by Amber Lin
Maddy leveled her agent with a fierce look. “Our sex lives are none of their business.”
Ward smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
It was never a good sign when Ward smiled. “So you’ll handle it? That’s why I pay you the big bucks, right?”
“This is how I’m handling it, Maddy. Congratulations. You’re getting engaged.”
“Um, no. I’m not.”
“Should I just tell Krist you didn’t feel like it? That his Half-Life tour is getting canceled because Madeline Fox said no?”
And so she was screwed, royally—all before nine a.m. and without any foreplay. She should definitely not have gotten out of bed this morning.
Madeline stalked to the elevator door and swiped her card to access the penthouse levels.
Goddamn it. She’d worked so hard to be rich and powerful and wild so that no one could tell her what to do. So that no one would even try. But it always backfired. The more money she made, the more managers there were to tell her how to spend it. The more fans she had, the more execs there were breathing down her neck.
And as wild as all her antics had been, absolutely none of them was as crazy as pretending to be engaged to Krist Mellas.
Krist fucking Mellas, who just last night had shoved his head between her thighs in a back alley. Krist Mellas, who needed this PR stunt. Unlike her.
The whole good-behavior thing would actually work against her, although nobody knew that. Nobody knew that her antics—while fun—all added up to one thing: getting out of the contract from hell. The fake engagement would counteract all that work she’d put in, making her look like the good little pop princess instead of the wild child.
But Krist needed the good PR so he could stop fielding questions about his sexuality. So he could stop hiding. So he could get back to the music.
The elevator doors dinged—a polite, muted sound—and opened directly onto her suite. A nice hot shower would ease the knots in her muscles, if not the knots in her gut. The elevator doors hadn’t even fully shut before she ripped off her sports bra, the fabric still damp and clinging to her skin. Her breasts bounced free, and she groaned at the painful pleasure of it. She tucked her thumbs into the waistband of her yoga pants, yanked, and then she was naked.
Perks of living in the penthouse—her windows were higher than any nearby building. So there was no one to see her stroll over to the bar. No one to see her bend over to the mini fridge and pull out a chilled bottle of water.
Just thinking about what she’d have to do—for her agent, for herself, for Krist—made her flush. She pressed the cool plastic to her cheek; icy drops fell onto her chest and dripped down her breasts. The cold pricked her skin with enough pain to distract her; she closed her eyes and let the bottle roll down her neck.
The ribbed cylinder caressed her breast, freezing her nipple. It hurt, really. Too cold in the frigid hotel air. Too harsh with its crinkly recycled material. But she smiled anyway, her eyes still shut, as she unscrewed the lid and took a big ass drink.
A low sound came from a few feet away.
Her eyes snapped open, and there was the object of her not-desire, slouched deep in an armchair in the faux living room. Before she could control herself, water spewed out of her mouth—not quite reaching him. Dripping, instead, down her chin and her breasts, making a mess of herself.
“Christ,” she hissed, wiping herself with the back of her hand.
He had been there this whole time. While she got naked. While she practically fondled a water bottle.
He’d been there.
“Didn’t know you’d…” he mumbled.
If there was any consolation, it was that he looked more sex tousled than her, somehow. He sat so deep into the chair he’d fused with it, the plush leather cushions bulging all the spaces in between. Maybe his pose had been casual or insouciant at one time, but now it just looked bulldozed. His eyes were dark and unfocused. His hair looked rumpled, as if she’d run her fingers through it.
And between his legs was his obvious arousal, even through his jeans.
Her heart raced even though she’d been in unfortunate situations before. And as always, there were two choices here. Run away, embarrassed, ashamed of her body and the response it made in him. Or own it. And the choice had been made a long time ago, when she’d first noticed the effects of her short schoolgirl skirts.
She put a hand on her hip. “You didn’t think I’d be in my own hotel room?”
“No, I did,” he managed. “I just didn’t think you’d be naked.”
“So you stay fully dressed when you shower? How quaint.”
That snapped him out of it. He gave her a once-over—though he couldn’t quite manage to hide the admiration. His gaze flicked to the water bottle she still held. “Surely you can afford a real shower,” he said drily.
She might have cracked a smile then, but she turned on her heel instead. Let him watch her bare ass as she walked away. Let him imagine her soaping up. Let him wish he could join her.
That wasn’t a bad idea. Maybe he could join her. At the door to the bedroom, she turned back.
She had to give him credit—he held her gaze. Even with his erection huge in his jeans, he held her gaze. Like when she’d plunked a hand on her hip instead of turning away. This is my body. You can’t hurt me.
It was kind of a lie. But it was brave anyway, and she liked him a little more for it. Which was annoying, because she already liked him way too much. That would have to be her new mission: figuring out how to hate him.
“How did you get in here, anyway?” she asked.
He held up a plastic card. “Front desk. Apparently we’ve been moved into the same suite. You don’t snore, do you?”
“No, but if I did, they could probably record it and sell it for ten grand on eBay,” she said sweetly.
Krist snorted. “That’s right, princess. Sell out a little more.”
