Chapter 7

The stadium lights had finally dimmed, leaving only the ghostly afterglow of a thousand halogen bulbs lingering in the back of my mind, but here, in the quiet dark of the VIP dressing room suite, the world felt impossibly small. The roar of eighty thousand fans was a distant memory, a hum that vibrated in the floorboards rather than my ears. I was tangled in the sheets, not my own crisp hotel linens, but the heavy, silk-blend duvet that smelled of him—expensive cologne, sweat, and that distinct, musky scent of a man who had been performing for hours. I opened my eyes slowly, the morning light filtering through the heavy velvet drapes that had been drawn against the chaos of the night. For a second, I didn’t know where I was. Then the weight on my chest reminded me. His arm was draped over my waist, a heavy, possessive anchor holding me against his torso. His breathing was deep and even, the sleep of the exhausted but satisfied. I shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, but the movement sent a jolt of muscle memory through my body. My legs were still aching, a dull, pleasant throb in my thighs