My body is restless, tense with a need I haven’t felt in years. If I’m being honest, I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this way. Even with Lily, even when we weren’t just fighting all the time, I never truly felt the kind of need that makes my balls tighten and my cock ache. The kind that makes my hands itch just thinking about the softness of her skin, or the sounds she might make if I fuck her the way I want to.
I can’t take it anymore.
I toss my pillow to the side and roll over onto my back, shoving the sheets down and groaning as I adjust myself in my black silk briefs. I’m already more than hard from every damn thought of her I can’t seem to shake.
It’s her mouth with those pouty, perfect lips. Her laugh and the way it fills an entire room. The way her ass looks in jeans and the way her hair tumbles down her back. It’s everything about her that makes it impossible to think about anything or anyone else.
This isn’t just an attraction.
It’s damn near an obsession.
I close my eyes and let the image in my mind take over, letting my hand slide beneath the waistband of the boxers and using the other to shove them down to my knees. Exhaling sharply when my fingers wrap around the length of my cock, already thick and leaking with need, the tension coils tighter in my core the second I stroke upward. My hips lift slightly off the mattress like I’m chasing something just out of reach.
All I can see is Mia fucking Alexander.
I picture what she’d look like in the bathtub, soapy and sexy with her hair tied up in a messy bun. What she’d look like with her perfect mouth on my dick, making all my dreams come true.What she’d say after—that it was the best night of her life and I’ve ruined her for anyone else.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the dark, my jaw clenched.
I picture her riding me with her head thrown back, nails clawing down my chest, her voice breaking as she moans my name over and over like it’s the only word she knows. I imagine grabbing her hips and fucking up into her so hard the headboard slams into the wall, her body shuddering as she comes apart around me.
I pump faster now, hips flexing into my own hand, chasing the high I’m now fucking desperate for. The slide of skin is slick and tight and nearly enough to satiate me—for now.
My orgasm builds fast, white-hot and sharp, curling deep in my gut.
I bite down on my knuckle to keep from moaning her name like a lunatic, letting out a fucking whimper as I come hard, thick streams spilling across my stomach, vision blurring with only remnants of her.
It’s not just release—it’s what I have to fall back on every night, what’s going to keep me sane while knowing I have to be around her for the next few days.
I lay there afterward, chest rising and falling, hand still wrapped loosely around my softening cock as the high fades and the ache comes back in crushing, suffocating waves.
I could make this happen for real.
But every time I feel the urge to go and knock on her door, just a few feet away, I can’t help but stop myself and think about the same thing that keeps catching me off guard.
I’m thirty years old, about to be divorced, and a musician who spends most of his life on the road—living out of a suitcase on a tour bus.
I’m bitter. Burned out. Barely holding it together.
Mia is twenty-six, brilliant and beautiful, and from what I understand, has an amazing career ahead of her. She deserves clarity. Commitment. Someone better than a man on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.
I have no right to distract her from that. No business looking at her the way I am, no business getting off to the thought of her like a horny teenager. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t give a fuck—that wants to break the door down and give her the best night of her life.
God, I want to be selfish.
I want to walk in there, pin her to the bed, and fuck her until she forgets every reason she should tell me not to. Ruin her in the best way possible. Live out the fantasy that’s been playing on a near constant loop in my head—my hands on her waist, her mouth on my neck while she’s sitting in my lap giving the tension that’s built up in my boxers the outlet it so desperately needs.
But I remember the conversation I had with Eric right after the show, the one where he asked me point-blank what the hell I think I’m doing with Mia when my marriage isn’t even officially over yet.
He’s right—but still, it doesn’t stop me from wanting her. Needing her.
The scariest part? It isn’t just lust. It’s so much more dangerous than that.
Because with Mia, I already know—it won’t just be about one night. It will be about everything after.
I hear the sound of my alarm blaring the next morning, not knowing whether or not I had actually fallen asleep the night before.
When we first started playing, show days would light me up, but lately? Every morning, I feel like a shadow of myself. It isn’t the way I want to feel going into a performance, but there’s nothing I can do to change it now.
