Grabbing my keycard and wallet, I open the door to my room and slip out. The hallway is silent, just the soft overhead buzz of the electricity streaming through the lights can be heard. I walk through the maze of old hallways, listening for the hum and groan of any vending machine. My stomach growls loudly. After a few minutes, I almost fall to my knees when I find one.
“Ice cream!” I cover my hand over my mouth and look behind me, but nobody’s around. I have to remember to keep quiet, these walls seem paper thin and screaming about ice cream before the ass-crack of dawn might get me kicked out of this place.
I shove money into the machine and choose an ice cream cookie sandwich.
It takes me forever to get the damn packet of it open and I almost devour the entire thing still wrapped up. My first bite is like an orgasm, and I moan out in utter ecstasy as the cold food sends a pleasant tingling sensation from my mouth to the rest of my body.
Another bite, another moan. The ice cream melts fast and drips down my fingers, and like a starving animal, I lick my fingertips to taste every last bit.
“Fuck me. Can I have a lick too?” The deep voice comes out of nowhere and I jerk around in surprise.
My body freezes instantly, and at first, I don’t know what I’m seeing. All I can make out is a huge shirtless man, his chest smooth bronze. His stomach is flat under the waistband of dark denim jeans, and with each step he takes toward me and my melted ice cream fingers, the denim material tightens across the thick muscles of his thighs. His hair is the color of expensive whiskey, and even though it’s cool in the hallway, I’m starting to sweat.
It’s Damian Miles.
“Can I?” he asks again, then he reaches out, grasping his hand gently around my wrist and pulls my hand up to his mouth. My throat goes dry and I can’t think of words to say, or maybe I’ve just forgotten how to speak. I suddenly can’t feel my legs.
The corner of his lips curve up, and then slowly, he wraps them around one of my fingers. My nipples pinch. I look down quickly and realize I’m wearing practically nothing, and my fingers are being massaged by Damian’s tongue. He watches my hands closely, as he cleans every last drop of melted ice-cream off my skin. I don’t know whether to scream or pick out names for our children.
“Delicious,” he purrs. “I wonder what your pussy tastes like.”
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, give me the strength to take back my fingers.
He sucks hard on my index finger, his tongue hot and wet. His eyes are focused on mine. The sensation is intoxicating, but I really need to step back.
“I bet your pussy is sugary sweet.”
“My vagina is purely decorative for my stay in England.”What the fuck did I just say?
He pops my finger out of his mouth and laughs, leaving my skin cold and lonely. “Who are you, love?”
I slowly take back my hand and wipe it dry on my shorts. He tilts his head and bites at his bottom lip, watching. “I’m Jane Nash, writer forUPCLOSEmagazine.” I clear my throat and shake the hard-core sex fantasies from my mind. “I’m actually here to interview you and the band.”
“So, you’re the brilliant writer girl, eh?” He smirks and leans back against the wall, his muscles twisting and straining against his skin. “You’re the social media Queen that’s going to launch my retirement tour into the history books.”
“You’d be hard-pressed to find a more dominant creator of content than me.” I’m speaking like a robot.
His smile is all white teeth now. “You’re as straight as an arrow, aren’t you, love?” His focus drops down to my sports bra and blatantly stares at my nipples, like he’s having a private conversation with just that part of my body. “We’ll have to remedy that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” I jam my hands on my hips, as his eyes seem to devour my chest. “Are you having a conversation with my breasts?”
“No,” he smiles at them and winks.
“You’re still looking at them.” Angry, I bend forward and talk directly into the crotch of his pants. “Hey, in there! I have a face and a pretty pair of eyes. That’s what you need to focus on when you talk to me.” I straighten back up and he laughs, but his eyes now meet mine.
“Do you fancy coming back with me? We’re just having a bit of a get together in one of our rooms.” He pushes off the wall and steps so close to me I can feel the heat of his body. It trips me up and I stumble back not able to find the words. “You don’t even have to change. Most of us are wearing less than you.”
Rockstar dick behavior 101, don’t mistake the writer for a groupie. “I’d rather put on some more suitable attire—”
He straightens and lets out a loud breath. There’s a crease to his brow and a lift to his shoulders. “You’re not going to be able to write our story.” That’s all he says as he walks away dismissing me.
I’m instantly hot and embarrassed and suddenly desperate. Dex’s words cut through my mind, “They say Damian Miles is wild as fuck. Think you can keep up with him?”
I can’t go home empty-handed. Not when Dex is in California getting his own career-exploding story. Shit, that’s why Gail sent us out at the same time. She knows how competitive I am. She knows exactly what to do to twist me into a situation until a story explodes out of me.And I knew exactly what I was getting into when I agreed to come here. I spent hours online reading through the archives of music history to prepare myself—stories bizarre and extreme, from the behaviors of people to catastrophes during tours, murders, suicides, I read everything I could get my hands on. The tales of rock star mayhem have become an art form, and I wasn’t backing down from it.
“I don’t need clothes, jackass. I need my work gear. I need my recorder and at least a notebook and a pen.”
He stills and looks over the back of his shoulder. “You really think you’ll be able to write my story?”
