“You want to know the God’s honest truth?” Jackson asks Zane.

  Zane smirks. “Oh man, I’m dying for you to tell me that you can’t stand his songs.”

  With a devilish grin, Jackson takes his phone from his pocket and clicks on a playlist then the date he created it. Two years ago—well before he started working for me. It has all my songs on it. “Make It Last.” “Take Me.” “Bedroom Eyes.”

  I have millions of fans. I have people who like my music on all continents.

  But the fact that he enjoys my tunes thrills me.

  And so does this thing he does under the table. He slides his foot onto mine, taps my toe, and shoots me a private smile.

  Later that night, Jackson walks me to my suite alone and stops right outside my door, like he does every night.

  But tonight, his eyes linger on me longer. They turn serious for several seconds.

  He looks like he desperately wants to say something.

  I desperately want to invite him in.

  I want to beg him to spend the night with me.

  Hell, I want to ask him to throw me against the wall and smother me in drowning, devouring kisses.

  The kind only he can give.

  But the memory of Zane’s face at dinner, happy and carefree, unbothered by my dad, flickers before me.

  Is that the reason I don’t invite Jackson in?

  Or is it something else?

  Is it that I don’t know how to deal with this burgeoning well of feelings in my chest for him?

  Feelings that are surprising the hell out of me.

  Maybe it’s because I want more than one night with him.

  I reach for my key, slide it over the card reader, and say good night to the man I don’t want to say good night to.

  19

  Jackson

  The theater is packed every night.

  The show is epic every time.

  And the star is mobbed after every performance.

  I don’t work every show, but when I do, all my focus is on Stone, making sure fans don’t grab his shirt, touch his ass, or get too close. I don’t worry about them stealing his phone, because I keep it on me during the shows, and after too, when he does the VIP meet and greets.

  Those backstage soirees are organized, classy, and stacked with photo ops.

  The tougher part to navigate is the moments after, when energy is high, adrenaline is coursing, and fans want a piece of the headliner.

  My job is to keep them close but not too close. I’m in the zone all week long. The work doesn’t leave room for distractions, and I’m grateful for the show pace, the show days.

  They make it easier not to think about the charge between us. The crackle and hum I feel when we’re alone.

  But since we rarely are, my brain is zeroed in on work and only work.

  And I can do what I need to do.

  Think ahead.

  React fast.

  Make sure he looks good to the public, that they see an outgoing, charismatic man willing to pose for picture after picture.

  That’s what he does after he plays his heart out each time.

  Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.

  On Friday, the theater is packed to the gills. From my post in the wings, I watch as the lights swirl and dip, as Zoe, the opening act, announces his name, as the crowd roars.

  The din is deafening. Stone struts to the front of the stage, Strat slung around his shoulders, a smile on his face. The grin he wears when he’s performing is like nothing I’ve seen before. It’s special; it’s electric. He feeds off the crowd’s love of him and gives it right back to everyone in the theater. The man isn’t just doing a job—he is living, breathing, and existing off the nourishment of music and crowds and energy. They know it, he knows it, and everyone loves it.

  Stone is a born performer, and he makes every second onstage count. I’ve seen countless shows of his. No two ever seem alike. Each one feels special, crafted for that audience that night.

  It’s charismatic.

  It’s magic.

  And I can’t look away.

  “Are you ready to ‘Make It Last,’ Vegas?” he booms into the mic, then launches into his Grammy-winning tune that electrifies the audience.

  An hour and a half later, he performs his final encore and tells the crowd he loves them, he really fucking loves them.

  Then he leaves.

  After the VIP meet and greet, he’s ready to go.

  “Good show,” I say.

  “Great one,” he replies as we wind our way through the hotel to grab a drink with Sage and Nadia.

  He hangs with them at Speakeasy for an hour while I stand outside.

  After they say good night, I’m headed to the elevator banks with him when a shriek fills my ears.

  “Stone!”

  It’s high-pitched. Feminine. Young.

  And multiplied.

  I turn around in a nanosecond as a pack of twentysomething women trot over to him.

  Five of them.

  Wobbling in heels and boots, clutching long plastic cups sloshing with liquid.

  In a heartbeat, I drape an arm around him, holding the other out in front of me to be safe. “Take it easy,” I say, friendly but crystal clear. They’re only drunk—nothing we haven’t dealt with at every show.

  “Can we just take one pic?”

  The question comes from a teetering redhead in sky-high red shoes, her speech slurred.

  I look to him. It’s always his choice in moments like these. “It’s cool, J. One pic is fine,” Stone says.

  “You don’t have to,” I say quietly.

  “It’s all good. I’m happy to do it.”

  I maneuver him a few feet away so his back is to the wall, and I bring the women in. They sardine themselves around him, with the redhead stretching out her arm to snap a cell phone shot.

  Once she’s done, her friends peel away, oohing and aahing and thanking him.

  But Red is lightning fast. She spins around and slams herself against him. “I love you, Stone. I want to have your babies.”

  That shit is not okay.

  I slide right back in, threading my arm between the redhead and Stone just as she grabs the neck of his T-shirt.