She knew—she knew what he thought of her. And she didn’t care. She’d taught herself not to care, so why did it feel like there was a rip somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach. Why did it feel like something had torn open and spilled out? Why did her breath come short and her hands begin to shake?
No, he was definitely not coming inside. She slammed the bedroom door—and then the bathroom door for good measure. Let him imagine all he wanted, because that was all he’d get.
Because suddenly hating him felt a whole lot easier.
*
Krist closed his eyes once Madeline disappeared to take her shower. He wasn’t going to follow her even if those theatrical door slams were basically engraved invitations. He wouldn’t sink deeper into the plush chair and imagine her under the water, all slick and soapy. Her nimble fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him down, down, down to his knees. Like the song. The one she wanted him to sing. The flip-side of “Beast.” Literal and figurative. Prey to her predator. He shuddered as if the water were actually running down his face, stealing his breath. Make me come. He absolutely would not unbutton his pants and palm his cock. So what if he’d been in a state of semihardness since he’d dropped her off his shoulders in that alley last night?
He would hang on to the remaining shreds of his dignity. His dick might like the idea of being used by a spoiled princess, but he was not ruled by his dick. Contrary to the court of public opinion.
He closed his eyes and tried to let the white noise of an expensive hotel suite lull him into a meditative state. He’d been stealing snatches of peace where he could lately. He’d learned early that “get it while you can” wasn’t just a rock-and-roll mantra, it was a survival skill. The tour would ramp up again soon—especially if this scheme worked—and there’d be no real quiet at all, just crashing into bed bone tired at three a.m.
He drifted.
“You could nap in the bed, you know.”
For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was, but the haze lifted quickly. Madeline lounged on the couch across from him clad only in den
im shorts and—he couldn’t call it a shirt; the scrap of tie-dyed fabric knotted around her neck barely covered her breasts. The beaded fringe clacked as she rolled onto her side. She had her damp hair slicked back into a ponytail, and she looked impossibly young. Too young for this life. For him. For any of the things he’d been dreaming about. His neck heated. “Fuck, Madeline. How old are you?”
“You were at my birthday party.”
“I didn’t exactly count the candles on your cake.”
“No, but you sure put your face in it.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“I thought we already established that you like it when I talk dirty.”
He shook his head and covered his face with his hand. If she was truly underage, he’d send himself to hell. She couldn’t be. She just couldn’t. Ward wouldn’t set him up like that.
She stood and performed a complicated and exaggerated stretch, flexing muscles and exposing flashes of skin. She padded across the room and hopped into his lap. “How old do you want me to be, Krist?” She twirled her hair with one hand and patted his cheek with the other. “Squeaky clean and sweet sixteen?”
He ground his teeth and shrugged off her touch. “Just tell me your real age.”
“Were you under a rock last year when the media had a field day with my ‘she’s finally legal’ birthday? There were countdown clocks and everything. Maxim did a four-page spread.”
Disgust coiled low in his belly. “What the fuck is wrong with people? Creepy bastards.”
Her smile wobbled, and for a second she looked…not young at all. She looked tired and sad. His heart tripped. And then she grinned, erasing whatever pain he thought he’d seen. Pain that he’d probably imagined. “You think so? The label loved it. All that free publicity.”
“That’s all that matters, right? As long as people are talking, you’re happy.”
She pivoted, grinding on his crotch and launching herself off the chair. The world’s shortest lap dance. “As long as they’re saying the right things.”
There it was again. The wince. The momentary flash of pain on her face. “Are you…hurt?”
She paled. “I don’t have time to be hurt.”
“Is that something you can re-schedule too?”
“Damn right it is. If you want it bad enough.”
“Nobody told me. I guess I spent two months in an air cast after a stage diving incident for nothing.”
“You don’t have three hours of choreography to go with your set list.”
“So here we are.” He sighed. “Playing through the pain.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. A disinterested bellhop rolled a cart with his luggage into the room. “Where would you like this?”
He’d like it back in his own room, but that wasn’t an option anymore. He could dig his heels in and fight the label, but they’d only find another way to make him pay. And Madeline, what would they do to her? Who would they force on her if not him?
“Just leave them in the bedroom, thanks. We’ll sort it all out later.”
Krist opened his mouth to argue but realized that would only hurt their cause. They were supposed to be engaged. He wouldn’t have his things anywhere but in her—their bedroom.
He followed his bags into the room.
One bed. One giant bed. Of course.
As soon as they were alone, she bounded into it with all the exuberance of an unruly kitten, perching on her knees and rucking up the bedding as if she were making a damn nest.
“There’s plenty of room for the two of us. I promise not to bite. Unless you ask nicely.”
“There will be no biting.”
She crawled down to the foot of the bed, her body a long line of artfully exposed skin. Her lips drawn into a practiced pout. She looked up at him from beneath impossibly thick lashes and purred, “We could just cuddle.”
He’d seen her do the exact same move onstage at the VMAs. “You can turn it off now; we’re alone.”
“I don’t understand.” She hooked a finger into his belt loop and tugged, sending a bolt of unwelcome pleasure right to his crotch. If she kept doing that, he was going to have to start wearing pants with no loops. He shifted, and her face lit up with recognition. She knew exactly what she was doing.
