She emits a sound I can’t decipher, but I’d hedge my bets it’s more on the side of desire than denial.

  “And if I brushed my lips against yours,” I say, so that with each word, our lips share just a whisper of a touch, “and then ran my tongue over your lips just like this, I wonder if you’d consider that coloring right on the lines or if it’s outside.”

  “Vince.”

  “Yes, Shug?” I murmur, my fingers itching to touch and my body begging to take.

  “I want . . .”

  “Or is skin-on-skin contact your definition of touching? I could close my mouth over your nipple like this,” I murmur around a mouthful of cloth and pebbled peak, “and technically we wouldn’t be touching.”

  But her head dropping back and the arch of her chest pressing her more against my mouth tells me I’m oh so close to breaking that will of hers.

  “I can’t,” she moans.

  “Ah, but you just said you want, and I sure as fuck want too,” I murmur as I drop to my knees in front of her and do the exact same fucking thing I did to her tit but this time to her pussy. “Hold on, Shug. My hair is there to grip if you need to.”

  She yelps as I hike one of her legs up over my shoulder. Immediately she fists my hair for balance at the same time I close my mouth over her.

  I draw in a deep breath, drowning in everything that is Bristol Matthews . . . everything that is but the goddamn taste of her.

  But I work my tongue over and against the fabric. I trace the lines of her lips as she starts to swell and her pants grow wet.

  She bucks her pussy into my face—no man would ever complain about that—and a soft moan floats through the studio as I do the best I can given the restrictions.

  My balls ache something fierce with a want I haven’t felt in forever. If I could manage to free my cock and stroke it while holding her, I would, but I only have so many hands, and fuck if I’m going to give up any iota of concentration right now.

  “Vince.” My name is the sexiest goddamn music to my ears. I’ll do whatever it takes to hear it again.

  Her scent grows sweeter as she becomes more aroused. As I work her into a frenzy. As her fingers grip tighter and as my dick grows harder.

  Fuck your coloring inside the lines, Shug.

  Fuck your clothing.

  Fuck your rules.

  But I promised to play by them—for her—just this once. Next time it’ll be for goddamn good.

  She cries out when, without warning, I drop her leg, yank her against me, and close my mouth over hers.

  “This. Just this,” I murmur again before I dive back in, desperate to taste so much more than only her tongue.

  I want you.

  Now.

  Desperately.

  “Vince. We can’t.” She says the words but she cups my cock.

  The guttural groan that fills my ears must be my own, but hell if I remember emitting it as I’m too busy touching. Her hair. Her ass. Her chest. Her—

  Pounding on the studio door jerks me back to reality. I personally don’t want to be anywhere near reality since it doesn’t include fucking Bristol on the floor.

  “Oh my God,” she says as she pushes herself away from me and frantically fixes her clothing.

  I watch her, chuckling. How did I forget how flustered she gets when she thinks she’s going to be in trouble? It’s adorable.

  “Quit looking at me,” she scolds in a whisper-yell. “He’s going to know what we were doing. Go answer the door.”

  Noah can fucking wait a second while my hard-on dissipates. That, and so I can steal one more kiss from her.

  “I fucking love truces,” I murmur as my lips find hers.

  “No.” She pushes her hands on my chest, struggling against me while I chuckle against her lips.

  “Relax. I’m sure there’s been many worse things happen in this studio before.” I take a step back and wink as I take her in one more time. “You might want to take a seat in the booth for a few seconds. Wait for that wet spot I left on your pants to dry.”

  She looks down and then back up, eyes wide and full of panic before scurrying into the booth to sit on the couch and cross her legs, seconds before I unlock the door.

  “Hey. Sorry about that, Noah—” But when I swing open the door, it’s not just Noah standing there. I cough out a laugh. “Xavier. Well, this is a surprise.”

  Knowing Bristol, she’s probably having a fucking heart attack at the sound of his name. When I reach out to shake his hand, I get off knowing that a minute ago that same hand was all over Bristol.

