Managed (VIP #2)(59)

My life is Kill John. Where would that leave Sophie? With a cold, emotionally stunted bastard who’s barely there?

“I love Spain,” she whispers now, breaking me out of my brooding.

I watch her in the dark. “Why do you love Spain?”

“I don’t know. It’s something in the air. I want to go dancing, eat tapas, get drunk on Sangria.”

“Small list,” I murmur. “Dancing, eh?”

She glances my way, her eyes flashing in the dim light. “I know it sounds stereotypical as hell, but I think of Spain, and I imagine flamenco dancing while wearing some frothy skirt with a flower in my hair.”

A low chuckle escapes me. “Do you know how to dance flamenco?”

“In my mind I do. And I’m fabulous.”

“You always did have an elaborate imagination, chatty girl.”

She gives me a happy, agreeing hum, and then spins her pillow to the other side; something she does when she’s ready to sleep. It’s a cool gel pillow she bought after falling victim to Libby and Killian’s sales pitch about this “magical” pillow and how it would give her the best sleep of her life.

She bought me one too, because she wanted me to have the same comforts. Little did she realize that her small act of caring tore my heart from my chest and laid it on a platter for her to claim.

“You’d have to dance with me,” she murmurs.

“In your dreams, love.”

I get a pleased chuckle in response.

Oblivious to the fact that I’m slowly unraveling, she snuggles close, her head finding the crook of my shoulder. That’s her place now, tucked up beside me, her hand lightly resting over my heart. When her finger idly traces little patterns on my chest, my eyes close tight.

I’m in pain now, actual physical pain—in my balls, my abs, my chest. Everything aches with a throbbing persistence, wrought from self-denial. I want this woman more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. But I want to keep her. I have no idea how to keep anyone close to me. Because I have no idea how to expose my heart.

Sophie keeps drawing on me, and my closed-off heart beats faster, harder. I need her to stop. I need her to go lower. I bite down hard on my lip and focus on the breath moving in and out of my lungs.

“What are your plans after the tour ends,” I find myself asking, if only to distract myself.

Her voice is slightly husky with sleepiness. “Not sure. I’ll still help out the band with social media. But I won’t be around to take pictures, obviously.” Her slim shoulder shrugs. “Brenna’s been talking to Harley Andrews’s publicist. Apparently he’s looking for a social media expert.”

My eyes snap open. “Harley Andrews, the movie star?” The sodding “sexiest man alive” according to People magazine? I’m going to kill Brenna. Throw her Louboutins in the harbor.

“That’s the one. Can you believe it?” Sophie sounds so bloody happy, while I’m fighting being ill. “He’s got a movie coming out in a few months. Set in the outback of Australia. So the idea is that he’d go on a press junket there first. I’ve always wanted go to Australia.”

My back teeth meet at hearing her dreamy sigh. Considering the average flight to Australia is over twenty hours, my chances of visiting there are nil. And Sophie wants to travel the country with Harley Sodding Andrews and his supposed irresistible charm.

I pull her a little closer under the guise of getting comfortable, and then clear my throat. “Sounds like a good opportunity. However, just so you have your options open, I know that Maliah is also looking for someone.”

Ponce. You dirty, opportunistic ponce.

Sophie’s head pops up. “Really? I love her music!”

“Oh?” I’ve only heard her listening to the woman a thousand times by now. “Well, I could put in a word.”

“Ah, sunshine, you’re the best.”

Not hardly. Just a jealous prat.

She leans in to give me a quick, friendly kiss on the cheek. My body reacts before my mind can stop it. In a blink I have her, my hands tunneling through her hair, holding the sides of her head to prevent her from retreating. And she stills, shock widening her eyes, her lips hovering inches from mine.

I can’t move: I just hold her imprisoned, staring at her in similar shock.

Let her go, you git.

I try to make my fingers release, but my body has locked up, protesting. The soft warmth of her panting breaths caress my skin. She’s so close, I can almost feel her lips—those lush, pouty lips I want on me. Anywhere, I’m not particular. No, first I want to kiss them, lick and suck their plump curves. I want to feel the slickness of her tongue against mine.

My abdomen clenches, and I swallow down a groan, my chest heaving. A tremor starts deep in my gut, and my cock pulses. It wants in, deep and snug.

Let her go. Kiss her. Let her go. Kiss her.

Rage fills me that I am so cocked up, I can’t act like a normal man.

I don’t know what she reads in my eyes, but her lips part, a little gasp escaping that I can practically taste. Christ Almighty, give me strength to let her go, or let me do her right.

The choice is literally ripped from my hands when she moves back, slipping out of my frozen hold.

“I have to pee,” she says baldly. The panic in her voice scrapes against my skin, and I flinch. But she’s already up, fleeing to the bathroom.