Idol (VIP 1)

“You’re bi?” I ask, because I really don’t know.

He glances at me, blue eyes twinkling. “Well, as a teen, I thought a little variety would add to my sexual mystique. But, alas, dicks do nothing for me. I’m all about the kitty.”

I’m rolling my eyes when another male hand wraps around my wrist. This touch I know well.

Killian gives Whip a look. “Dude, get your own woman.”

“I tried. You cockblocked me.” Whip winks at me.

“What happened to that reporter you were all over at the movies?” I ask.

“You saw that?”

“Everyone saw that,” Killian and I say in unison.

Whip makes a face. “Turns out she thought the best way to get info out of me was to suck it through my dick.”

“Sounds labor-intensive,” Killian says with a laugh.

“More like a lost cause.” Whip’s nostrils flare then his expression clears. “But she had great technique.”

“La-la-la,” I sing. “I can’t hear you.”

Laughing, Whip lets go as Killian fits himself behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.

“See,” Whip quips. “Cockblocker.”

Killian’s cheek rests against mine for a second before he gives my temple a kiss. “He thinks because we’re faux cousins I won’t kick his ass. He’s wrong.”

They’re grinning, so I ignore the boast. “Faux cousins?” I ask.

“Chicks used to think we were related because we look so much alike,” Whip tells me. “We said we were cousins. For some weird-ass reason, that got us a lot of play.” He frowns. “Women are strange creatures.”

I laugh, snuggling back into Killian’s embrace. He’s warm, solid, and all mine. “If you say so. Though I think it probably had more to do with you both being hot, as opposed to related.”

“See?” Whip says brightly. “She thinks I’m hot.”

“She thinks I’m hotter,” Killian counters. “Don’t you, babe?”

“Scottie’s really the hottest of you all,” I tell them.

Killian chuckles darkly, and his hand slips down just a bit. Under the cover of his bent arm, his fingers graze the side of my breast, his warm palm giving me a gentle squeeze. I squirm a little and feel his grin against my neck. “If you say so, baby doll.”

Cheeky ass.

Whip rolls his eyes, but leans in and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Any time you want to dump this bum, you know where to find me.”

He gives Killian a tap on the shoulder as he heads into the crowd.

“Can we leave now?” Killian murmurs. His hand is still busy, slowly fondling me, each touch getting heavier, more direct. I squirm again, my butt pushing against his rising interest. He grunts low, nudges me back.

“We can’t,” I whisper, though I really want to agree. “You promised Scottie you’d make nice with those journalists.”

Killian sighs, grinding his dick against my bottom one last time before letting me go. “Okay, fine. But we’re not staying long.”

I watch him walk away, because his ass in those well-worn jeans is a thing of beauty. I’m already regretting being good tonight.

“Wow,” says a male voice in the dark. “You’ve got Whip Dexter and Killian James wrapped around your finger. You must be good.”

The bar table next to me is tucked in the shadows, away from the bulk of the party. I hadn’t seen the guy until now.

He steps my way, clearly thinking he’s the shit. Tight black, leather pants, flowing white silk shirt. I want to ask him which ’80s hair band’s wardrobe he raided. He’s extremely good looking, in a slick, pretty boy way—dark hair falling over his brow, pouty lips, fine, almost girlish features.

I stare at him, unimpressed with the way he casually flicks his hair back from his face. “Good at what?” I mean, I know what. I just want him to say it.

“You doing them both?” He shows his teeth. “Or maybe taking the whole band on?”

“Let me ask you something. Do you actually think that’s acceptable to say to someone?”

Pretty Boy gives me an innocent smile. “Aw, come on. I’m just kidding around. Seriously. I know the score. We newbies don’t get anywhere without a little persuasion.” He offers me his hand. “I’m Marlow.”

I glance at the offered hand. “Marlow, I don’t care if you sucked dick to get invited here or not. But do not disrespect women as an opening line.” I push off from the table. “If you’ll excuse me.”

A hard hand slaps down on my shoulder, and I’m wrenched around. The guy is scary strong—something I didn’t anticipate because he looks all of a hundred twenty pounds. Angry grey eyes glare down at me. “You’ve got a some nerve,” he snarls, his fingers biting into my skin. “I’m a signed artist. Who are you? Killian James’ fucking whore.”

“Get the hell off—”

He invades my space, my back hitting the edge of the bar table. “Why don’t you play nice? Be a little friendly.”

It’s then I see how glassy his eyes are, the pupils wide. It distracts me. Without warning, he grabs my breast and squeezes. Hard.