Exposed (VIP, #4)

by Kristen Callihan

Maybe that’s just me. God, I hope it isn’t just me.

I want to be wanted. Craved above all things. Needed with a breathless devotion.

She needs “truly great, blow-your-mind, ‘gotta have that again and again or you’ll die from wanting it’” sex. My skin draws tight. Damn, I want that too.

“You never take any of my work seriously.” His chin jerks up. “Yes, I do. I know how important you are to this band.” “Which is why you roll your eyes and make cracks about how annoying I am whenever I hand out the weekly schedule?” “Shit, Bren, all of us do that.” His lips quirk with a self-deprecating smile. “We’re rock stars. Thumbing our noses at the establishment is kind of expected. For all intents and purposes, you’re our link to the establishment.” Well, he had me there.

A reluctant laugh bubbles up to the surface, but I hold it in. “Right now, it’s a fifty-fifty split.” His mouth curls in a lazy grin. “I hope to afford you more clarity in the future.” The retort dies in my mouth as realization hits. “Did you just quote Pride and Prejudice?”

Tears smart my eyes, the city a blur outside the grimy cab window. I’m surrounded by millions of people, and I’ve never felt more alone. Cold. Empty. And afraid.

I have fond memories of curling up on one of the mustard velvet armchairs in front of the ornate onyx fireplace and reading during rainy days. Yes, I was that child, bookish and shy. It wasn’t until I hit puberty and got too horny for my own good that I forced myself out of my shell.

Whip, Jax, Killian, Scottie, and I figured out our parents’ shared obsession with tea. We all grew up knowing that tea arrived with every visit, to fix every ill, to top off the day, or to close out the night. Jax is still fairly obsessed with making the perfect cuppa. I can take it or leave it, but I’m not about to contradict my mom.

Nothing quite like a cup of tea.

Moreover, the gothic building has been home to Lauren Bacall, Judy Garland, and, most infamously, John Lennon. He was murdered outside its doors. It might sound morbid to some, but I choose to remember that he had a life here.

This is the first time ever that I have actually been to the building that is being described in a contemporary romance book!

Rye’s gaze slides over me like hot cream. “There you are. God. Look at you…” He licks his bottom lip, a man thirsty. “Damn, Bren, you blow my mind.”

everything turns unexpectedly tender. It catches us unaware, and Rye’s grip changes, deepening with intent. Something in the way he moves makes me melt. There’s no other word for this liquid wash of pleasure and heat, or how my body wants to meld with his until there’s no space left between us.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask over the rain. He steps close. “Waiting for you.” Heat flares through my numb limbs, waking them up. I bridge the gap between us. “Waiting for me?” It’s a stupid thing to repeat. He was perfectly clear. But I can’t help it. No one has ever waited for me. His hand slowly rises, and he touches a raindrop trickling down my cheek. “I came here for you. Of course, I’m going to wait.”

“We said we could have other days if needed.” His grip tightens on my sweater. “And, Bren, I fucking need.”

“I’m having fun,” I announce as we enter the Arms and Armor wing. “You don’t have to sound so shocked about it,” he teases. “I’m a very fun person to be around.”

“I wouldn’t,” she blurts out then pinks. “Forgive someone for cheating on me, I mean.” “No,” I agree with a weak smile. “I suspect they’d search for the body and never find it.”

Killian snorts one last time. “Biggest rock band in the world and we’re sitting around drinking beers and watching paranormal melodrama.” “Yeah,” Whip says, accepting a beer. “Life’s pretty fucking grand, ain’t it?”

Brenna chuckles then, her fingers threading through my hair. “I’m so tired. I don’t want to move.” “So don’t.” I curl further into her, cuddling close. I’ve decided: I fucking love cuddling. “We make our own rules here.”

Brenna clears her throat. “Fine. How about this? Despite having the body of Ares,”—I stumble a step at her words—“and the musical talent of Apollo, you retain the childlike wonder of…shit, my knowledge of Greek mythology has run dry.”

This man is mine. My friend. My lover. My home. My heart.