Insatiable (Sex, Love, and Rock & Roll Book 3)

by Michelle Hazen

  “Congratulations. You were alive out there.” She hesitates, like she doesn’t like the words once she hears them out loud. “On fire, I mean. It was a hell of a show.”

  “You’re fucking right it was!” I grab her around the waist and swing her around. I can't feel her weight, only the bunch and sweet release of my muscles burning through calories. I'm so strong right now that I don't need to pull her into my body to lower her back down, but I do anyway, letting our skin and costumes rake each other like foreplay.

  Ava's pupils dilate, and she sucks in a hard breath as if she can read my thoughts all over my face. Only then do I remember I just slid her down my entire body, and my rampant erection. It's not my face she's reading my thoughts on.

  Son of a...

  What am I doing? She's not any other girl, high on the heat of the show and ready to fuck. She's AVA.

  “Crap, I’m sorry.” I grin, and my blood's pumping too hard for me to gauge if this smile is wicked or earnest, mischievous or boisterous. “Got carried away.”

  Her fingers flex on my arm, fingernails biting into my bicep. I clamp my teeth together against the growl that wants to emerge as my cock punches out, fighting the cage of my zipper.

  “After a set like that? No wonder.” Her eyes flare and gleam with an energy to match my own, the touch of wistfulness burning off like early-morning fog.

  Weight hits me square in the back and I stagger, making Ava stumble a little before my hands catch Jera's thighs with the muscle memory of a thousand other piggyback rides. The tiny drummer wraps her arms around my shoulders in a fierce hug and I swing her around, hard enough the centrifugal force nearly flings her off as she clings to my back, shrieking with laughter.

  Ava crosses her arms and smiles, watching us with her bare abs flexing above the low-slung waistband of her costume. She let us close tonight, and she must have been too busy with press to change out of her finale outfit during our set. I don't know if I should be grateful or pained, because my mouth is cement-dry at the sight of her. The muscles in my thighs tense, aching for the thrust of the hard, deep fucking I want to give her.

  Was that little glimpse of longing in her eyes for my performance or for me?

  “Ow, Jax! You're squishing my legs,” Jera complains, but then trails off into a squeak of joy as she spots her husband and bails off my back straight into his arms without ever touching the floor.

  I shake my hair back, sweat-dampened strands slapping at my ears. My eyes burn, so bright with the show that I feel like I'll torch straight through anyone I look at. I turn away from Ava, only to see Danny with his hand clamped around the back of his wife's neck, Kate pushing up onto her toes to get deeper into their kiss.

  I close my eyes, a groan rumbling deep in my throat as the huge, busy backstage area starts to seem like a cage full of eyes. I need to find someone in the next handful of seconds or I'm going to lose it and I don't want Ava to see that.

  I gulp air. Not someone. That’s not okay. I can't just find a girl, her gaze as wild and unfocused as mine, and wrap her thighs around me. I don’t want to be that guy. What I want is what Danny and Kate have, the scream of passion only heightened by how much they want to quench it with each other and no one else.

  And two ponies, world peace, and throw in a Grammy while you’re at it, Santa.

  “You okay?” Ava's voice, a little hoarse from singing, rasps over my nerve endings with a shiver of pleasure-pain so vivid—

  Before I can handle the sound of her voice, she touches my arm and my dick swells, tingles rippling from the base all the way up to the tip in that lightheaded moment that comes just before I explode.

  I step back and pry my eyes open, trying to find the voice that belongs to a calmer version of myself.

  “Five minutes to post-show meeting!” Kate's voice rises above the clamor of the backstage. “Dressing Room 1!” She clears her throat at the end of the shout, and I wonder if I might have to fight her and Danny for the only closet-bound privacy to be found for the next half a mile or so.

  “Jax.” Ava's eyes spear into me. “Talk to me.”

  I swallow, my Adam's apple scraping. “Just riding the afterglow.” My voice hits low and rumbly, like my vocal chords just had a long, kinky night and they're lying back for a well-deserved post-coital cigarette.