  Tension spirals in me, but my focus sharpens even more. I have one mission and only one mission.

  “Time to step away, please,” I say firmly, gripping her hand and jerking it away from my client.

  Because, ya know, she doesn’t need to touch him.

  Not like this.

  “But I love him,” she whines, refusing to let go, holding tight to the fabric as I pull her hand away.

  “Glad you love me,” he says with a smile, playing the part even as a flicker of worry flashes in his eyes.

  “Time to let go,” I say, peeling her fingers from his shirt, but she’s got a Vulcan death grip on the fabric, and she’s yanking it, determined.

  But I’m stronger, and I manage to uncurl those fingers one by one. She’s like a cat, clawing a tree branch for dear life.

  “Miss, it’s time for you to leave The Extravagant,” a voice booms.

  Hotel security marches up to us, a trio of men in suits, ready to finish the job.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say as they grab her, tug her away, and escort her off the premises.

  With my arm around Stone the whole time, I punch the elevator key code in, step into the lift, and breathe out hard when the doors slide shut.

  I look him over. Whoa. His chest is on display. His gray shirt hangs in tatters on his arms, the middle ripped down to the top of his abs.

  I blink. “She ripped your shirt off.”

  He glances down, pushes out a laugh, and swallows roughly as he regards the sartorial damage. “Yeah, she did.”

  I step closer as the elevator rises and set my hands on his shoulders, worry flashing through me. That was a close call. Closer than we’re used to. “You okay? I didn’t want to make a scene. I know you hate that.”

  “I do. Thank you for taking care of it.” A vein in his neck pulses quickly. “I’m good.”

  But I want to be certain. That’s my job. “Yeah? You sure you’re okay?”

  “Positive. I mean, screaming fans are part of the job, even ones who get up close and personal, but not so damn grabby. And that’s why I’m glad you were there.”

  “So I could be the bad cop? Keep them away?”

  Stone smiles. “Exactly. I’m grateful, man. I needed you.” He licks his lips, taking a breath. “I need you . . .” His eyes lock with mine. Heat shines in his irises.

  Desire too.

  And so much longing.

  It’s just adrenaline. Just the moment, amped up after the trouble in the lobby.

  But the moment is . . . irresistible.

  The air sparks with electricity and buzzes with unfinished business.

  And all the days of holding back threaten to unspool in one half-ripped T-shirt, the look in his eyes, and the weight of his words.

  “I need you too,” I say, my voice a barren whisper, my hands still curled tight on his shoulders.

  He inches closer, like he’s about to kiss me.

  And it’s the only thing I want in the world.

  But I stop him.

  Elevators have cameras.

  Hotels have employees with access to cameras.

  Employees who might leak photos of us to the press. To TMZ. To the paparazzi. To anyone. I have to think for both of us, because photos of the rock star kissing his bodyguard in a Las Vegas elevator would be worth lots of money.

  They’d do nothing to harm him.

  But they’d pretty much kill any hope of future employment for me. Not just with him, but with anyone.

  More than that, if anything is happening between the two of us, it’s not going to happen publicly.

  Whatever is going on is private.

  I push back on his shoulders, stopping him before his lips reach mine, before his face comes too close. My head swims with desire as I whisper, “There are cameras in the elevator. Anyone can see us.”

  He swallows roughly. Nods. Steps away.

  My hands feel empty.

  My skin aches for him.

  The minute-long ride to his floor lasts hours. It takes eons to reach our destination.

  In that endless span, my desire does not abate. It’s not quenched. That’s the trouble. Nothing at all seems to quench it.

  We reach his floor. The doors open. We step out.

  Can I cool off? That’s the question.

  I walk down the hall by his side, something I’ve done countless times. But this time feels like an end.

  Like I’m drawing a final line in the sand.

  Like if I don’t go in tonight, I’ll never go in.

  The thought of never touching him again is horrifying.

  But that’s the deal.

  This is my job. This is my life.

  We reach his door, and I hope I have the strength to resist. He stops in front of it. I’m inches behind him. Head bent, Stone murmurs, “Do you want to come in?”

  I close my eyes, the punishing wave of lust crashing over me, threatening to tug me under its weight.

  Do I want to go in?

  I want it more than I want food.

  More than sanity.

  More than I’ve ever wanted another person.

  I close my eyes, swaying closer, my chest brushing against his back, the press of our bodies clouding all my judgment.

  With my mouth near his ear, I whisper, “More than you can ever know.”

  He trembles. A shuddery breath escapes his lips. “But you’re not going to let yourself?”

  I run my nose along his neck, inhaling his scent. “I want to resist you. I don’t want to compromise you.”

  Stone shudders. “I’m already compromised.”

  He wedges a hand behind him, between us, sliding it over my stomach and down to the front of my pants, along the ridge of my erection.

  I nearly die of desire. There isn’t enough strength in me to contain it. But somehow I find the will, stepping away. “You told your brother you wouldn’t get involved.”

  “I’m already involved,” he says heavily.

  And I know the feeling.

  Know it all too well.

