Even though I’mreallyglad the crowd can’t see me right now, because—fuck me—he’s solely focused onme, singing the dirty, filthy lines about how he fucked me for the first time.
How he breached me for the first time.
I will my cheeks not to heat, but thank fuck it’s dark as hell here in the wings, so nobody—especiallydouchebag Mick—can see me blushing like a damn schoolgirl.
I don’t even hear the roar of the crowd when he finally comes off stage.
I don’t notice his band members, the crew, Bowie, Mick, the yelling and chanting and singing.
I only see him.
MyJace.
He makes a beeline for me, smirk wide, hair drenched in sweat—his chest, too. His shirt is long gone, has been since around song number four, which the audienceclearlyappreciated. I barely get a smile in before he thrusts his mic and earpiece intothe hands of the first crew member he passes. Then he’s on me, fingers in my hair—nearly pushing my cap off—body surging into mine, and his mouth hot on my lips.
The kiss is pure, undiluted, exhilaratingheat. My lips part eagerly as he pushes his tongue in, and my hands dig into the hot, smooth skin of his back.
Fuck, I’ve missed him so bad.
Even during this show, where he was only on stage for less than an hour, I felt the distance, the ache. Even though he was just a couple of feet away, it still wasn’t close enough. And every minute, every second Idoget to be with him? That’s a precious moment I don’t want to waste.
So fuck it.
Fuck the crowd, the crew, his band members, andespeciallyMick. Fuck the rumors, the gossip, the management team that wants to milk Mick’s obsession for sales.
He’smine. And he’ll always be mine.
I kiss him back with everything I have, let my tongue swirl around his, pull him closer until his sweat-slick chest is flush with mine. His breath huffs hot against my cheek as we both try to breathe through our noses, neither of us willing to break the kiss.
If it’s up to me, we never will. Hell, I’ll die happy knowing it’s in his arms—the ones wrapped around my neck now, his fingers swirling in the hair that peeks from beneath the cap as I bite and lick into his mouth.
He tugs at it and we finally break apart with a loud suction sound, before he chuckles against my lips, eyes bright and burning.
“Did you like it?” he asks, his lips brushing mine.
“The kiss?” I shrug one shoulder. “I mean, you’ve done better—but it’ll pass.”
He smirks and gives me a half-hearted push against my chest, leaving both hands resting on my pecs over my now clammy shirt. “I meant theshow, dumbass. How was it?”
His grin is so wide it’s fucking contagious and the corners of my mouth pull involuntarily, matching it.
“It was perfect,” I say, pulling him a bit closer to me. “You were perfect.”
His smile presses against mine. “Really? You liked it?”
“Of course I did. Especially when you sang “Breached”. It felt like you sang it for me.”
“That’s because I did,” he whispers. “That’syoursong.”
I want to reply, but am cut off by a deafening roar from the crowd. I flinch and look over my shoulder, noticing Mick’s band members walk onto the stage.
Mick, though? He’s still standing on this side of the wings, gazing our way, brow furrowed, probably missing his cue according to the hushed crew members that wave to him while there’s an increase in chatter in my earpiece.
I don’t need to hear what he’s thinking; the contempt is practically pouring off him.
The corner of my mouth pulls in a smirk. I’m not a vindictive person. I don’t have a lot of malice in me, but fuck him—for all the shit he spewed just minutes ago. When it comes to my man, famous or not, he can just fuck right off.
I can’t hear the snort or indignant huff he lets out—his mic has been cut off from the crew’s channel—but Iseeit clear as day.Asshat.
