I can’t ignore ya
I’ve always adored ya
Pandora
I implore ya
You’re the only girl for me
It’s written, it’s meant to be
You’re my girl
You’re my girl
Pandora, you’re my girl
The rest sounds almost improvised, chaotic even, as the sound comes to an end.
I should never have dissed ya
Lied about how much I missed ya
I need your sexy fire in my life
No one else can hold a match
To the candle that’s you, you’re a catch
You make me mad
You drive me nuts
You fill my heart
And kick my guts
There’s nowhere I’d rather be
My vampire queen
Yelling, touching, kissing, fucking
Pandora, you’re my girl
When the song ends, there’s a beautiful silence while thousands and thousands of lighters shine in the darkness, the last verse echoing throughout the stadium.
Emotions tighten my windpipe to the point where it’s hard to breathe. This is why he wanted me here.
You think I’ll show up, you’ll sing to me, and we’ll live happily ever after?
That’s what I’m going for . . .
Happiness and love curl like partners in my tummy. I could be seventeen right now. I’m chronologically older and outwardly bitter, but inside, I’m still his girl.
The one who thought one day he’d come back to me.
The one who hoped that one day he’d realize it was a mistake to leave me.
I thought he didn’t want me, but he does. And now I fear this will all go away when he realizes what I did . . .
My throat is raw with unsaid words, my body heavy and warm. For a long moment, I feel as if I’m floating and in a trance, and as I watch Mackenna scan the crowd for me, my reaction is instant.
I shove through to one of the roadies. Without a word, he lets me in, and I run as fast as I can, hearing Lex’s shout up onstage, “All right, people, you heard the man,” the shout stirring the public into a roar. Breathing heavily, I stop at the side of the stage, and my guy—my guy—seems to be struggling to get back into himself. He just spilled his guts out in front of thousands of people, and I can see him still looking for me among the crowd.
I’m so frantic for him to see me. If I had a tomato, I’d send it crashing onto his face. His gorgeous, famous face I want to kiss.
I take a step forward onto the stage, when Lionel stops me. “He’s the worst kind of mess. Can you explain to me what the fuck is going on?”
“Let me pass. Please. Please.”
“You going to kiss him?” he angrily demands.
“YES!”
A new song starts. A flicker of apprehension hits me when I see all the thousands of people out there, but it only fuels my determination.
Every light is shining on Mackenna as his vocals tear through the speakers. A dozen dancers start crowding him.
“Leo, move over!” I plead.
When Leo steps aside, I storm onto the stage. I don’t care how much I didn’t want to be here—now nothing will keep me from him. Not this stage, not Leo, not the lights or the fans or my mother or his father or me.
I feel the cameras follow my every step as I move forward, the lights from above suddenly shifting in my direction as I cross the stage. Mackenna’s legs are spread apart, his muscles bulging and thick, his ass tight in leather. He’s facing his fans, his vocals holding them in their grip when I press behind him. The moment my body makes contact with his, I feel his skin tighten as if he recognizes me. A hot knot builds in the middle of my throat. Tit’s and Liv’s hands trail sensually up his side, but when the girls see me, they pull their hands away and move to dance a few feet over.
I want to weep in gratitude when I realize they’re finally no longer my enemies. How could they be? They’re letting me take over.
I glide my fingers up the muscles of Mackenna’s back, slowly, sinuously pressing my body to over six feet of pure, hard male. I feel the supple muscles tense beneath my fingertips, and I feel, rather than see, his sharp inhale of breath when I brush my hand up his front.
Do you recognize me, you fucking god? Do you?
Pressing my lips to his skin, I graze his shoulder with my teeth, nipping him playfully. Then I can’t take it any longer and I swipe out my tongue, tasting him.
He curls one arm around my waist and tugs me around, not missing a beat as he continues singing. Circling him while making sure the most parts of my body connect with his, I step in front of him. Shamelessly I press my lips to his chest as I move with him.
That’s right, it’s me. And I’m going to rock your fucking world like you rock mine, Mackenna Jones.