“Bullshit. You’ve got your charisma cranked to eleven. It’s exhausting.” He grabbed her wrist, pinning her hand before it could wander.
“Oh, you want to play rough?” She squirmed in his grip, voice full of delight, wriggling onto her knees until they were almost eye to eye. It pissed him off, how happy she was to be in this situation. His body responding to her on autopilot pissed him off even more.
“I don’t want to play at all, princess.”
Her breasts brushed against his chest, and he had to squeeze her wrist tighter to keep himself from pulling her close. She pressed her lips to his jaw and whispered, “I hate it when you call me that.”
“Liar. Tell the truth.”
“Make me.” And then she nipped his earlobe. Sharp and sweet and full of promise. It hurt. Not the bite, the promise. That she’d use him to live out whatever bad-girl fantasy she’d had playing on repeat since before he’d asked for her help, for whatever time they were tossed together.
He spun her around so that her arm was twisted behind her back, pinned between them, and she giggled. He wanted it to hurt, damn it. But it wouldn’t. Nothing touched her inside her princess bubble.
He growled. “You said you wouldn’t bite unless I asked.”
“You were asking with those sad eyes of yours. Begging for it, really.”
Her body hummed against his. He had to clamp his other arm across her chest to keep her still. Her silly top slipped, and her nipple jutted against his forearm. He froze. “This isn’t a game.”
She arched into him, letting her head fall against his shoulder. “But we’re having such a good time.”
He wasn’t having a good time. He was in hell. No good would come of this, but she was so fucking hot all pressed against him. If he let her go, she’d just start back up with her endless parade of teasing torment. Better to control it. “You want me to fuck you, princess? What about your purity pledge?”
She gasped. “Publicity stunt. All for show.”
“Like our engagement?”
“Yes. No. I mean, I’m not a virgin. Not for a long time. We can do this. I want to do this.”
“You always get what you want, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He let her go. “Fine. Strip.”
She tumbled out of his arms and landed with a surprised oof. “Really? Because—”
“We’re done talking, princess. The only thing you’re using that mouth for now is sucking my dick.” He fumbled with the buckle on his belt, hoping she couldn’t see the tremble in his fingers.
He’d use her before she could use him. He’d fuck her dry, and it would be awful. He’d end this on his terms.
*
Madeline couldn’t believe he was going through with it. Sure, their chemistry was off the charts. It had been simmering since that kiss on set. And then set to boil after the birthday kiss.
Even before that, they’d eye fucked each other across the red-velvet seats at the Grammy’s. But he’d always slammed on the steel lid of disdain, making sure she knew how much he wouldn’t fuck her.
But the leather of his belt whistled through the loops. The zipper of his jeans sounded like a goddamn jet taking off in the hotel room. Was he bluffing? Did he think she’d back down?
He didn’t know her at all.
She blinked, all innocence. “Why do I need to strip if I’m just going to blow you?”
He scowled as if she’d found some weak link in his plan. “Because I want you to.”
Oh yeah, she could work with this. She smiled, ignoring the wary light that entered his eyes. He was right to be nervous. She was going to do more than suck his dick. She was going to blow him away.
That was a tri
ck she’d learned at KidMania. Fuck them so hard they couldn’t see straight, and they’d say yes to anything. A pay raise, a feature spread in the hottest magazine. And insiders would sneer and wink and judge the hell out of her—exactly how she liked it.
She grinned. “Tell me when to stop.”
Then she gripped the bottom strings of her shirt and tugged it over her head. Her breasts swung free, out and proud, and he didn’t even look. His gaze was locked on to her eyes. It was a fucking staring contest. It was a goddamn compliment. How many men had ever looked her in the eye when offered the sight of her bare breasts? None. Just Krist.
She hooked her thumbs in her jeans. The whole time, her hips swished to the beat in her head. It wasn’t her latest song. It wasn’t any of her songs, not the ones written by people she’d never met, not even the ones she collaborated on. The music in her head was hers alone, not for public consumption.
They couldn’t truly judge her if they didn’t even know her.
The jeans whooshed down. She hung on to her bra and panties for a beat too long while he glared at her. Was this his version of a smolder? Did women fling themselves at his angry stare?
Probably. She was about to do just that.
“Stop,” he said hoarsely.
She froze with her thumbs tugging down the elastic of her panties. She was naked except for a half-inch tangle of stretchy silk. If he seriously called a halt now, she was going to call him a clit tease.
“But then how are you going to…?” She trailed off and looked down, feigning shock at her mostly naked state. She cupped one hand over the mound of her panties. Then the other. The triangle of her arms pressed her breasts together, and she knew exactly how she looked. Part of rehearsals was watching tape of herself, over and over, so that she knew exactly how she looked at every angle of every limb.
This was a variation of the Marilyn Monroe pose. Only naked.
He swallowed, and she could almost hear the dry flesh of his throat work. If possible, he looked even angrier. He looked furious, as if she’d stomped on all his dandelion wishes and then eaten the last piece of cake.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, breathy. There was a line in a song that she sang just like that. Did I string you along?
