Idol (VIP, #1)(59)

Right before she hits the ladies room, she announces in a loud voice, “I’m going to throw up.”

Shit.

She storms into the restroom, and I follow—like hell am I going to leave her to deal with this alone again. The second I step through the doorway, I’m caught up in a tiny whirlwind of hot female flesh.

Libby slams into me, knocking me back against the door. Her mouth is on mine before I can take a breath. Hot and wet and demanding, she devours me.

My restraint shatters. On a groan, I kiss her back. It’s a messy clash of lips, tongue, teeth. Fuck if my knees don’t go weak. I slump down the wall, my hands grasping her plump ass. With an impatient, angry little sound, she climbs up my body, wrapping her legs around my waist.

Lust rages through me. I spin her round and her body thuds into the door. My hands are sliding up her thighs, pushing between us to get at her core. “Jesus,” I grit out. She’s f*cking soaked, wet thighs, hot, swollen *.

Her underwear snaps in my hands.

Libby whimpers, thrusting her hips into mine. “Fuck.” It’s almost a sob. “Fuck… I’m…I need…” Another sob breaks free, and she sucks on my lower lip, licks my mouth.

“I know,” I say, yanking at my jeans with clumsy hands. “I know.”

I don’t know how I manage to get a condom on. Blood rushes in my ears, and my heart is about to pound out of my chest. I’m in danger of coming. Our bodies, slick with sweat, slide against each other.

“Now, Killian. Now,” she breathes into my mouth. Her body shudders. “Oh, f*ck, I need you now.”

“I got you.”

One hard thrust, and I’m halfway inside heaven. She’s hot as a furnace and so tight my eyes squeeze shut. Another thrust and she slides up the door with the force. Groaning, I grab her shoulders, pull her down onto me as I shove my dick all the way in. So f*cking good.

Libby’s panting hard, her head falling back with a thud as she wails. Her fingertips sink into the nape of my neck. “More.” It’s barely audible. But I hear it.

I pump into her, mindless and driven with the need to f*ck. My balls slap against her ass. My head sinks down to rest on her shoulder as I brace my arms on the door and pin her to it with the force of my thrusts.

The instant she comes, her tight channel milking me, I lose it. An orgasm rips through me so hard everything goes white. I stay there, ass clenched, body bowed into hers, legs shaking for one long moment. And then I release on a sigh.

Exhausted, I press my cheek to hers, and she cups the back of my head.

“Fuck,” I say, ragged.

She giggles, snorts, and turns her face into the crook of my neck. We both stand there, weakly laughing like loons, my dick still deep inside her.

The outside world returns too quickly, and I hear Jax’s voice, amplified over the mic, saying, “Goodnight, Boston!” Time’s up.





Chapter Eighteen





Libby



My little bedroom at the back of the tour bus is dark and cool, swaying slightly as we speed along toward Cleveland. Boneless and limp with exhaustion, I can only lie here and stare up at the ceiling. I’m too stirred up to sleep but can’t seem to make myself move.

Every second of tonight plays like a movie in my head. The blinding light, the darkness beyond. The way the crowd moves like a living thing. And singing, playing my guitar. It had been…everything. The high of my life. Transcendent.

I had no idea.

And playing with Killian? That was pure joy. I could have laughed like a giddy kid riding a coaster. I want that feeling again and again. And I want that release of pure heat and lust that came afterward, Killian’s thick cock driving in me, nailing me against the door. It was hard, fast, and everything I needed.

I want him now. But it isn’t as if he can be in this room without raising questions. Hell, we were lucky to get away with screwing like jacked-up rabbits in the bathroom. He’d had to scramble, shoving his dick back in his pants and running out to meet the guys in their dressing room before doing two encores.

Now he’s out in the main area of the bus, jamming with his guys. It’s three am, and they haven’t slowed down. I can’t blame them. Energy courses through my limbs and makes me twitchy.

“Fuck it.” I wrench back the sheets and tug on my ratty sweats.

Music flows as I trudge down a narrow hall, flanked by four bunk spaces, and into the main sitting area. The guys stop playing as I enter. I probably look a sight with my overlarge Massive Attack concert tee and baggy pants.

“Heligoland.” Whip gestures to my shirt with his chin. “Fucking love that album.”

I find space on the couch between him and the wall. Killian’s dark eyes are on me, a smug, satisfied smile lingering there. I’d be annoyed, but my smug, satisfied lady bits refuse to be hypocritical.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks me. His big hand is wrapped around the neck of his guitar, a gorgeous 1962 Gibson J-160E. John Lennon played that model. And now Killian James, capable of making that beautiful instrument sing, does too.

Those long fingers have played my body just as well. I press my knees together. “Too jittery.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Rye says. He’s holding a pair of maracas, which makes me smile. He smiles back. “You know, by staying up all night.”