Idol (VIP 1)

Killian immediately melts into me, his arms coming up to squeeze me for a long moment, almost bruising but welcome. I want that strength. I want to feel as if nothing can come between us.

Long fingers comb through my hair, massaging my scalp. I snuggle in closer, my cheek pressed against him. The beat of his heart is steady and strong.

“When do we leave New York?” I ask.

His voice rumbles low in his chest. “Next week. We head north, then west.”

My hands smooth along the valley of his back, where the flat slabs of muscle frame his spine. His skin is heated satin. “I need to find a place to stay.”

The muscles beneath my palm bunch, and he pulls back. His dark brows lower on a frown. “You think I coaxed you all this way to send you off to a hotel? You’re staying here, Libs.”

Here is where I want to be. The idea of leaving him, even for the night, makes my skin cold. “Won’t…” I take a breath and forge on. “Won’t the guys wonder why I’m at your place?”

That frown grows, but he shakes his head and gives me a quick kiss on the temple. “Nah. I have people stay here all the time. I invited you as my guest, so it would only be right.”

“Right.” I try to draw away but he won’t let me.

Instead his lips slowly curl into a smile. “I like that you’re jealous.”

“Jealousy is not an admirable trait,” I mutter, face flaming.

“Don’t care.” He rocks me ever so slightly. “Means you consider me yours.”

He sounds way too smug. I give his side a poke, and he skitters away, giggling— which is way too cute—then cuddles me again.

“I might have had guests. But no one has ever stayed in my room, baby doll.”

“Ever?” The question comes more like a snort.

That annoying smile of his grows. “If I hook up with someone, I take them to a hotel. Learned that lesson when pictures of my old apartment ended up on the Internet, and personal effects had a nasty habit of walking away without my permission.”

“God, that’s sleazy.” I kiss his chest again. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”

His fingers continue their massage along the back of my skull. “It should have been expected. They just wanted a piece of the fame or a souvenir. Like bragging rights.”

He says it so matter-of-factly—as if it’s no big deal to be treated like a thing instead of a person. He might not mind, but my stomach sours at the thought. But was I any better? Back home, I have a Univox Hi-Flier that was played and then subsequently smashed by Kurt Cobain; it’s framed in a glass case in my upstairs office. Dad got it from some friend or another way back in 1989 before Cobain was a legend. A smashed and useless guitar, cherished because a rock idol played it.

I’d wanted to give it to Killian as a gift. But now I’m not so sure.

“So no,” Killian goes on, unaware of my inner turmoil. “Only friends and fellow musicians get to stay here.” He pauses. “And girlfriends. They get the full experience.”

Warm to the core, I smile against his skin. “But you just said no one has stayed in your bed.”

“No one has,” he answers easily before his voice goes soft. “Until you.”

Funny how some confessions can stop your heart and steal your breath, send everything spiraling. I close my eyes and hold him. He’s never had a girlfriend? I wouldn’t care if he had. Only here and now matter. But the idea that he’s never let anyone else in sends the weight of responsibility settling heavy on my heart. I need to tread carefully here, keep him well and somehow find my place in this new world of his.

Killian slowly lets me go but holds my hand. His expression is tender, his eyes tired. “Let’s go to bed.” A quick smile. “I love saying that to you.”

He’s going to kill me. They’ll find me lying on the floor, my heart burst wide open, too full of him to stay in my chest.

He guides me past a living area, a media room, and up a glass-and-steel staircase. We pass two more bedrooms and a reading nook, back-lit by another arched stained-glass window. His room is white, one wall taken up by a massive round stained-glass window. A king-size ebony wood canopy bed on a crimson rug dominates the space, though there’s a sitting area with a black leather loveseat and a modern gas fireplace off to the side.

At his bedside, he helps me out of my dress with touches so tender, I’m in danger of bawling. My parents took care of me, of course. But this is different. I had boyfriends in high school, one in college. I’ve never felt cared for, as if I could do anything, say anything, and it wouldn’t matter. I could fall apart, and Killian would be here to pick up the pieces and put me back together.