Page 47 of Verses Of Us

NEW LUST

Ciarán

Adrenalineandfearhoppedthrough his limbs as Ciarán paced the dressing room. Sweat dripped down his face, much more than usual. He ripped his shirt off and threw it, hoping to catch her eye. It did. Alexis did a poor job trying to hide her interest, with her eyes wide and a faint flush colouring her chest and cheeks. Her reaction ignited a tiny flutter in his stomach.

Though not as good as it had been, his body was still in good shape, especially for someone who lived as carelessly as he did. If he could cut down on fried foods and booze, then he’d be able to pack on more muscle and train like he used to.

But over the years, the life had gotten to him, and as cliché as it was, he believed he’d become a stereotypical rockstar—sunken eyes and drawn skin included. That is, until Lex looked at him with reverence, as if he was the sexiest person alive. And he knew he wouldn’t find that anywhere else these days. People praised him for his talents, for his charisma, his charm. He still loved to sing and fans applauded him for making them smile. They all thought he did it for them. But that wasn’t the case. Not exactly.

With entertaining, Ciarán did it for himself. It was a purely selfish thing, seeing his fans get off on what he gave them and most days it was what forced him out of bed.

Lately, however, even that was dwindling. Now, it all felt like a job. Not a career, but an obligation. A sentence he was still living out, one for a crime he didn’t remember committing. And because the thrill was gone, the panic attacks had returned.

But with Alexis—hisLex—with her ebony hair and eyes the colour of the distant hills back home in Ireland, all the rest faded. Making her happy was what he had dreamed of. The urge to please her had overwhelmed even his most rational thoughts.

From the moment they met, he wanted to make her smile. He’d longed to make her moan, to make her scream his name. He could still recall the first time she’d kissed his cheek, the searing shock that had electrified his blood and sent it rushing to his crotch. The way she’d exorcized the demons within. At least temporarily.

He’d had women. He’d made them scream. But it was like drinking mediocre whiskey. It did the trick; it numbed the pain and quelled the doubts, but it paled compared to the satisfaction gained from a vintage bottle of Jameson Reserve, let’s say.

And seeing Lex standing in his dressing room this afternoon was like an illusion. A new lust took over, one he’d missed deeply. And like the sprout of a song that starts in the back of his mind with one note, she drifted over him like a wave of fresh air.

Her silky locks of hair were longer and wavy instead of straight, but still the most beautiful shade of dark brown he’d ever run his fingers through. The youthful traits were gone, replaced by the sharp and defined features of an adult. And those eyes, now deeper and wiser, hid secrets he still ached to uncover. Her body, well, her body sent intense pains through him straight to his heart. The minute he’d seen her standing there, he’d known he had to have her.

And when she watched the show from the wings, her mouth—those sublime lips—singing along to every song, he doubted he’d make it through the show without taking her right there on the stage in front of thousands.

She was so uniquely beautiful it became difficult to look at her without getting a massive hard-on, so he forced himself to avoid her as much as possible. But when that asshole showed up, his mind went blank except for the worry that this could be his last night on earth. A darker thought crept in: what if he lost her again? By the end of the show, he could only think of meeting her mouth with his and releasing his tension on her body.

He didn’t wish to hurt her; he wanted to please her, to bring her to an ecstasy a woman like she deserved. One that would not only make her happy, but would make him feel significant. Like he mattered and wasn’t just some fucking circus monkey.

The way Alexis had willingly followed him into the dressing room, comforting him with her touch, meant she wasn’t still holding a grudge. Maybe she’d forgiven him for ninety-nine.

He now knew how stupid he’d been to let her go. Selfishly, he still believed he should have dragged her with him, but she was brilliant, intellectual, and had a bright future ahead of her, one not suited for the uncertainty of show-business.

More often than he’d admit, he thought back on how willing she had been to give that future up for him. Or at least that’s what he told himself. Sometimes, he wondered if she would have said yes had he asked? He’d assumed she was just infatuated, so maybe she would have agreed. But that didn’t change how she deserved more, something he couldn’t give her. And he never would have forgiven himself had he forced her to choose. More than wanting her as his own, he wanted her to have the freedom to follow whichever path she chose. Had she stuck with him, she never would have had that choice. But she’d followed her path, hadn’t she? And somehow, it had reconnected to his.

The way she’d taken charge, commanding Clark to fuck off—that wasn’t the subdued Lex he’d known before. This was a strong-willed, independent woman. There were hints back then, though. The memory of the day they met and how she’d put him in his place brought back that deep-seated longing with a vengeance.

The rules he’d lived by vanished the instant he saw her. And now, with her so close, her light floral scent reaching into his throat and driving him wild; he knew he couldn’t let her leave without more. He’d do whatever he could to make it happen.

Years apart had done absolutely fuck all to diminish the power she held so fiercely over him, but he wondered if it would hold on to him forever. He wondered if once he’d had her, once he’d given in to this one persistent fantasy, the novelty of Alexis Stanek would fade. As with the others, he thought, he’d grow bored and eventually, he’d move on.

Somehow, the prospect of finally severing this hold she had over him left him anxious, his muscles tensing, his skin taut. A flash of the attacker slammed into his mind, bringing the shaking hands and drumming heart along with it. He jolted, as if the man had shoved him once again.

“Jesus,” he snapped, terrified, not only for what happened, but for what might have.

He’d faced fanatics before. Many of his fans teetered on the brink of hysteria. But this was the first time a fan had gotten so close, had aimed to harm him. Ciarán assumed the man wasn’t armed, but that wasn’t to say he couldn’t have seriously hurt him.

He’d heard of stabbings, of people being shoved offstage and into the crowd. He remembered the concert in Madrid when he’d tripped and fallen off the stage, hitting his head on the steel fence. The worst that happened was a concussion and a small scar that ran along his hairline. Of course, the two incidents weren’t the same, but he knew this scar, the one growing inside, would stick around much longer in his psyche.

Thank goodness for his buddy Jameson. He brought the whiskey to his lips, throwing etiquette out the window, and chugged it straight from the bottle. Alexis stepped forward, pulling the bottle away. Stirred by her confidence, his blood simmered, and it took all his restraint not to pin her right there on the table. The image of drinking whiskey off her naked body popped into his head, but her sweet smile chased the idea away. Her surreal beauty, the way her long lashes fanned over her cheeks, made him forget about the drink, too.

He reached for her wrists, so delicate in his hands. But Alexis wasn’t delicate and when he slammed her against his chest, she pulled back, if only a little. Her eyes widened, telling him she was excited and when she said his name, not in warning, but in a hesitant, sensual plea, he almost came undone at her feet.

The sound of her moaning his name—a name he’d heard shouted and screamed so often it had lost its meaning—was unlike any music he’d ever heard. The nameCiarándidn’t belong to him anymore, but when she whispered it, it was magic, like a spell reigniting a long-lost flame.

A flame within him, one that burned only for her.

BEGGING YOU

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