Idol (VIP, #1)(53)

For a long moment, we lie limp—me against him, Killian against the seat. Deep within me, he still pulses, and my body squeezes him in response. Killian chokes out a weak laugh and snuggles me closer. His lips find my cheek; I’m too wrecked to turn my head and kiss him back.

“Holy hell, woman,” he says against my damp skin. He lets out a shuddering breath. “Holy f*cking hell.”

“I know,” I whisper. It’s never been this way. And I know without doubt that Killian James isn’t just an addiction, or a summer fling. He’s becoming my everything. And that is both exhilarating and terrifying.



Killian’s place is about what I expected for a rock star who values his privacy. It’s a penthouse in a converted church just south of Washington Square—a mix of sleek modern and old-world style with soaring ceilings, dark wood floors, glass walls, and massive stained-glass windows. The rooms are open and airy, a large terrace taking up the whole back. In his white kitchen, beneath a vaulted and beamed ceiling, he makes us cubanos, a sandwich of roasted pork, ham, swiss cheese, mustard, and dill pickles, grilled until it all gets hot and gooey.

“Why didn’t I have you cooking for me before?” I muse before taking another huge bite.

He gives me a satisfied look around a mouthful of sandwich. “And miss out on your cooking? No way. I do make a mean ropa vieja, but that takes time.”

“This is perfect.”

We eat and drink icy beers. It’s two in the morning, and everything is quiet and calm. His place is huge, but here with him, it feels cozy.

“Do your parents still live in New York?” I ask him.

“From October to December.” Killian takes a swig of his beer. “Right now they’re on their yacht, probably docked in Monaco or Ibiza depending on Mom’s mood and Dad’s business deals. If Mom wants to party, it’s Ibiza. If Dad has a deal, it’ll be Monaco.”

“Wow. I mean, I’ve read about lifestyles like that but to actually live it...”

“My dad grew up with polo ponies. He went to Trinity at Cambridge. His ‘chums’ are royalty. It’s his normal.”

I can only stare at Killian. His shoulders are tight, his gaze distant. “It’s your normal too.”

He sets his beer down and meets my eyes. “I was always stuck between worlds. Staying with my abuela, traveling with my parents, the band. To be honest, Libs, I have no f*cking idea what normal is. But I want it.”

The intensity of his stare, the way his voice dips lower, makes me take his hand and squeeze it. I want to give him normal, but I don’t know how. Not when I’ve left my normal behind to be with him.

I help him load the dishwasher when we’re done. Though he had a quick shower before making dinner, he’s still shirtless and wearing worn jeans that hang low on his slim hips. His bare feet are pale against the ebony floorboards.

I’m barefoot too, and, for some reason, that makes this feel more domestic. As if we both live here.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my neck as I put the last plate in place and catch him watching me. “What’s that look?” I ask, because his expression isn’t one I’ve seen before. It’s light, and yet something is going on behind those dark eyes.

He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip. “Nothing. Just missed doing this with you.”

“This” being the dishes. He always helped me with them when we were at my home. It became a ritual: Killian would watch me cook and keep me entertained with stories and anecdotes, we’d eat, then we’d clean up together.

“It feels right, you know?” he says, that soft smile still in his eyes.

Just like that, I need to hug him. I step close and wrap my arms around his waist. My lips press light kisses to his chest, because, really, I can’t be this near and not kiss him.

Killian immediately melts into me, his arms coming up to squeeze me for a long moment, almost bruising but welcome. I want that strength. I want to feel as if nothing can come between us.

Long fingers comb through my hair, massaging my scalp. I snuggle in closer, my cheek pressed against him. The beat of his heart is steady and strong.

“When do we leave New York?” I ask.

His voice rumbles low in his chest. “Next week. We head north, then west.”

My hands smooth along the valley of his back, where the flat slabs of muscle frame his spine. His skin is heated satin. “I need to find a place to stay.”

The muscles beneath my palm bunch, and he pulls back. His dark brows lower on a frown. “You think I coaxed you all this way to send you off to a hotel? You’re staying here, Libs.”

Here is where I want to be. The idea of leaving him, even for the night, makes my skin cold. “Won’t…” I take a breath and forge on. “Won’t the guys wonder why I’m at your place?”

That frown grows, but he shakes his head and gives me a quick kiss on the temple. “Nah. I have people stay here all the time. I invited you as my guest, so it would only be right.”

“Right.” I try to draw away but he won’t let me.

Instead his lips slowly curl into a smile. “I like that you’re jealous.”

“Jealousy is not an admirable trait,” I mutter, face flaming.

“Don’t care.” He rocks me ever so slightly. “Means you consider me yours.”