  She blinks twice, swallows, then smiles in a way that doesn't look quite right on her. “Yeah. See you in the meeting, okay?” She turns quickly, and walks away. Thank fucking Christ because her finale outfit is so precarious my knuckles burn with the need to slide it out of my way.

  Her breasts were barely hidden by a crossed pair of bandoliers, complete with fake bullets. They skim the inner curve of her waist, just above the band of tight leather shorts cut high in the back so I can see the lower half of her tightly toned bottom. Exactly the part I'd cup in my palms to lift her up onto my cock.

  As she walks away, the dual whips holstered at her thighs swish their goodbye, the black leather whisk of straps capped with bright gold hearts that chime and brush her taut, muscular legs, and—

  I think Jera is saying something to me, but I'm already steaming toward the nearest bathroom.

  I only have four minutes before the meeting, but I only need forty seconds. When it's over, I lay my damp forehead against the cold, chipped paint of the bathroom stall door. Piss spatters loudly against a urinal outside my stall. I struggle to control my breathing so the other dude won't hear me panting, my softening dick in one hand and a sodden wad of toilet paper in the other.

  The glamorous life of a rock star. Let's see them put this shit on the cover of Rolling Stone.

  THE RELIEF ONLY LASTS until I get out of the bathroom. The fans are still screaming for us out in the stadium. My heart surges at the sound, and I want back out on that stage. Now, not tomorrow night.

  I grit my teeth against the thought of all the sagging hours between now and then. Instead, I put on a smile and high-five my way into Dressing Room #1, joking with the roadies. It's hot as shit in here, the room way too small for the couple dozen crew members crammed in along with Ava's backup band. I spot Jacob at the edge, near Ava's vanity mirror. I head that way, figuring Jera is there, too, even if she’s too short to spot in a crowd. I squeeze her shoulder as I take my spot next to her. As soon as I turn to face Ava at the front of the room, I go hard as a pipe again.

  Those damned bandoliers are maybe four inches wide. They're tailored to her body, crisscrossing at her delicate collarbone and then dividing to drape in a gravity-defying fashion across the very center of her breasts. She sits poised and confident in what I'm coming to recognize as her Cleopatra posture, with the straps of her floggers dripping off the edge of the director's chair she sits in.

  She only holds herself like that in front of an audience or a camera. I still remember the lazy line of her shoulder the morning we first met, when she wore pajamas and all her attention was focused on me instead of a waiting crowd.

  Dean leans against the dressing table at her side and she pokes him in one hip—which is elbow-height to her—clearly teasing the bodyguard about something. He tosses me a scowl that says he just caught me popping wood at the sight of his boss's rack. I wink at him, because I'm a jackass like that.

  During pre-tour publicity, I was a perfect gentleman, all-too-aware of my status as her opening act. I'm not dumb—I know since the band blew up, I'm a hell of a catch for most women. But to a rock and roll blue blood like Ava, I'm money so new you can still smell the ink on the bills. Not to mention, a nine-month tour isn't the place for the awkward exes phase that would follow if we chased the chemistry simmering between us into a hookup.

  And it would follow. No matter how lonely I get sometimes, my libido can't downshift into the granny lane of a monogamous relationship.

  But right now, I'm feeling much less practical. And twisted enough to fantasize about tying up her bodyguard and making him watch—disapprovingly, of course—while I prop her up on that dressing table,
running my tongue up her inner thigh and along the line of those tiny shorts. Close enough to taste if she's wet for me already, or if I need to work her into two or three screaming orgasms before I stand up, lower my zipper, and give her what she needs, her body gripping my cock like it's begging even as I thunder into her until we crack the mirror behind the dressing table with—

  An elbow brushes mine and I flinch.

  Danny lifts an eyebrow at me, as relaxed as if he just took a nap and woke up with a leisurely joint. Kate hurries up to Ava's side, snapping a hairband onto her fresh ponytail, cheeks flushed.

  I scowl at Danny. “How’d you like that closet?”

  He just smirks. Of course he does, because he didn’t have to take care of business alone, with someone pissing on the other side of his door.