I slowly move my body against his, pressing my tongue to his puckered brown nipple. Circling. Rubbing the hard little point. Letting him know, in front of all these people, that I want him.
I trail my hands over his muscles, thinking how perfect he is. I’m always so reserved and contained, but he’s the one I want, the one I love, and I want him to know it. He pulls me hard against him and rocks me at his side, running his hand down my body. That wasn’t scripted. None of it. The way he squeezes my ass. The way that, between those hot, rumbling lyrics, I feel the heady sensation of his lips against my neck. He’s stealing touches every moment he can. In charge of things. Of his song. The dance. Me.
He swings me around to face away from him, then pulls me back to him and swoops me so my hair falls away and I’m arched with my head hanging back.
Silence falls.
Catching his breath, he lets me straighten and touches my forehead slightly with his. Before he knows what hits him, I anxiously tug his microphone down to his chin and press my lips to his. His mouth—so familiar, so hot, so wanted—was waiting for mine. He kisses me harder than he’s ever kissed me, until my lips and mouth—my every cell—are burning like fire. The lights flare, and there’s a silence as we keep going, our heads slanting to one side, then the other, our kiss only stoking our desire.
Then I pull away and caress his jaw with all ten of my fingers, and whisper into his mouth, “You’re mine. I claim you. I love you. You’re mine.”
The fans roar behind me. Holy shit, I forgot all those people were there. I face the ecstatic crowd, my lips lifting at the corners. When I turn back around and my wide eyes meet his wolf ones, I want to weep with the raw emotion I see there.
How do you tell the guy you love how much you love him and how badly you fucked up?
I wait a breath or two, until my quickened pulse has quieted. Then I slip a small note in his hand and whisper in his ear, “Meet me at this hotel. There’s a key waiting. Please come.”
I turn to leave, but he spins me around by my wrist, growling out one word: “Wait.”
He plants a harder kiss on me, pushing his tongue in to connect with mine and triggering sparks across my nerve endings and bolts of lightning to my toes. Releasing me, he smacks my rump to send me on my way.
“Now that,” he murmurs in the sexiest, roughest voice ever as he addresses his fans, “was Pandora.”
My smile hurts my face as I hear a roar erupt from his fans. And I carry this smile as I retrieve my suitcase from the roadie and take a cab to the hotel.
♥ ♥ ♥
I’M SO NERVOUS. So excited. I think this is what cardiac patients must feel like when their hearts start acting “different.”
I’ve never been so nervous or excited in my life.
Even when I stole from my bed to see him at night . . .
Rushed to the window to receive him . . .
Reliving, in my bed, my very first kiss with him . . .
After he saved me from the school bullies. After I held his hand outside court. The night I met him at the docks, where, before we even said hello, before a word was spoken, he pushed away from the column he’d been leaning against and I picked up my pace, and before we knew it I was in his arms and he was in mine, our lips locked and moving, hot and fast, our breath wild, our hands moving. “You came,” he murmured, holding my face and kissing my temple, chin, cheek, nose.
“Always,” I whispered back, clutching his jaw and loving how his hands felt big on my face, like he still had a couple of inches to grow into them.
I loved him like crazy then. But that level of crazy is nothing compared to now!
Melanie would be proud. Hell, Brooke would be proud. Even Magnolia would be proud.
I pace around the hotel room as I wait for him, then I go check my appearance in the mirror. Fuck. Do I look stupid? I put on some earrings and switch my boots for a pair of heels, and I paint my nails pink instead of the dark purple-black I usually wear. I exchange my leather jacket for a soft white silk top too. God, it’s so obvious I want to please him. Because I like it when he calls me “Pink.” I want to look girly and soft, but . . .
Okay, fine. Let it look obvious that I want him. He called me his vampire queen . . . and I want him to be my king. For him to take a chunk right out of my heart, bleed me out, and carry me to his bedchamber. Lair. Wherever he fucking wants!
I’m pacing around, rubbing my bare arms, when I hear the click! of the door. I swing around, feeling like some stupid eighteenth-century maiden, about to swoon.
Because he’s swoony, swoon, swoon, right here, in my hotel room.
My rockstar.