  Dipping his hand into his pocket, he takes out his key and turns around. His green eyes lock on mine. “I’m not going to try to convince you. I’m not going to beg. I’m not going to be that guy.”

  I want him even more.

  Stone nods to the door, reaching for the handle. “I’m going in here. I’m going to shower. And I’m going to leave you with this thought.” He licks his lips, stares at mine, then meets my gaze. “You. Me. Tonight. That’s all.”

  I tremble everywhere. That is all I want.

  “You know where to find me, J,” he adds. “In fifteen minutes, I’m going to be asleep. But if you change your mind before those fifteen minutes, I’ll stay up all night long with you.”

  With that invitation, I may as well go up in flames. I am burning everywhere with lust.

  I do everything in my power to tamp it down.

  He slides the key over the reader and heads into the suite, the door shutting behind him, then clicking.

  That sound is a ticking time bomb. It’s my fifteen-minute window. It’s fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds and counting. I slump to the floor. Drop my head in my hands. This desire is a vise, crushing my mind. It’s eating me up. It’s stronger than anything else in my goddamn life.

  Stronger than responsibility.

  I stay like that, crouched on the floor, hands wrapped around my knees, counting.

  Fourteen minutes. I text Cruz, tell him about the incident, let him know Stone is in his suite.

  Thirteen minutes and thirty seconds. I stare at the door, longing clutching my chest.

  Thirteen minutes. I shouldn’t give in.

  Twelve minutes and thirty seconds. I want to go in there so badly.

  Twelve minutes. But I can resist.

  Eleven minutes and thirty seconds. I have to resist.

  Eleven minutes. He’s in the shower, naked, head tipped back, hands soaping up his body under the scalding water.

  That image flashes relentlessly before my eyes at ten minutes. But that’s not the only image. Hundreds of other filthy, fantastic ones taunt me, tease me, lure me.

  I know the consequences. I know the risks. And I know, too, that I was never going to last those fifteen minutes.

  Because at nine minutes, at eight, and at seven, I see pictures of him talking to me on the plane, talking to me in the limo, talking to me at dinner.

  And I ache with want.

  At six minutes, I stand, run my hands down the front of my shirt, take a deep breath, and give in to the madness.

  Just one more time.

  I’ll get it out of my system for good.

  That is all.

  I rap on the door. He doesn’t answer right away. And in those long seconds that it takes before he crosses the suite, I ask myself one more time.

  Will I walk away?

  But as soon as the door opens, my decision is ironclad.

  Stone is on the other side, hair slicked back, droplets of water sliding down his chest, a towel slung low on his hips. I step inside, kick the door closed behind me, and shove him up against the wall next to it.

  I grab his face, clasp his cheeks, and bring my mouth to his, stopping when I’m millimeters away.

  “You. Me. Tonight. It’s going to be like this . . .”

  And then I kiss the fuck out of him.

  I could say it’s the lack of clothes. I could say it’s what happened in the lobby. I could say it was the tension in the elevator.

  But that would all be a lie.

  It’s the last six months of wanting him. It’s the night we kissed in the hall. It’s the evening in the limo when we gave in.

  It’s the haircut, the dinner, the talks. It’s all the moments leading to this one when I’ve given myself permission.

  Permission to feel.

  It’s the way he looks at me and the way I look at him.

  I could get fired. I could become that bodyguard who fucked his client and never got another job.

  I don’t want to be that guy.

  But I also want to be this guy. I want to be the guy who takes this private risk with this man who’s so very tempting. This dangerous, alluring, private risk. I thread my hands through his hair, slamming my body against his, kissing him like it’s all I’ve thought about, because it is.

  Because there is no other way for me to kiss him.

  My lips devour his, crushing his mouth, exploring him, tasting him, letting his scent go to my head. He becomes all my sensations. Our tongues delve. Our mouths smash. And our breaths mingle together in a hot, searing collision of kisses.

  One after another after another.

  His arms wrap around my neck, grabbing the back of my head as I grip him harder, kiss him more hungrily, jerk my body against his.

  Everything about this is wrong.

  But everything about this feels right, with his body against mine.

  We kiss, long and deep and passionate, and I don’t want to stop. I don’t ever want to stop.

  But I also want all the next things.

  I wrench away, panting, my breath coming out in a rush.

  I stare into his eyes, glassy with desire, glazed with lust.

  “We’re going to fuck tonight,” I tell him.

  Stone wiggles an eyebrow as his lips curve into a crooked, filthy grin. He slides his hands up the back of my head through my hair, thrusting his hips at my pelvis. “It’s about fucking time.” He drags a hand down my shirt, over my chest, spreading his fingers across my pecs so he can work the buttons open one by one.

  He’s taking his time, but I’m pent-up. I’m needy. And I want my clothes off. I take over, and my shirt is on the floor in mere seconds.

  I free him from the confines of his towel, ripping it off, and my breath hisses as his cock springs free, standing at attention, ready for me.

  I’ve touched Stone, I’ve had him, but tonight I’m going to have him all night long. I wrap my hand around his thick shaft, shuddering at the hot, hard feel of him. Of the soft, smooth skin and the steel length. And then that fantastic bead of liquid at the head.