  “Okay, so those of you who have traveled with me before know I like to do a meeting at the end of every show,” Ava says, “to congratulate you all for your hard work, recognize people who kicked a little extra ass, and make sure we address any problems before they snowball into show-stoppers.”

  Danny glances at me, and I shrug. Who the fuck knows why we're in the crew staff meeting? To show solidarity with our co-headliner as she analyzes all the opening-night missteps? We've still got meet and greets with our VIP pass holders to do, and a quick post-show Q & A with...shit I don't even remember. Ah well, whatever. I'd a million times rather watch Ava in that Dominitrix/gunslinger costume than whoever shelled out for the meet-the-band-when-they're-still-sweaty premium package.

  A smile plays around my mouth as I listen to her banter with everyone. She's such a mom right now, giving out two compliments for every correction, and smiling and joking with even the newest crew member. Somehow, that just makes the black leather of her costume even hotter.

  “I saved the best for last.” Ava turns to me and a grin lights up her face. “To my fellow headliners, who totally killed opening night!” She and Jera both start to laugh and Ava continues, “Jax, by the third song I was trying to hurl myself onto the stage and Dean had to hold me back, I swear. Rehearsals didn't do you guys justice. With a live audience you're just...” She stops, her gaze burning into mine and I immediately forget every other person in the room. She's as lit up as I am, as crazy for a release. I cock an eyebrow at her before I think better of it.

  Ava blinks and smooths the waves of her black-and-gold hair extensions. “Okay, but um, speaking of rehearsals. The laser timing is just a touch off and I don't think we're hitting our full potential with the light array. I talked to Kate and she's already trying to buy us some extra rehearsal time at the next couple venues so you can do a little trial and error with the lighting staff.”

  Wait, she wants us to practice more? We're already on tour. We rehearsed for weeks before this, and paid a ridiculous sum of money to do days of full production runs that left Jera so exhausted she fell asleep on her silverware during dinner one night.

  “It's more complicated choreography than your guys' normal instinct-driven shows,” Ava continues apologetically. “And it's my fault, because by combining tours you were forced into a different style than you've been known for. It takes a lot more planning, but I think if we do it right, the shows can still have that raw, honest heart you do best.”

  Beside me, Danny goes scary still.

  “During the fourth song, especially, I was thinking that—”

  “Does the rest of the crew really need to sit through this?” Jera asks, glancing at our bassist. “I mean, if it's stuff we need to work on with the light techs?”

  “The whole show is the whole show,” Ava says, wincing. “I mean, every part affects six others. That's why I like to do this together, so we're all on the same page.”

  Jera nods tightly. “Right, yeah.”

  “So, Danny,” Ava says, “that solo you added to 'Graveyard Bets'? Oh my God, that was genius. I had goosebumps for so long I nearly called my dermatologist.”

  His body tightens beside me, and it's like the air around us sucks taut along with him.

  “That jam was pretty badass,” I mutter, just so he won't think she's kissing his ass. Danny’s not great at taking compliments.

  She leans forward to prop her elbows on her knees. “Thing is, with this much planned sound and light, you can't really improvise in the moment like that. I mean, if you want we can leave gaps in the programming, have a set length of time you, or any of the other musicians, can improv while the lights crew does the same, then sling it right back into the choreographed set. But we have to have some plan ahead of time, you know?”

  Ava waits for his acknowledgment, and nothing comes. Kate clutches her tablet hard enough I'm waiting for the screen to crack, her eyes deliberately avoiding her husband's face. Ava moves like she’s going to smooth down a non-existent skirt, but when her fingers touch the strands of her costume’s whips instead, her fingers tighten into fists and she quickly clasps them in her lap.

  “I mean, when it's just you and your band, that kind of spontaneity is wonderful.” She blows out a breath. “I miss it in my own music, honestly. But when you've got this many people working together to pull off a multi-media performance, you don't have that much leeway.”

  “Then pull the fucking lasers,” Danny says.

  Cloth rustles as the crowd packed into the room with us stirs.

  Ava's eyes widen. “Um...”

  “The studio album plays the same songs the same way every time,” Danny says. “We play it in concert so we can let our music live along with us. Not sit static in a box like a script I've already read a hundred times.”

