I’m pinned on my back, my dress pushed up to my hips, two hundred feet above the streets of New York City. The floor underneath is all glass: if I crane my head to the side I can see the streets below, the cars moving like blinking white and red ants. It’s almost midnight, and I feel like a lightning bug being held inside of a glass jar, suspended among the stars in the air above the sleepless city that I shouldn’t love, but do.
Terrified. Thrilled. Electric with sensation.
It’s the first time I’ve ever had a man’s body pressed against me like this, the hard muscles against my soft curves sending all sorts of strange signals through me. And his one muscle, there, hard and insistent against my inner thigh. The music in the air is loud, filling my ears with a beat that almost matches my pounding heartbeat. It echoes through me, and I feel hollow, needy.
I shift, and his body shifts with me, pushing us even closer together.
The music dissolves in my mind, and I hear his voice under the thrumming bass notes. A growl in my ear that sends bolts of desire shooting through me down to my toes.
He has me tied up with sashes, floating in the air, and he’s floating with me, his sculpted body arched over mine. A red sash around my ankles, two more sashes knotted around my wrists. I’m supported in a dozen places by soft fabric stretched taut under my body, but the only sensation I care about is that muscle, hard and throbbing between my thighs. He wants me.
If you had told me a month ago that Clint Terrance would want me, I would have laughed myself silly. But nothing is silly now. I’m melting with every second that passes, every drum beat that stretches out time. I never want this to end, and we haven’t even started.
When he threads his fingers through my hair, I moan. He’s not touching me where I need it most. I ache for him in a way I never knew was possible. I ache for the kiss he hasn’t given me yet. I ache for his hands on my body. I ache for him, him most of all, him inside of me, filling me the way the music fills my ears.
The tattoo peeking out from under his white jacket is a splash of musical notes, and for a brief moment I want to reach out and touch it with my fingertips, to try and read the music that’s written all over him. I can’t move my arms, though. The sashes are taut around my wrists. I bite my lip in frustration, and he sucks in a tight breath.
“Rachel. Tell me you want this.”
I look back up to see his dark desirous eyes above me, and I’m scared to think about what will happen if I say yes. My whole life has been a careful, sheltered existence. And now he’s asking me to give it all up. Give up my family. Give up my life.
The sky is glass, the floor is glass, and all of a sudden I’m scared that we’ll shatter everything if I let him take me now. I’m not supposed to be here, not with this man. I’m not this kind of girl. I never have been.
He’s waiting for my answer, tense and ready, holding himself back even though I can see it kills him to do it. And as the music plays, I know that I’ll never be ready, not really. There’s never going to be a perfect time, a perfect place. There’s only here and now, and I won’t ever know how to fly until I let myself jump.
His lips are close to mine, so close that I am sure he can feel my breath, even if the word is lost in the music.
Goddammit. I’m such a fuckup.
I didn’t mean to get into a fight at the studio. I swear I didn’t. But trouble seems to follow me around like a band of underage groupies.
That night, I burst into the studio after-party already buzzed. The show had gone perfect—I couldn’t wait to hear what my pops thought—and I’d been swimming through hot chicks on my way out of the stadium. I hoped Piers had brought an extra limo to hold all the girls.
Something bugged me, though, and I didn’t know what. I was the lead singer of a hot rock band on the biggest tour of my life. Life was good, and tonight was the peak of it all.
Then why did I feel like something was missing?
The music blared from the speakers, but the crowd was so loud that I could barely hear who was playing. I scanned the mob of people, my eyes passing over girls in tiny skirts and men with fading tattoos poking out from their suit sleeves.