  “I haven’t been getting any updates, so I thought I’d stop by myself to see how things were going.”

  “Everything okay in here?” Noah asks as he steps into the booth and nods to Bristol.

  “Yes. Fuck. The locked door. It’s a habit. Do it without even thinking.” I smile through my lie at Xavier who is still standing in the doorway. “I had to install those keycode locks at my house because I kept locking myself outside.”

  “Good. Great,” Xavier says, walking past me and into the booth. “The writing is going—Matthews? You’re here.”

  Thank God for the dim light or Bristol’s flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and nervous smile just might give us away.

  “Of course, I’m here. Isn’t that what you wanted? For me to report back with an update?” she asks.

  He studies her for a beat. I can see her pulse pounding in the vein on her neck.

  “And yet last I checked I haven’t gotten one.”

  This fucking guy and his ego. Such a blowhard. “Yeah. Cell service in here sucks, soundproof walls and all. Besides, I needed her help,” I explain before she can speak.

  Be good. Don’t bait the fucker. It’s not your job at stake. Color inside the fucking lines.

  Try to, at least.

  “I have a text typed up to send to you,” she says, holding her cell up with what looks like a lengthy text from our distance, “but I haven’t been able to get it to send. I figured helping Vince was what was most important.”

  All she needs is a bat of lashes and a curtsy to help with his god complex.

  “Help? How so?” Xavier asks, eyes narrowed and arms crossed.

  “Recording the session for me. Stopping and starting with each take. You know, just in case something good happens so I don’t forget what it is. It might not work for the current song, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be for the next one.”

  Noah busies himself, his smirk hidden from everyone but me. He knows I’m full of shit but plays along.

  Xavier looks her way again. “And here I was afraid Matthews was dropping the ball and not fulfilling your needs.”

  I have a lot of fucking needs, Xav, and right now every single one of them has to do with that woman over there.

  “No complaints here.” I chuckle. “Studio time’s precious, after all.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bristol

  Seven Years Ago

  I’ve never felt more naïve in my life than I do in this moment.

  Women mill around me. Most are half-dressed in sky-high heels. Some are drunk or obnoxiously loud or both. All are standing near the backstage exit waiting for a brief glimpse of any of the Bent band members in the hopes they’ll burst out of those doors and make the trek to their tour bus.

  And in that glimpse, I have no doubt they are hoping to be seen, noticed, and then picked out of the crowd to join them for the evening.

  I’m not sheltered by any means, but to say I’m not surprised by the comments being said around me is an understatement.

  Getting an autograph is the last thing on these ladies’ minds.

  I’ve heard he’s incredible in the sack. I plan on finding out.

  If I flash them as they walk by, do you think it would help?

  Panties are a no-go. I want him to see how wet I am for him through my pants.

  I thought getting the concert ticket and driving the four hours to the venue was going to be the hardest part of tonight. Sure, it cost me some of my savings, but seeing Vince again was all I could think about.

  The concert alone was definitely worth it. Bent was more than electric, but truth be told, I wasn’t exactly paying attention. My eyes were one hundred percent fixed on Vince.

  He was . . . incredible. Fantastic. Mesmerizing. All of that and then some considering I knew the boy who’d fiddle on his guitar and blush when he messed up a chord. To see him so confident and playing up the crowd was everything I’d hoped it would be.

  But now I’m here. Outside the back door. One of what seems like a hundred women vying to be seen and not exactly sure how to do it.

  I’ve tried talking to the security guards at the door. The only thing I do know is that he changed his number somewhere during the past few years. Was it his way of making a clean break from his past?

  I’m under no pretenses how this reunion will go other than the strong urge I had telling me that I needed to be here. That I needed to see him if for no other reason than to sate my curiosity and to find a bit of closure in a wound that has long since scarred over.

  The question is . . . how exactly do I do that?

