Idol (VIP 1)

“No,” I mutter. “She didn’t say it like that.” I turn away from him and grab a fresh pick. “She…I gave her a push.”

“Man, I don’t think—”

“It’s done.” I turn on an amp and flick the volume up to full. “You gonna play or continue to piss me off with questions?”

“By all means,” Whip says, twirling his drumsticks. “Let’s play.”

But it’s no fucking good. I don’t get further than a few chords before the rage surges up once more. My fingers fumble on the strings. I can’t play. I don’t want to fucking play. This time, the rage chokes me. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m barely aware of ripping the guitar strap off over my head. The Telecaster in my hand smashes into the floor with a satisfying crack and a deafening buzz of reverb.

Guitar destroyed, chest heaving, I don’t feel better. Not even a little bit.

Whip comes to stand by my side, surveying the damage. “Guess we aren’t playing today. Come on. We’ll medicate with single malt like proper rock stars.”

Libby wouldn’t like me drinking. But Libby won’t be around by tomorrow. I press my fingers to my aching forehead. “Yeah, a drink sounds about right.”

I come back to Libby in the middle of the night, and she’s asleep. I curl myself around her anyway; she feels so good I almost can’t stand to touch her anymore, not when she’s leaving.

The thought hits me like a comet, and my insides flare. I must make a noise because she stirs, her voice soft and muffled with sleep. “Killian?”

She turns in my arms, her body warm, her fingers tracing my brow. I was going to let her sleep, but I can’t. My hand slides to her cheek.

“Give me this,” I whisper. “Before you go. I need this.”

I find her mouth. I’d say kissing her is like coming home, but I’ve never had a true home. I don’t know if the sense of rightness I feel with her means home or not. Right now it’s something stronger, tinged with desperation. I’m desperate for her. The way she tastes, the way she moves, the little sounds and sighs that only she makes.

There’s no one else like her. There never will be. I know that now. Maybe I’ve always known that, but now it feels like I’ve discovered something too late.

Libby moves against me, waking up in my arms, and she kisses me back, her hands roaming over my arms, neck, back, like she can’t find a place to land. We go slow, lingering, memorizing each other. I angle my head and open her mouth wider with mine, get deeper, take more. I need it all.

The bed creaks as I roll over and fit myself between her willing thighs. She gasps in my mouth, and I swallow her breath. I want it all, and it isn’t enough right now by half. Breaking away from her lips, I lean back so I can pull the shirt over her head. It’s my shirt. The ratty old thing I wore at the beach when we first met. It has to mean something that she’s always wearing it.

I’m pulling at straws. And she’s naked beneath me. My hands ghost over her satin skin. Perfect.

In the dark, I trace the topography of her body with my fingers and lips, kissing my way down her graceful neck, along her collarbone. I take my time on the little places I’ve often overlooked—the center of her chest where I can feel her heart beating, the soft, fragrant curve along the side of her breast.

The skin on her inner arm is like fine silk; she shivers as I run the tip of my tongue in patterns down to her elbow. Libby sighs my name, her fingers combing through my hair and massaging the tight spots on my nape. Beneath me, her thighs are parted wide, her body pliant. The wet heat of her sex press against my chest, calling my attention.

I slide farther down, licking and nipping my way along. I love the way she squirms. I know how much she gets off on the anticipation of me reaching my destination. It’s a little game we’ve played many times: how long can we draw it out, touch each other and yet not touch those places we want it the most.

I press my lips against the hard curve of her hipbone, my arms wrapped tight around her waist. Fuck. No one knows me better than this woman. And I’d bet my life I know her better than anyone on Earth. And I’m sending her away. She’s going. It’s so fucking wrong, it’s choking me.

I try not let it show. But I can’t stop the tremor running through me.

“Killian?” her vanilla cream voice slides through the dark.

Tell her. Tell her what she is to you. She’s your lodestone. You have a fucking map inked on your body, but you are completely lost without her right next to you. Tell her.