  I take a step forward, the tight air in the room itching at my skin. “Hey, I get what you're both saying. Let's talk it over on the bus tonight and try some stuff at tomorrow's rehearsal.” I refuse to look back at the dozens of roadies probably tweeting this argument to all their followers, word for word.

  “Yeah, the lights are cool,” Jera says. “But I don't want a push-button performance either.”

  “Fuck the lights,” Danny says, and the people behind him seem farther away than they were when we first came in. “Our second album went platinum without all the smoke and mirrors. We're selling songs, not disco balls, and there's nothing wrong with our playing.” He says it hard, like he's daring Ava to argue. “The only thing wrong is all that expensive shit can't keep up with the way we improvise off each other.”

  I start to shake my head, then stop before Danny sees me. He doesn't get it. Music can mesmerize you through a five dollar set of earbuds. But the rumble of a single subwoofer goes tectonic when you have a whole stack of them. And when you kidnap every one of the audience's senses, filling their eyes with color and their ears with lyrics and their chests with the quake of emotion and one hundred decibels bursting like an orgasm? It's fucking better.

  “It's not just about being flashy, it's about creating a whole environment as big and amazing as the music itself,” Ava says. “If it was just the music, we could play this tour standing on top of a box on Ninth and Main. But it's just never going to be the same as those notes ringing through the air of Carnegie Hall.”

  “I don't think I need a lecture from you on the difference between showmanship and musical integrity.” Danny's eyes don't dip below her chin, but they don't need to. The hint of disgust in the set of his lips says it all.

  Ava's jaw drops and at her side, Danny's wife's eyes bulge. What’s up his ass all of a sudden? It’s not like Danny to give two fucks about anything other than his wife and his basslines.

  “Excuse me?” Ava’s spine snaps straight. If I thought she was sitting like Cleopatra before, she's all Kali now, the power of destruction so clear in her voice I swear the building quakes around us. “So I guess now you're going to tell me black leather is no longer appropriate for playing metal-edged rock and roll, in your educated opinion?”

  “You can play the bottom ten in a tutu made out of teeth, for all I care. But if you're going to be all over TV, presenting yourself
as a girl-power role model, you might want to consider what kind of 'power' you're teaching them to use.”

  “Danny, what in the—” Kate gasps.

  Ava pushes out of her chair and beside her, Dean appears to shrink. The bodyguard’s face is expressionless but anxiety fidgets in his eyes. “Did you,” she asks, “just call me a whore?”

  Chapter 5: Own Your Body

  Ava’s shoulders shrink just the barest hint inward when she says “whore.” I’m not sure anybody but me sees it, until her bodyguard takes a step forward so he’s directly beside her as she faces off with my best friend.

  “No. A whore sells her body for money.” Danny shrugs one shoulder. “You can do whatever you want with your body, and that’s none of my business. But once you decided to be the face of hard-core feminism, your example told every girl in junior high band class that nobody would listen to what they had to say without a little titty-flashing on the side.”

  I want to throw up—the mood in this room fermenting in my stomach. “Whoa.” I grip Danny's shoulder, hard. “You're over the line, man.”

  “And you get to judge me?” All the silence in the universe surrounds Ava’s words. “You, a man, get to judge what feminism should mean?” She coughs out one syllable of a laugh. “Of course. Because if you own your sexuality, you’re manly. If I own mine, I’m a slut.”

  “I don't judge anyone,” Danny says. “Your life is yours and mine is mine. But if you're going to sit here and teach me how to present myself to the world, then you must be inviting me to do the same for you.”

  “You know what’s funny?” Ava asks. I can barely remember the definition of the word right now, humor seems so far away from this moment. “The reason you think I’m a slut is because you're incapable of seeing a woman's body outside of your reaction to it. You said my body is my business, but you only see it as it relates to you. If I'm clothed, it's because I'm a prude, withholding from you what you want. If I'm not, it's because I'm teasing you with what you can't have, getting you hot. I'm never just me. I'm an extension of every cock in the audience.”