers out. More than ready. To let Evie go. Not back then. Not now.

“Jay?” She squeezed again, said his name louder.

He leaned into her, bumping her helmet with his. In the side mirror, he could see Evie’s torso, nipples raised under her T-shirt. Maybe it was the bike, maybe she wasn’t ready to let him go either.

“Okay, wild thing,” he said, “take me home.”

THIRTEEN

Jay’s McDonald’s order was ridiculous. Evie had never seen anyone eat five bacon and egg—hold the cheese—McMuffins in one sitting, and she’d spent a lot of time on tour buses and seen a lot of whacked-out culinary choices.

“What did you have planned for the day aside from devouring carbs?” she asked.

The word devouring slipped out of her mouth and made her clench her legs together under the picnic table they’d found to stop at.

Jay had devoured her, in some kind of paranormal way. Sunk fangs in her neck and claws in her belly. He’d made her muscles melt away from her bones and her bones rattle around in her body with friction so sweet and addictive she felt turned inside out. He could probably read her thoughts by looking at her. Best keep the sunglasses on. If he licked her, he’d taste her emotions. If she let him get too close under the perfume of diesel and road dust he’d smell disheartened devotion.

If he kissed her lips. . .

The shithead had been horribly good about not doing that. And she’d provoked him. Not at first. At first, she’d meant it. Didn’t want the responsibility of his kisses. Without them, she could pretend they were just getting each other off. The sex could be hot without sticking to her and sinking into her pores. It would wash off without altering her chemical make-up.

A good idea in theory.

Stupidly, stupidly difficult in practice.

She’d almost kissed his mouth a dozen times. Knowing he wanted it only made it harder not to. She’d struck a dumb bargain that only starved them both of stimulus. It was just kissing, but she’d built it up as if kissing Jay’s lips was the meaning of life.

You’re the shithead.