Page 122 of Just Wait

Poor Wren’s hands are fisted at her sides, and I bet her arms would be crossed over her chest if she wasn’t blocked in by the guitar.

Tennyson looks like he’s enjoying every single second of her suffering.

I’m also having the time of my life.

It feels like Riser’s arms are wrapped around me, and every vibration of his chest against my back reminds me how hard he’s working.

Drummers are just as hot as guitarists.

Malcolm turns toward us, and I get a killer view of his forearms and hands as he strums away on his Les Paul. He winks before turning back to the microphone to back up Kincaid.

Their voices are so damn smooth together that I get chills.

Okay, I think I get why my dad was addicted to the rush of being on stage.

“Sorry about the never-ending hard-on,” Riser says, pulling me into his lap on one of the sofas in the greenroom. “You might have noticed it still hasn’t quit.”

I grin like a fool as his hands wrap around my ass, and he grinds me over him.

“It only enhanced the experience,” I assure him, running my thumb over his plush lower lip.

The facial tattoos and snake-bite piercings have officially won me over. At first, I was mostly unsure how I felt about them, but I liked how they looked on him.

Now?

I adore them.

Or maybe that’s just Riser in general.

My heart tries to beat out of my chest while a giddy excitement flutters in my stomach.

“Still pissed we dragged you on stage with us?”

“Nah, no way,” I tell him, purposely wiggling over his erection. “It was a crazy adrenaline rush.”

“It always is,” he admits, brushing his nose against mine. “But it was even better having you on my lap. I can’t wait to see what the pictures look like.”

“All right,” Parish says, dropping down on the other side of the couch. “Are we getting high or heading out to meet the fans?”

Malcolm and Kincaid haven’t made it into the greenroom yet, but they got stuck signing autographs for the people with backstage access.

I have less than no idea where Tennyson and Wren are.

Riser quirks an eyebrow. “Wanna do a line?”

“I’m down if you are.” I shrug, but honestly, I’d love to extend this feeling for as long as possible.

“Jesus, you guys are grossing me out with the heart eyes,” Parish says, laughing. “Just make out already. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

Riser smirks, and I crash my lips against his.

That sounds like the perfect way to pass the time.

Malcolm is relentless. His hands feel far too good sliding against my body as we grind together on the small dance floor in the VIP section a while later.

After the show, the venue opened the second and third floors. Now that everyone isn’t shoved together, it’s much less cramped.

Two big, burly guys stand at the entrance to the area we’re in. There are probably fifty people scattered about, but it’s spacious enough that it’s no longer suffocating.