Idol (VIP, #1)(54)

He sounds way too smug. I give his side a poke, and he skitters away, giggling— which is way too cute—then cuddles me again.

“I might have had guests. But no one has ever stayed in my room, baby doll.”

“Ever?” The question comes more like a snort.

That annoying smile of his grows. “If I hook up with someone, I take them to a hotel. Learned that lesson when pictures of my old apartment ended up on the Internet, and personal effects had a nasty habit of walking away without my permission.”

“God, that’s sleazy.” I kiss his chest again. “I’m sorry they did that to you.”

His fingers continue their massage along the back of my skull. “It should have been expected. They just wanted a piece of the fame or a souvenir. Like bragging rights.”

He says it so matter-of-factly—as if it’s no big deal to be treated like a thing instead of a person. He might not mind, but my stomach sours at the thought. But was I any better? Back home, I have a Univox Hi-Flier that was played and then subsequently smashed by Kurt Cobain; it’s framed in a glass case in my upstairs office. Dad got it from some friend or another way back in 1989 before Cobain was a legend. A smashed and useless guitar, cherished because a rock idol played it.

I’d wanted to give it to Killian as a gift. But now I’m not so sure.

“So no,” Killian goes on, unaware of my inner turmoil. “Only friends and fellow musicians get to stay here.” He pauses. “And girlfriends. They get the full experience.”

Warm to the core, I smile against his skin. “But you just said no one has stayed in your bed.”

“No one has,” he answers easily before his voice goes soft. “Until you.”

Funny how some confessions can stop your heart and steal your breath, send everything spiraling. I close my eyes and hold him. He’s never had a girlfriend? I wouldn’t care if he had. Only here and now matter. But the idea that he’s never let anyone else in sends the weight of responsibility settling heavy on my heart. I need to tread carefully here, keep him well and somehow find my place in this new world of his.

Killian slowly lets me go but holds my hand. His expression is tender, his eyes tired. “Let’s go to bed.” A quick smile. “I love saying that to you.”

He’s going to kill me. They’ll find me lying on the floor, my heart burst wide open, too full of him to stay in my chest.

He guides me past a living area, a media room, and up a glass-and-steel staircase. We pass two more bedrooms and a reading nook, back-lit by another arched stained-glass window. His room is white, one wall taken up by a massive round stained-glass window. A king-size ebony wood canopy bed on a crimson rug dominates the space, though there’s a sitting area with a black leather loveseat and a modern gas fireplace off to the side.

At his bedside, he helps me out of my dress with touches so tender, I’m in danger of bawling. My parents took care of me, of course. But this is different. I had boyfriends in high school, one in college. I’ve never felt cared for, as if I could do anything, say anything, and it wouldn’t matter. I could fall apart, and Killian would be here to pick up the pieces and put me back together.

He kisses me on the shoulder and pulls back the cover so I can get into his luxurious bed. A second later, his jeans are off, and he’s climbing in with me. The covers are cool and crisp, his pillows a cloud of perfection.

I smile wide. “You did buy my pillows.”

He gathers me against him, warm skin to warm skin. Heaven. “Told you I was in love.”

He says it lightly, but his dark eyes hold mine.

Everything feels both fragile and so much stronger now. I touch his cheek, trace a line along the shell of his ear before leaning in to kiss him. His hands cup my jaw and he kisses me back, lips tender, tongue delving in, tasting me as if I’m delicious.

The bed creaks as he rolls me over, settling between my spread thighs. The heat of his hardening cock presses against my belly. My hands explore the crests of his shoulders, the taut curves of his arms, and back up to his neck where his skin is baby-smooth and sensitive.

With a satisfied hum, he rocks his hips, that heavy cock sliding over my growing wetness. He kisses my top lip, the bottom one, angles his head and dips in for another taste. It’s slow, drugging. I melt into the bed, my touches weak but hungry.

His scent. His skin. The powerful grace of his body. I need it all.

Killian is a magician. Somehow he’s conjured a condom. Or maybe he had it all along. My mind is too hazy to remember. He leans to the side, exposing his flat abs and thick cock.

I take the condom from his hand and roll it over his length. I go slow because the weight of his meaty cock in my hand is too good to ignore. He grunts as I squeeze him, give a little tug. And then he’s settling back over me, his mouth hot on mine. Our kiss loses finesse.

“Libby,” he whispers. And when he slowly sinks into me, that perfect intrusion of hot flesh, his eyes meet mine. “This is just the beginning,” he says.

And I know he isn’t talking about sex. He means our life.

My voice is breathless, tight with excitement. “I can’t wait.”





Chapter Sixteen





Libby



I ride to Whip’s apartment with Killian. Michael drives as usual, and I learn that he’s worked for Killian for five years. Today’s car is a sleek silver Mercedes sedan with a cream leather interior that’s butter soft beneath my roving palm. A palm that’s damp. I’d rather the car turn around, but I have to face the rest of Kill John sooner or later.