“I think your plan backfired on you though,” he remarked as I finally dropped back down on the couch and reached for mylemonade.
“How so?”
“Don’t see how you ever plan on sleeping when you’re as hyped now as when you came down off that stage.”
“Yeah, that could be an issue, but there are still the highlight reels to watch.”
“True, at least until you wind up even more amped up over them,” he pointed out. “Didn’t think that part through, did you?"
“Let’s just say that I was hoping for a way different outcome when I went down to the bar.”
“Were you now?” he asked, voice having gone low and even rougher than when we’d been cheering Boston on to victory. “And what, exactly, were you looking for?"
Squirming, I side-eyed him, shrugged, and murmured. “The opposite of a fuck boy. I was planning on being the fuckboy tonight.”
“Really?”
“Is that so hard to believe?”
He cocked his head, studying me before he shook his head. “Nope.”
“So, you want to help me out with that part?” I’d meant it to be a cheeky bit of teasing, but there was no missing the undercurrent of desperation lingering in my voice.
It might not be as distinctive as Johnny’s, but there was a reason I backed him up on all the songs. I had pipes and a range that conveyed emotion. Sometimes too much. The burning flare of desire that sparked in his eyes was pleasantly unexpected.
“I’m sure I can manage, if properly motivated,” he replied. “Provided you know how to keep the things that happen behind closed doors to yourself.”
Hell yeah, guess my gaydar wasn’t broken after all!
I made a show of locking my lips and tossing the pretend key over my shoulder. “I know a lot of ways to be motivating.”
“Show me.”
Chapter 2
(Steel)
“Stay just like that and don’t move,” I growled. “I want to look at you.”
The last place I’d expected to be tonight was in Rebel’s room, staring down into green eyes flecked with gold, while he knelt naked on the carpet, hands gripping my thighs.
We hadn’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. Just the yank and rip of clothes sent flying in between messy, desperate kisses and grumbled pleas.
His.
Begging me to hurry the fuck up.
He could wait for fast. This moment was one I intended to savor.
I stepped back and his hands slid down my skin, like he didn’t want to lose the connection, but he didn’t move when I stepped around him, fingertips trailing over sun-kissed skin, occasionally pausing to trace a tattoo.
“Interesting choice,” I muttered.
“I’ve got a thing for seahorses.”
“You knew which one I was touching,” I said, mildly surprised, with how many of them were etched into his skin. “Shocking.”
“Why?”