I lean into him, trying to enjoy the moment.
Just a moment.
Because it feels like it’s all going to explode.
When we slip through the side door into the sweltering back hallway of the arena Travis is playing in, the scent of sweat and leather hits me like a wave. I pause outside the open dressing-room door, heart hammering. Stepping inside, I see him standing in front of the mirror in black leather pants sotight they’re almost painted on, yet only he could pull them off. Every contour of his thighs and ass is on display, a sculpted masterpiece of muscle.
He’s stripped to the waist, chest bronzed and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Thick gold chains loop around his neck and wrists, catching the light as they sway with his slight movements. His dark hair spikes in every direction, each lock defying gravity, and I’m certain his fake nipple rings flash silver against his skin. He turns at the scrape of my heels on the linoleum, and I have to swallow to keep from moaning. He’s perfect.
He steps toward me, and the air between us crackles. I spread my hands over his chest, fingertips brushing the warm planes of his pecs. “You look so fucking hot,” I breathe.
He tilts his head. “You like?”
I lean closer, my pulse thrumming in my ears. “Oh... I like.” I trail my tongue over one nipple, feeling the tiny hard metal bead beneath my tongue. He hisses and leans back against the bench behind him, legs sliding apart, cock somehow hardening in those pants.
“Mischief... stage in five,” he murmurs.
“I only need two,” I say with a wicked grin. I reach for the button of those leather pants, my fingers trembling as I slip the zipper down. The moment his cock springs free—long, thickly veined, unbelievable—I catch my breath. His scent, a heady mix of cologne and something unique to him, swirls around me.
I wrap a hand around his dick, heat pulsing against my palm, and lean forward. My tongue finds the rim of his crown, flicking in slow, deliberate circles. He groans, hips pushing forward as his fingers tangle in my hair, guiding me deeper. The taste of him is warm, clean, and delicious. I swirl my tongue around the tip, then suck gently, coaxing another groan from him. With myfree hand, I stroke the base, keeping pace with my mouth as his breathing quickens.
“Gonna—fuck!” he starts, soft and ragged.
I feel the tremors before I taste his release—a sudden, hot wave flooding my tongue. He lets out a low growl, gripping my hair as he shudders. Carefully, I pull back as he slowly softens, a slow smile forming on his lips.
“You’re a bad, bad girl,” he rasps, eyes hooded with pleasure.
I stand, tug his pants back up, and zip him in. He laughs, reaches out to cup my face. “You’re fucking hot too, you know that.”
His words send a thrill through me. But before I can reply, his phone buzzes. Then, just like that, he’s kissing me quickly and darting toward the stage. I follow, finding my VIP chair with Reagan and Jasmine, and taking a seat.
“What did you two talk about in there?” Reagan says grinning.
“Oh, you know, just how tight those pants are.”
She laughs and Jasmine rolls her eyes.
On stage, Travis slides out on his knees beneath a single spotlight. The women in the front row scream his name, faces flushed with adoration. Pride swells in my chest and I can’t help swaying to the pounding beat.
Reagan fans herself dramatically. “I get it now. Your man’s a fucking vision tonight.”
“I know,” I wink, turning back to the stage. Then Harley skids out and gives Reagan a wicked grin.
I am mesmerized by Travis’s voice, my eyes fixed on the stage as he starts singing. He always starts with a cover, and tonight it is “Give Me Love” by Ed Sheeran. Our eyes lock across the darkened room. He stops mid-verse, then beckons me with a crooked finger. The audience falls silent. I look around, as if there might actually be someone behind me that he is calling.
“Girl, he is calling you, go!”
“I...”
A security guard appears at the door and nods to me.
I push to my feet, pulse pounding in my ears, as I walk onto the stage where Travis is waiting, a grin on his face so big I forget about the crowd. I can only see him. “Everyone, you remember my girl, Mischief,” he announces, voice booming. “She’s pregnant with my baby. Best news ever, right?”
A tsunami of cheers washes over us.
He grins down at me. “We’ve had our share of chaos, people pushing us apart. But she fought her way back. She’s my rock, my light.”
My cheeks burn. “Travis...” I start, but he’s already dropping to one knee.
The room goes eerily quiet.
“Mischief,” he begins, voice thick, “there was never a before you or after you—only you. You made me a better man. Will you marry me? Be my light forever? God knows I fucking need you.”
Tears blur my vision. I kneel beside him, taking his face in my hands, voice shaking, “Yes—oh God, yes!”
The crowd erupts into screams that feel as though I might just lose an eardrum. Travis sweeps me up, twirls me until the world spins, then presses his lips to mine in a kiss that sets my heart on fire. When we break apart, Harley hands him a velvet box. He opens it to reveal a diamond white-gold ring. I gasp. It’s so goddamned beautiful. He holds my hand in the air as the audience roars. Against my ear he whispers, “You’ve made me the happiest man alive.”
And I know, without a doubt, he’s made me the happiest woman.