  The confidence I had in how I looked—my new outfit, my freshly cut and colored hair, my perfectly colored spray tan—fades as I take in all these women and their knockout bodies. I could only wish to have the confidence to wear the skimpy outfits they are wearing.

  Is this what Vince likes now? Is this who he is? Does that really matter, Bristol? This isn’t about sex. Right?

  “Trying to get in his pants now that he’s made it, huh? Don’t let the lights fool you. He’s still the same fucked-up loser he was back then. Maybe even more so now. Don’t waste your time. He’s not fucking worth it.”

  The slight slur to his words, the innate lethargy, the disdain for his son . . . it was horrible. The fact that I had to plead with that man . . . For whatever reason, he gave me Vince’s number, and until now, I wasn’t sure I’d ever use it. But I need to try. I can’t let this moment pass me by.

  I dial the number Deegan Jennings gave me and wait as it rings and rings until an electronic voice picks up. Shit. Then I stare at my phone wondering what to text. It takes me way too long to figure it out. There is a lot of typing and deleting, but in the end, I figure simpler is better.

  Me: It’s Bristol. I’m here at the arena. The backstage door. The concert was great. I know you’re busy but was hoping maybe to see you for a few minutes. – Shug.

  I hit send and then silently freak out. I just played the only hand I have, and it might not be enough. Vince holds all the cards now.

  The minutes drag on as my hope of seeing him fades.

  The door opens and everyone clambers back to the ropes as a tall man in a white shirt, ripped jeans and a hat that sits low over his brow walks out toward us. He starts pointing at different women and then hooking his thumb toward the door he just came from. “You. And you.” He stands on his tiptoes and looks past the front row where I stand as those first two women squeal and all but jog in their heels toward the door. “You, you, and you,” he continues, looking over me. “That’s it.”

  Every part of me deflates as I try to get his attention. “Hey. I need to see Vince.”

  “So does everyone, sweetheart. Let me guess, you know him personally.”

  “I do. I promise. Tell him Shug is here.”

  A round of laughter goes off from the women blocking the view in front of me, and then there is an awed silence I can’t comprehend.

  “Shug? Is that you?”

  Vince’s voice rings out followed by gasps from the women around me as he comes into view.

  “Vince. I’m here. It’s me.” My words are frantic. My heart is racing. And the next few seconds are an absolute blur as the man I later find out to be the road manager, Mick, grabs my hand and pulls me out of the crowd. I don’t even have time to see or talk to Vince as the crowd squeezes in around us. Mick pushes us through the door before slamming it behind us.

  “Christ, Jennings. You trying to get me fucking killed?” Mick asks as he shoves him from behind.

  Vince laughs. “Too bad it didn’t work.”

  “Fucker,” Mick mumbles about the same time that Vince turns to face me.

  The area we are standing in is brightly lit, has concrete floors, white walls, and Vince stands before me dressed in head-to-toe black.

  He’s gorgeous.

  I mean, he always has been, but his boyish face has matured. His jaw is stronger, covered in more stubble, and his eyes, though lit up with surprise, are more reserved. His left arm is peppered with a few tattoos that give him more of an edge than the guy I once knew. And then there’s his body. That wiry teenage boy I once loved is most definitely a man with a broad chest, square shoulders, strong thighs, and sexy as hell hands.

  And in that one look, a million feelings come rushing back to me as if no time has passed.

  But it has.

  It most definitely has.

  We stare at each other for what feels like forever but is merely seconds before a slow smile crawls onto his handsome face. “Jesus, it really is you,” he says before he swoops me up in a hug, picks me up off the floor as he does so, and just holds on tight with his face buried in the curve of my shoulder.

  He smells of leather and soap from the shower he must have taken after the show. His hair is wet against the side of my face, and his arms are strong as they squeeze me tight.

  Processing my feelings is impossible, so I shove them away and try to memorize the moment.

