Midnight Blue

Stardust gave a terrible handjob. She didn’t use enough pressure and treated my cock like it was about to fall off my body. But I was so high on what we were doing—and where we were doing it—I got off anyway. And when I felt the climax pressuring the base of my spine, climbing up like a ladder, I finally put her out of her misery and gave her clit some TLC, rubbing the swollen thing in circles while shoving my tongue into her mouth like I wanted her to choke on it.

“Jesus! Shit, oh, wow!” she exclaimed. She sounded surprised, and that made everything so much hotter, even though Jesus got the credit for all my hard work.

“Say my fucking name when you come,” I hissed.

I didn’t know what to expect. Maybe she would call me Winslow, as she often did, like I wasn’t a person but a brand.

But when the name “Alex” rolled out of her lips, I shot my load onto her baby blue dress, groaning and pushing her to the floor, on her back, to finish the job. I didn’t let her come on my fingers. No. I pressed my knee between her thighs and let her come on nothing, empty and deprived, with just a little taste for more.

I bent down, kissed her lips—thumbs on cheeks—and watched her squinting under the drops. Her face was rosy, her lips puffy from my abuse on her mouth.

I stood up and left her on the floor, thinking, for the first time in years—this is better than alcohol. Better than the champagne I smuggled.

“Don’t give yourself a hard time, darlin’. Especially as next time I touch you, you will be on your knees for me.”

The minute I came down from the high, I realized how low I’d gone.

And once I did, everything became clearer, just like the steam that had dried off of the glassed shower. My feet felt like a thousand hornets had stung them, cold and hot all at once, and I shivered quietly.

It wasn’t so much the shame of letting Alex finger me—finger me!—in the shower, although that was grossly out of character for me. We were both single and weren’t hurting anyone. It was the fact I’d allowed him to do that on a plane, with people right outside, and now they were all going to know what had happened.

I’d never be able to live it down. Even if his friends didn’t care—which I’m sure they didn’t, I wasn’t the first girl to fall into Alex Winslow’s trap. He was made for legends, almighty like an angry god. Too bad he knew it.

Alex yanked his jeans down, kicking them through his army boots and wrapping his waist in a clean, dry towel.

“All right?” He threw me a glance down his nose, his thick eyebrows drawn together.

I was still sitting on the edge of the Jacuzzi, combing my hair through wobbly fingers. Maybe I was stuck up, and a goody two-shoes, and a prude. But life had taught me a valuable lesson, and that lesson was that sometimes, the people you were attached to don’t come back. With my parents, I hadn’t had much choice. But with Alex—I did, and I’d knowingly let him in. Into my thoughts, and now my panties.

“Sure.” I rose to my feet with the intention of squeezing my clothes dry. He turned toward the door, forever blasé.

“There’s a blow dryer in the left cabinet. Step out of your clothes before you dry them, unless you want third-degree burns. I’ll go bullshit your way out of this one.”

“Do you think they’ll buy it?” I munched on my lower lip again.

“I’m a recovering drug addict. At this point, it’s easier for me to lie than say the truth.”

“Oh,” I blurted. Apparently, I was not the most eloquent human being after getting fingered by a rock star. You live, you learn.

He left the room, and I immediately glued my ear to the door in an attempt to hear everything outside. It was pitiful, but no more pathetic than everything else I’d done so far on this tour.

“You’re in a towel,” Blake observed matter-of-factly when Alex reemerged from the bathroom. “Why on earth are you in a towel?”

“Stardust dumped her coffee all over my crotch.”

“For fuck’s sake. Why?” It was Alfie’s turn to speak.

I grinned to myself, my heart thrumming in my chest wildly.

“I don’t know. Who knows why women do anything? She’s probably on her period.”

“Your shirt is gone, too.”

“She dumped my cup over my head.”

“Damn, mate, she really hates you.”

“Clearly,” Alex’s voice dripped sarcasm.

I covered my mouth, suppressing a laugh. That was my problem with Alex. He was too charming for his own good. Beneath the cliché of a tortured rock star who escaped to the arms of drugs and booze and had enough ink on his skin to print an entire edition of War and Peace, he was a lost boy. A fantastically witty lost boy. A lost boy who was incredibly lovable, even though he may not have thought so.