Idol (VIP 1)

He kisses me on the shoulder and pulls back the cover so I can get into his luxurious bed. A second later, his jeans are off, and he’s climbing in with me. The covers are cool and crisp, his pillows a cloud of perfection.

I smile wide. “You did buy my pillows.”

He gathers me against him, warm skin to warm skin. Heaven. “Told you I was in love.”

He says it lightly, but his dark eyes hold mine.

Everything feels both fragile and so much stronger now. I touch his cheek, trace a line along the shell of his ear before leaning in to kiss him. His hands cup my jaw and he kisses me back, lips tender, tongue delving in, tasting me as if I’m delicious.

The bed creaks as he rolls me over, settling between my spread thighs. The heat of his hardening cock presses against my belly. My hands explore the crests of his shoulders, the taut curves of his arms, and back up to his neck where his skin is baby-smooth and sensitive.

With a satisfied hum, he rocks his hips, that heavy cock sliding over my growing wetness. He kisses my top lip, the bottom one, angles his head and dips in for another taste. It’s slow, drugging. I melt into the bed, my touches weak but hungry.

His scent. His skin. The powerful grace of his body. I need it all.

Killian is a magician. Somehow he’s conjured a condom. Or maybe he had it all along. My mind is too hazy to remember. He leans to the side, exposing his flat abs and thick cock.

I take the condom from his hand and roll it over his length. I go slow because the weight of his meaty cock in my hand is too good to ignore. He grunts as I squeeze him, give a little tug. And then he’s settling back over me, his mouth hot on mine. Our kiss loses finesse.

“Libby,” he whispers. And when he slowly sinks into me, that perfect intrusion of hot flesh, his eyes meet mine. “This is just the beginning,” he says.

And I know he isn’t talking about sex. He means our life.

My voice is breathless, tight with excitement. “I can’t wait.”

Chapter Sixteen

Libby

I ride to Whip’s apartment with Killian. Michael drives as usual, and I learn that he’s worked for Killian for five years. Today’s car is a sleek silver Mercedes sedan with a cream leather interior that’s butter soft beneath my roving palm. A palm that’s damp. I’d rather the car turn around, but I have to face the rest of Kill John sooner or later.

“Why the limo yesterday?” I ask because I can’t listen to my running thoughts any more.

Killian catches my hand and holds it in an easy clasp. If he feels how clammy I am, he’s nice enough not to mention it. “It was your first time in New York, and you were having a Pretty Woman moment. That definitely calls for a limo.”

“It would be smart not to mention Pretty Woman in that context,” I tell him dryly.

His cheeks flush. “Shit. Right. You are a powerful, modern woman. If anything, I should be the prostitute here—”

“Not helping.”

“Right. Right. No payment for sex of any kind.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “But lots of sex is still on the table. Hot, dirty, sweaty—”

I grab the back of his neck and haul him down to silence him with my mouth. He likes that, and practically climbs on top of me as he kisses me back.

Making out like teenagers in the backseat, this is what he does to me. We’re both breathless when we pull apart. “If we keep this up,” he murmurs, “I’m going to ask Michael to circle the block.”

“No,” I squeak out in horror. “He’d totally know what we were doing!”

He gives me a dry, slightly pained look. “I’m sure he had no clue what we were up to last night.”

“Don’t tell me that,” I wail, covering my face. “God, I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.”

Killian just laughs, pulls my hand away, and gives me a sweet kiss.

When we pull up, I keep my head down and mutter a quick “Thank you” to Michael as he holds the door for me.

Whip lives in a loft in Tribeca. According to Killian, half of it has been sound-proofed and converted into a stage and a small recording studio.

“Nothing too fancy,” Killian had said as we got dressed to go. “Just convenient for when we want to mess around with new sounds or practice.”

After Killian punches in a code, we take an old-fashioned service elevator to the top floor. It opens onto a light-filled space with worn wood floors and exposed brick walls.

I follow Killian farther into the loft on legs that feel like noodles, my pulse thrumming in my neck so hard I’m sure it’s visible. When he stops short in the entrance and turns my way, I almost stumble into him.