I laughed. “He’s… intense.” I thought about the broken glass on the floor the other night, the rough way he’d handled me. “Well… He gets jealous. Like, nuclear levels.”
“Cross? Jealous?” Dahlia’s eyebrows shot up. “That man used to have a different girl in his dressing room every night on tour. Guess you broke him.”
I traced the rim of my glass with my finger. That got me thinking about what would happen when he went back on tour. Still a different girl each night?
“I know what you’re thinking,” Dahlia said. “Don’t. Nothing you can do about it.”
“They all do it?”
“The groupies? Yeah.” She nodded, taking a sip. “Tour life is… different. Weird and… well, mostly weird.”
“Well. As long as he keeps feeding my credit card,” I said and we both laughed.
We talked for another hour — about the girls at the club, about how Burgundy was eyeing a new bouncer, about whether I should actually go to Black Psalm’s show next week. By the time we hugged goodbye, the mimosa had gone to my head in the best way, leaving me warm and loose.
When I returned to the penthouse, the first thing I heard was the piano. And then I saw him there, shirtless, working on some song.
The piano notes drifted through the penthouse, mingling with the smoke from the smoldering cigarette in the ashtray. The song wasn’t one of their radio hits; it sounded like a… ballad? A seductive ballad?
Was that Michael Jackson’s Dirty Diana?
I set my bag down quietly and kicked off my sandals. The mimosa buzz still warmed my blood — add in the way he looked sitting under that morning sun — and I was melting.
I tiptoed across the room, the hem of my sundress brushing my thighs, and stopped behind him, sliding my arms around his shoulder from behind. He didn’t stop playing but I could feel him relax into it.
“Dirty Diana?” I murmured against his neck, lips brushing the skull tattoo there.
“We used to play it years back,” he told me, his fingers flying across the keys in some elaborate arpeggio. I didn’t know much about music but I knew what he was doing to that piano sounded good.
“Sing it for me,” I said, running my nails across his chest.
He smirked; his fingers kept moving over the keys. The melody shifted into something slower, dirtier — if a thing could even bedirtierthan Dirty Diana. The morning light poured through the windows, bouncing off the sweat beading along his spine and the tattoo of my name on his bicep, still healing under a shiny layer of whatever ointment he slathered on.
“She’s my Diana — the queen of the night,”Milo’s voice was low when he sang. “My Diana…”
The words curled around me like smoke. I pressed my breasts against his back, letting my hands roam lower.
“Keep going,” I whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
He chuckled, but obeyed and his voice dropped into that gravelly register he used on stage when the lights were low and the crowd was screaming for an encore.
His fingers kept moving — chords, scales. “She’s my Diana — I’ll sell my soul just to have her say ‘mine’, oh, Diana…”
I let my hands slide lower, nails grazing down his abs until I reached the waistband of his sweatpants. I slipped one hand inside and felt him twitch against my palm.
“Mary,” he breathed; it wasn’t a part of the song.
I smiled against his neck and bit down lightly. “Don’t stop on my account, rockstar. Finish your song.”
His breath stuttered as I wrapped my fingers around him, stroking slowly from base to tip. The piercing at the head was warm, familiar now. I caressed it slowly, feeling his cock grow in my hand.
“Fuck the song,” he said, his hand slipping from the piano and wrapping around mine over the sweatpants. His fingers tightened, guiding me into a firmer stroke, showing me exactly how he liked it.
“Turn around. Don’t want to make a mess of your fancy piano.”
Milo spun on the bench so fast the wood creaked under him.
I sank to my knees and pushed his pants lower, freeing his cock. It was one of the better ones I’d seen in my life. A nice curve, thick veins and that piercing that went right through the head.
