For a second, those eyes grew colder and colder, then he said, “You have no idea what I want. Now give me my taste. I need to warm up, and I want it with you down my throat.”
I hissed out my frustration, his smile returning when my hands went to my waistband, but he wasn’t going to get exactly what he wanted. I shoved my hand down the front of my pants, stifling a gasp as I swept through my sodden folds. He was right—I was fucking turned on. He was about to complain, but I yanked my fingers out, my clit throbbing sulkily in protest, and then shoved them into his mouth.
The silence, the look of surprise on his face? It was all worth it. Until his hand closed over my wrist, stopping me from pulling away. He licked every single scrap of me from my fingers, the room filled with the lewd sounds of his sucking and licking.
“Just like sugar cookies,” he said, then let me go. “Stay close to the wings during the concert. I want to be able to look over and see you watching us at any point in time during the performance. I’ll assign a couple of security guys to make that happen. Afterwards is when the real work starts. Once the last of the humans have left, the local fae will come out. We hold court here, do a meet and greet, and deals take place. I need Johnno with me tonight.” He ignored Johnno’s protest pointedly. “Show Hartley has a united front. Pick one of the boys. Not Marlow, he’s not enough. Whoever you choose will be your minder, and you’ll need one,” he said when I went to protest. “Sweet, powerful things like you will get eaten up. You do this on your own? You’ll find yourself bound to some other arseholes who’ll be a lot crueller than me, and end up fucked long and often to bring your power to the surface, then have it drained for the edification of the court. Find that Aen bloke, be good to have him show up for this. Something like him, that’ll curb the worst excesses.” He turned to Johnno one last time before heading for the door. “Warm up. I don’t want your hand crapping out, and fingering her doesn’t count.”
A weird hollow calm settled over the room when he left. Johnno got to his feet, looking far from happy, but I was glad for his presence when he drew me into a hug.
“This isn’t the way I wanted things to go. It never does when Liam’s around.”
“It’s not so bad, honest,” I said, and then pulled his head down to kiss him, feeling that selfsame twinge of familiarity I felt when around his brother. It was weird, kissing lips that felt so strange yet everyday, all at the same time.
He was the one pulling away this time.
“I can’t right now. I thought dream Kira had me by the balls, but the real thing is so fucking seductive. It’s taking everything I have not to bend you over that bench and thrust myself into you with one long stroke.” He caught the sharp intake of my breath as a vicious throb pulsed inside me, wanting exactly that. “Aen said we should woo you. I’m trying. I want you to get to know me, us before…”
“Before you give me what I want,” I said, sliding my hand down the front of his pants. We smiled into each other’s lips as I found him hard and ready, and he dropped light little kisses on my mouth before pulling away.
“I’m gonna have to rub one out and then air out this room. Your fucking scent, Kira.” He picked up his guitar. “Choose one of the guys for tonight. Promise me. Go and talk to them now and sort it out. Tell them that they need to stay sharp.”
I emerged out into the hallway, blinking. This place, these guys—they were like drugs. They took away space, time, will, and just made me want to strip off and throw myself into them. Made me want them to touch me everywhere while I touched them.
“How are we going with the promo images?” Marlow said. “What I saw looked good. The video was a nice choice. You don’t get a lot of Hartley on Hartley clips anymore.”
“Um…I’m just heading into the next room now.”
Marlow’s smile slowly spread.
“A bit intense was it? Smells like it was.”
“If by intense you mean really fucking horny, then yes.”
“Look, you have no idea how much I want to help you out with that, but this is…”
I looked around at the people filing past.
“Crazy. I know. I’m going. We really need to meet up later. I did a deal with Liam. You can come on our bus anytime you want.”
“Yeah? You did that for me?” There was something shy, almost tentative about his smile. “What did you have to offer him?”
“A taste of me. He got to lick my fingers.”
That made him laugh.
“Well, all right. You seem to be holding your own here. Trust your instincts and chase that story.”
I carried Marlow’s words with me as I strolled into the next room.
Billy sat in an armchair at the end of the narrow room, his guitar across his lap. I hovered there in the doorway, watching Billy’s fingers dance over the fretboard. His fingers moved as if of their own volition. Johnno was an amazing player, someone who could easily have been a lead guitarist in any other band, but watching Billy, I could see why they chose him. He didn’t play the guitar—he was it. He didn’t need to focus on notes or fingering or strumming. To play was the same as breathing, something he did on automatic. Rather, it was me that disturbed his playing, the pace of the notes slowing, then becoming this dazzling ripple of picking that seemed to fold back on itself. His hand slowed, and he looked up.
“And what are you doing here, butterfly?”
“Ah, Marlow asked for some shots.”
“Well, then, better come into my parlour.”
He smiled, slow, sly, crooked, and then jerked his head to the bench on the far wall, his fingers moving as I did, a sinuous kind of soundtrack marking my approach.
He watched me closely, noting the distance I’d chosen to leave between us and the long sigh I let out as I sat down.
“So you’re just cool with me—” I said.
“Take what you need from me, butterfly.”
I saw a flash of white teeth as my hands went instantly to my camera, raising it to my eye. I hadn’t felt it as much since I’d gotten off the plane, but as those almost black eyes watched everything I did, I found I needed that buffer.
For the first time, I wondered if looking through the viewfinder would help at all. Rather, it made me focus on the guitarist in ways I hadn’t before. He seemed to have a uniform—a loose, silky black button-down shirt, open wide at the neck to reveal a very fine pair of collarbones and a whole lot of lean, bronzed flesh and leather pants. Black scrawling tattoos disappeared under the fabric, telling secrets I’d never discover. I took photo after photo, having to work my way up to a head shot, and the smile he wore told me he realised that. The lens stared at him, and he stared back, looking beyond the glass to where I sat. I felt speared through by that dark gaze, caught in those unfathomable depths for god knows how long until he said, “Take your photo, Kira.”
I did, belatedly, just to justify my temporary aneurysm. I didn’t frame the shot or anything, and had to do that with the next. I needed to take him apart with my lens, shoot him in black and white, somehow flatten him into a series of shadows and highlights. His fingers stilled, slapping down on the strings and preventing any further sound from coming out.