Dirty Laundry (Get Dirty 2)

Elise understands my muttering, nodding. “Me neither . . . conflict of interest. For work, I mean.”

I know it’s the right thing to do, step away from the woman who has the power to ruin me, but goddamn, do I want to press her up against the wall and take her raw, hot, and fast right now. I think if we’d met under different circumstances, I’d fucking do it.

I haven’t dated in . . . well, ever since I got custody of Carsen, but I’m not sure I could date Elise anyway, even though she is the most interesting woman I’ve met in a long time.

What I really want right now is to fuck her mercilessly until her eyes roll up and she’s fuck-stunned from being pounded over and over. But with a steadying breath, I grab her hand again, loosely this time, and lead her through the dark corridor backstage to my green room. As we approach, a busy looking guy with a clipboard claps at me as he proclaims to the heavens like his redemption just emerged from the dimness. “Oh good, you’re here. I’ll be happy to get you anything you need tonight, Mr. Perkins. Anything now?”

I growl, still on edge. What I need . . . is what I can’t have. “No. Just give me fifteen, ten, and five-minute warnings. That’s it.”

He nods, smiling broadly. “You got it.” With that, he hustles out to the next thing on his list, leaving us alone again.

Shit.

I can still feel my cock throbbing in my jeans, and I know Elise can see it, the way she’s looking down at my jeans.

And we both know that if we rush . . . yeah, we could get it done before I go on stage.

Chapter 9

Elise

What the fuck, Elise? You can’t be doing shit like that, no matter how irresistible Keith is. Work . . . remember work? The interview series that is going to jump start your career, maybe get you a gig with a real magazine, not celebrity trash fodder. Get your shit together. You don’t get paid to feel that thick, throbbing cock pumping in and out . . .

Wait. Okay, start over.

Stop thinking with your hormones and think with your head! Get your shit together and do your fucking job!

Better. Mental pep talk complete, I move around the room, feeling Keith’s gaze follow me, burning into my neck, my back, my pussy and my . . . well, everything. My words aren’t helping. The power in his eyes is breaking me down.

I need to reset us, calm down the flames still licking at my insides, the need pulsing in my clit. Taking a deep breath, I dive back into reporter mode, locking the door on my inner sex-starved bitch for now.

“Green room, huh?” I ask with forced sarcasm. “Seems pretty . . . standard. No bowls of just blue M&Ms, buckets of Popeye’s chicken legs, or fancy champagne. What’s in your rider for requirements?”

Keith hasn’t moved, standing stock-still as he watches me, making me feel like prey that he could pounce on at any moment, or not, solely at his discretion. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t resist him.

“No rider,” Keith says in a low, sexy purr. “The venue always comps my beer and some bar food after the show and supplies water bottles before and during. But I’m not some asshole who needs caviar and Cristal. I’m just here to sing songs, shake hands, and go home.”

I nod, taking it in. He’s so much a dichotomy. On one hand, he’s commanding, on the other easygoing. It’s . . . unique. “Seems easy. Maybe even too easy.”

Keith chuckles, his eyes flashing again with humor, desire, and power. “Definitely nothing easy about me.”

Before I can question that statement, there’s a knock at the door, and Keith turns his head, breaking our eye contact for the first time since we entered. “It’s open.”

The door opens slowly before a herd of guys comes barreling in, loud and big and . . . loud.

Really, it’s just three guys, but it’s a small room, so their appearance and energy make the room feel claustrophobic. Keith moves to greet the group, a big grin on his face as he bro-hugs and back-pats each one. “Hey, Slim, you’re not going to have that nickname much longer.”

“Man, fuck you,” Slim, a slightly chubby guy who’s wearing a jean jacket, says with a laugh. “Good to see you. You don’t want to know what the other offer I had for the weekend was.”

“What?” another of the guys asks. “I turned down playing backbeat for a folk-opera fusion. Let that sink in . . . Folk. Opera.”

“Try a studio session for a Prince tribute band,” Slim replies with a shudder. “I mean, I can play bass to anything but . . . fuck me, a slow-dance version of When Doves Cry? Fuck my life. And Prince would be pissed as hell at the hatchet job they’re doing.”