Lust.

I’m still here waiting. Why am I waiting? I can’t think of anything except his nipple under my tongue. Silver eyes. That wig I’m going to yank off him so I can run my fingers over his close-cropped hair.

When there’s finally a huge, huge roar—after like a year!—I know the show is over.

My heart is pounding as I wonder where he’ll come from. After a few more moments, he charges down some hidden side stairs, his body filling the doorway.

Like two magnets, our eyes lock.

My breathing hitches.

Mackenna yanks off the small microphone taped to his back and the earbud in his ear, then tosses them aside.

He starts walking toward me. There are all kinds of cables and contraptions around us, and I back up until I hit a wall with a metal door. My brain feels as scattered as the butterflies in my stomach.

Oh god, I have to let him.

No. I can’t let him.

Panicked for what I feel, I turn and run, frantically searching for an exit. Down here, it’s a labyrinth. I’m dodging cables and equipment, but there is no exit I can find.

Behind me I hear his footsteps gaining on me and then, low and rough with lust: “Pandora.”

He’s at my back, hand on my wrist, pulling me back to him. My heart is pounding helplessly in my throat as I feel my muscles sag at his touch. I let him turn me. I face him, full of dread, want, dismay as I let him slowly press me up against the metal door. He eases his hands into the waistband of my skirt as I grab his spiky mohawk and pull on it. He drags his nose against mine as I toss the wig aside, and I kiss the top of his head because . . . I don’t even know why. Because he’s Mackenna Jones. Infuriating and odious and also . . . an adorable dreamer I once knew, who made his dream come true. The kiss was impulsive, but it makes him groan as though it did something profound to him. I’m shaking with emotion, and he’s shaking with something I suppose is adrenaline.

“Are you wet?” he asks through panting breaths.

“Yes,” I say. And I am. From watching him, with his chest sweaty, and from the feel of his inked skin, warm under my fingers.

“I’m so fucking turned on,” he groans and shoves my panties aside, giving me two fingers. Just like that. They slip in so easily because I’m soaked. I have no control, and I can’t stop myself from throwing my head back and riding those fingers with a circle of my hips. Oh god nothing’s ever felt like this. . . . He bites my lower lip and sucks it into his mouth. It feels hot and wet and good. So good. I bite his lip hungrily, sinking my nails in his scalp.

“Kenna,” I moan.

“God, I missed the way you say my name like that.”

Except you know this can’t happen, Pandora, this is going nowhere but a dark, dangerous dead end.

And because I know this, it’s with a strange pain and dread that I stand here, both wanting and not wanting what I can tell by his gaze he’s about to do.

He spreads my arms out and pulls my shirt off. The cool air brushes across my skin, and my nipples pucker as he unfastens my bra.

“Don’t, Kenna,” I suddenly say, stepping back and awkwardly closing my bra.

“Don’t fucking cover up, Pink,” he gruffly commands.

My hands shake as I try to fasten my bra back up.

He chuckles—the sound sexy, male—and tsks as he tugs my bra open again, his fingers brushing my skin as he tosses it aside.

He doesn’t know the regrets and memories roiling inside me as he cups me in his hands. He leans down to kiss my lips, and he smells of mint, his hands warm. My breathing quickens and I gasp when he tugs my skirt up to my hips and drops to one knee, spreads my legs, and takes my ankle in his firm grip.

“One leg up around my shoulders,” he says.

I lift my leg, and he bends over to set his mouth on my pussy. The heat of his tongue as it flashes over my clit makes me moan.

No, no, no. We shouldn’t be doing this.

But he spreads my legs wider by wedging his shoulders in between them, reaching up to let his fingers caress a path up the inside of my thighs. My naked legs tremble as his tongue rushes over my skin.

I reach between my legs and cup the back of his head, arching my back so he can eat me up harder, faster, deeper.

His hunger is palpable in every flash of his tongue, every groan he buries inside me. I writhe. I moan. He lifts his head to look at me, and his eyes are molten, his jaw clamped as though he’s holding something back with brutal force.

“Look at you,” he hisses, taking me in with a sweep of his fevered silver eyes. His lips glisten with my juices. His closely shaven head is still perfect, not rumpled by my hands. I hear a scraping sound as he drags a hand across the back of his head. “Son of a bitch, Pink.” He says something that sounds like me being this vulnerable right now undoes him. But there’s something odd here. Instead of feeling vulnerable, when he drinks me up with his eyes I feel powerful, like I’m all the air on this earth, and all the water, too.

Back on his feet, he pulls me against his body. Every hot, hard, unyielding muscle against me, his body fevered and damp against my bare skin. And he comes at me like an animal—his mouth, teeth, tongue, lips, working up my body. His groans coming from deep inside him like my own, jerked from the very pit of me.

Our hands are all over, mouths all over.

I can feel his thighs against mine, the line of his cock digging into my pelvis. I’m unstoppable. Rabid. I want him closer, I want him in me.

“Hang on tight, babe,” he whispers in that low, after-the-concert gruff voice of his, understanding me, understanding what I need.