The crowd quiets down as we double check our tuning and get ourselves situated in front of the microphone. The mic is set at my height, which means Colt will have to bend a bit to sing into it with me when it’s his turn. But it’s easier than me going up on my toes, and given what the song is about, it’s a cute effect for us to share instead of having separate mics. In the future, we should insist on the wireless lavalier mics that can be worn in your hair or around your ear. It would make this easier, and we could still stage it in a cute way where we play and sing to each other without the hassle of sharing a mic. Since we didn’t have choreography or any way to get it for this show, we went with the more old-fashioned mics on stands to go with our intimate, stripped-down set vibe.
Huh. Here I am already planning future shows with Colt.
But let’s be honest with ourselves. How could I give this up?
There’s no guarantee that any label will decide I’m worth the risk again. But who cares? We can make things happen on our own. This is what I love to do. This is what I live for.
I glance at Colt, who gives me a smile and a thumbs up to tell me he’s ready. Having this sweet, sexy man by my side to plan this and create this together? Even though I’ve already convinced myself that giving into our attraction is possibly for the best, there’s still a part of me that wonders if taking our relationship off paper and into the bedroom is a bad idea. But I’m tired of trying to play it safe.
This whole performance was a risk, and it’s already paying off. Everything that led to Golden Enigma getting where we were was a series of calculated risks and not backing down or giving up even when something didn’t go the way we wanted.
The latest hit—the accident, the rehab, the legal trouble … some things are too much to overcome. At least collectively.
But I’m not done yet. I’m not ready to give up and give this up. Not when I can have it back on my own terms.
And I’m ready for my terms to include taking advantage of sharing my bed with Colt.
Which makes it all the more fitting that this duet is called, “No Going Back.”
I return Colt’s smile, hoping it broadcasts everything I’m feeling, and turn to the crowd. “This is another new song inspired by a lot of the things that have happened in my life over the last few months, not least of which is getting hitched to this guy over here.” I pause, smiling at the claps and cheers and wolf-whistles. “It’s called ‘No Going Back.’ I hope you like it.”
Another round of cheers and applause greets my statement, but I start in with the opening right away, vamping long enough for them to grow quiet again before I start singing.
And when Colt joins in, moving in close and singing into the microphone with me, it’s the most natural thing in the world to turn and face him, to sing the rest of the song to him, and have him sing it back to me.
It’s right and it’s beautiful and the words of the song have never been more true than right in this moment. There’s no going back, and I wouldn’t want to even if I could.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Colt
It’s after midnight by the time the driver drops us off at the apartment, and I’m still flying high after that performance.
But the silence in the apartment is oppressive, and Alexis closes and locks the door softly behind us once we’re inside. We move slowly, quietly, unwilling to make too much noise as the tension between us builds.
And for the first time today, she’s avoiding my gaze, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Alexis,” I say softly, finally breaking the silence that descended the last few minutes in the car. She lifts her eyes and looks at me for the first time in what feels like ages, though it’s really only been minutes. But after the way she sang to me during the encore …
That felt significant. Like she meant every word, and they were all written for me, for us.
And having her hide and shut me out now is more than I can bear. My words to her before the encore—I didn’t mean to make it seem like I’d only perform another song if she promised to kiss me again. I was just so caught up in the moment, in what I was feeling, that I needed to let her know I wanted more. More of that. More of her. And she nodded.
But did she only agree because she needed to appease the audience?
“What I said before …” I trail off, hoping she’ll understand what I mean without words. But she simply stares at me, waiting. I clear my throat and stuff my hands in my pockets, the adrenaline leaking out of me and taking my courage with it. “I’m not going to hold you to that. I know you don’t want things to get physical, even though—” I cut myself off, stopping before I say even though it’s clear every time you kiss me that you really do want me, because that only makes me sound like an arrogant douche. I give my head a shake. “You have your reasons, and I respect them. I respect you.”
She stares at me still, like she’s waiting for me to continue. But that’s all I had to say, so I just stand here and wait. For what, I don’t really know. For her to agree that she has her reasons? Or tell me that she wants me as much as I want her? The second one, if I had to choose. But the reality is that it’s not really my choice.
Instead of speaking, she steps closer to me, closer, until her body is flush with mine. Going up on her tiptoes, she palms my cheek and guides my mouth to hers. Her lips are soft and plush under mine, smooth, and I can’t help the groan that rumbles out of my chest or the way my hands find their way to her hips. But I stop myself from pulling her in tight and grinding my hardening dick into her softness.
I want to, but for all I know, this is just a kiss. Just her promise of an encore fulfilled.
But my groan seems to trip something in her. Her lips part, and it’s her tongue seeking mine out this time, her arms circling my neck as she pulls me as close as she possibly can.
I give her everything she’s asking for, my hands sliding down to her ass to boost her up higher. Her legs clamp on my hips to lever herself up higher, and if this goes on much longer, I’m not going to be able to hold us both up.
Turning, I collapse onto the loveseat, Alexis in my lap. She breaks the kiss long enough to let out a soft chuckle, her breath fanning over my face before she dives back in.
And I’m definitely not going to complain. But I don’t want her to end the kiss before I’m done. My hand palms the back of her head, holding her in place so I can taste every last inch of her mouth.
God, I’ve needed her so bad for so damn long. Sharing this tiny apartment with her, learning her habits, watching her work, getting teased and teasing her back with our escalating lack of clothes—it’s all been building up to this.
When the crowd started calling for us to kiss on stage, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. We’ve been around each other long enough that we act more or less couple-y as it is with our interactions and banter. I make an effort to touch her more in public versus my hands-off approach in private, but otherwise, not much is different.
Except on stage, we’re performing and singing and being professional, so it’s not exactly prime time to make out. I figured I might get the chance for a peck or two, but when they started chanting like that … all bets were off.