2
The four-member band was lighting the stage on fire, playing a song I’d never heard before.
I was listening to a brand new Feral Silence song.
The lead singer, clad in ripped blue jeans and a black t-shirt with cartoon wolves on it, growled in the microphone. The shirt stretched tightly over his broad shoulders, but fell loosely over the rest of his sinewy frame. Curly, messy blond hair flopped over his handsome face, the strands falling just barely into his eyes, dark blue and glittering. His expressive face radiated a bevy of emotions, from anguished to furious to wistful, all within moments of each other. There was no audience, but Kell Pierce sang as if there was a crowd of thousands.
The tall bassist looked down at his feet as he played, long, stick-straight dark hair falling over both shoulders. His lean body was made even leaner by his perfectly tailored suit. The stark white of his collared shirt made his pale skin look tanned in comparison. His body jerked violently to the beat, skinny tie trying desperately to fly free of the silver tie clip holding it down. His high cheekbones and angular jaw would have been called pretty on a girl, but his furrowed eyebrows and thin lips transformed his face into an aggressive sort of elegance. Feminine was the last thing anyone would call Ren Sada, the bassist and all around musical prodigy of Feral Silence.
The drummer was mostly hidden behind his large drum set, but I could see thick eyebrows drawn together in concentration as he beat the drums, the motion fluid yet manic at the same time. His plain white t-shirt molded to his burly frame, the short sleeves showing off massively muscled upper arms. With his strong physique combined with a military-short hairstyle and square jaw, Morris Edwards seemed more suited to being a bouncer or MMA fighter instead of a drummer in a rock band.
Then there was the guitarist. Shirtless, abs on display, pants slung low on his hips, just barely showing off the waistband of his black boxers. His dark complexion went well with his ever-present black leather jacket, complete with ornamental silver zippers. Fingers caressed the strings of his white guitar, the instrument glinting in the harsh spotlights of the stage, throwing off an almost blinding sheen. He scanned the empty concert hall, his full lips tilted into a smirk as if he had a secret you were dying to know.
Jayce Evans, rock star god.
I had walked in on a rehearsal for Feral Silence.
The barest hint of stubble graced Jayce’s strong jaw, lending him the air of a rebel, tough and wild. I watched, mesmerized, as deft fingers flew over strings, fervent and fierce, dark skin a contrast to the pure white guitar. His eyes wandered from one side of the venue to the other, as if enjoying the adoration of invisible fans.
Those fingers. Those hands. Those lips. I’d spent many a night dreaming about them. I couldn’t help but wonder what those fingers would feel like on my skin, what sort of pleasures they could wring from me.
I didn’t consider myself a hopeless groupie. I would never chase after a rock star, desperate to gain their attention—or more. There was something about Jayce, though. When he was on stage, he was much more than a musician, more than just a rock star. He had a brilliance to him, something that shone from within, something that captivated and enthralled all who saw him perform.
His eyes fell on me. That wandering gaze froze.
Jayce was looking at me. His warm brown eyes turned hot, blazing, sending sparks through my body. I had caught his attention somehow. My heart fluttered, my nerves catching on fire.
Smirking, Jayce ran his eyes all over my body. A slow, sweet throb pulsed through me, straight to my core. My thighs clenched unconsciously, my lips parting. I inhaled a shaky breath, unable to look away.
Then he flicked his eyes away and I was free.
I immediately whirled around and ran.
Out in the hallway, away from the band, away from Jayce, I leaned against a wall, catching my breath.
That man possessed way too much presence. It had been as if the rest of the world fell away, as if we were the only two people in the room. In the world. In the universe.
I was shaken. I’d attended so many of their concerts, but I’d never seen Feral Silence that close up before, almost touching the stage. I had been close enough to Jayce to see each individual hair on his stubbled chin.
Had he really been staring at me?
I had no idea how long I stood there. Long enough for the music to stop. I was lost in thought when the door leading to the pit swung open, making me jump.
Jayce appeared in the doorframe. His leather jacket was gone, having traded it for a tight white t-shirt.
My breath hitched.
The body sweat he’d worked up during rehearsal made the cotton fabric cling to every deliciously muscled ab. I had the sudden urge to lift up that shirt, reveal his toned stomach, and lick every inch of it.
Let’s reiterate: I wasn’t a groupie. I wasn’t just taken with him because of his good looks.
Jayce Evans was a musical genius. The songs he composed were brilliant. His guitar solos were unparalleled. His stage presence was magnetic. He was destined to be the next rock star god. I just knew it.
But his unbelievable good looks didn’t hurt.
“Who are you?” His voice was low, deep in his chest and almost rough.
“Sorry!” My racing heartbeat continued to pound as I tried not to squeak. The surprise of being caught didn’t at all lessen the sweet ache between my legs. “I’m—"