  “Fuck, man. If you’re going to fuck her, then at least get out of the hallway,” someone says as they bump past us.

  “It’s not like that.” Vince chuckles as he sets me down.

  It’s now when we stare at each other that the awkwardness sets in. For the first few moments, it was like he was the guy I used to know, and now he’s the famous musician I don’t really know anything about.

  When we finally talk, we both start at the same time.

  “Sorry,” we say in unison.

  “You go first,” I say through my laugh.

  “I still can’t believe you’re standing in front of me.” He runs a hand through his hair as he shakes his head. “What are you doing here?” he asks and motions for me to get out of the way. Distractions are everywhere around us. People moving about. Black cases being moved here and there. Voices shouting out and echoing down the corridors.

  There’s a harshness to it all that clearly Vince is more than used to.

  “I don’t know,” I say and shrug as someone walks past him and hands him a beer.

  “Want one?”

  “No. I don’t think—”

  “Killer show, man,” a guy says and fist-bumps him. “I love that new riff you added into Take Me Down. Talk about kicking it up a notch. No doubt kids’ll be all over the socials trying to copy it.” He laughs. “That’s how you know you’ve made it. Hey, you heading out with us?”

  Vince looks to me and then back to him. “Nah. Not right now.”

  The guy looks at me and his eyes widen. “Oh. Gotcha. Dude, your bus is free and clear if you need it . . .” He looks my way again and smirks. “For whatever you might need it for.”

  “I—I’m not—” I start to say when I realize he thinks I’m a groupie here to sleep with Vince, but the man just holds his hands up in a no judgment motion before taking a step backward and walking away.

  “Just ignore him,” Vince says with a chuckle. “He’s just . . . Jimmy.”

  I stare at Vince and suddenly feel absolutely ridiculous being here. What did I expect? That we’d see each other and things would be like they were back when we were in high school? That we’d slip back into talking about how Mr. Parker sucks as a math teacher, how my mom won’t budge on my curfew . . . and I don’t even know what else.

  “I’m sorry.” I laugh nervously and look around at this chaos he lives in and know I’m way out of my element. “I just showed up without warning. I’m sure you have other plans.”

  “Get your ass in here, Jennings,” someone calls from an open doorway. I’m actually grateful for the interruption so I have time to calm my nerves.

  “Follow me for a sec?” he asks and then moves toward the door. It’s a large room—what I would think a quintessential backstage would look like. A large oriental rug, couches everywhere, and people milling about. The band members. The women from outside. Other people trying to look the part but that stand out like a sore thumb.

  The music is loud and the cigarette smoke is thick as Vince introduces me to a few people. I like his bandmates immediately. Hawkin Play, the lead singer, definitely owns the room. He’s charismatic and energetic even after running around on the stage for the past few hours. Rocket, their other guitarist, is definitely the class clown of the group, and Gizmo, their drummer, the more mellow one.

  I’m sure the mellowness isn’t hindered by the woman’s throat he currently has his tongue down.

  Vince is pulled in to settle a debate between Gizmo and Hawkin as I move to the edge of the room and just take it all in. This new and crazy lifestyle that he leads.

  And as I stand here, it’s obvious to me from the various people vying for Vince’s attention, that everybody wants something from him. His bandmates want his mediation skills. The women who keep walking up and running a hand down his arm with huge come fuck me eyes want in his pants. The other guests wait for a snippet of his time and seem satisfied when they get it.

  How silly is it for me to still love a man as untouchable as him?

  And yet, I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away from him.

  Because of that inability, I see the minute he realizes I’ve slinked off into the shadows of the room. He stands on his toes and scans the room to find me, his smile greeting me when he does.

  He’s at my side in seconds. “Sorry. It’s habit to unwind like this after a show.”

  “Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have come. I—”

  “What are you talking about?” Vince says, grin widening. “It’s a lot. I know, but you get used to it. Come on, let’s go to my dressing room. It’s quieter there.”