Page 53 of Play Dirty (Brooklyn Dawn 1)

“You don’t even want me.”

The muscle in his cheek jumped and flexed.

“Or is that the issue?” Instead of stalking toward him, I loosened my gait. My hips went fluid as I slowed to a leisurely stroll. My chest pushed forward to strain at my shirt as I shrugged off my jacket, tossing it onto one of the half dozen trunks littering the stage.

“You want me, and you hate that I’ve touched anyone else. Is that where we’re at in the evolution of the human race? Back to the caveman who wants to be the first and the only?”

“Careful, duchess.”

“Or what?” I tipped my head, pulling all my hair over my shoulder. I let my fingers drift over my breast to my nipple, currently pushing through three layers of clothing. “You’re imagining I climbed on Logan? That I fucked him again and again? Or even worse.” I swallowed the ache and the raging sadness, pushing them down with anger. “That I’m some sort of whore? That I’m not worth any more than this?” I gestured at myself.

“Stop.” He stumbled back a step, tripping on a cord.

“That’s what you’re saying, right? This is all I am.” I lifted the hem of the concert T-shirt I was wearing over a clingy white cotton top. I peeled it off and tossed it aside, shaking my hair back. “I’m no more and no less than a willing body.”

“No.” Horror drifted over his face, turning his eyes stark.

But I

was already too far gone. The fact that he was just like the rest of the guys out there who believed I was nothing more than a vessel for men to use. That I was a sparkly piece of fluff on stage who just wanted to be pretty. Who just wanted to play dress up with the glitter and the glam parts of being a rockstar.

It didn’t matter that I rarely got more than four hours of sleep a night because music and words wouldn’t let me rest. I lived and breathed them every day. And the rest of my time was filled with taking care of my people.

Making everything work from the shows to the interviews and the admin that fell to me when it came to running a rock show with so many moving parts.

It definitely didn’t matter that I was alone in the night worrying that it all could fall apart at any time. I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than my career because too many people depended on me.

“Take what you think I offer to every other man. It’s no big deal, right?”

The other shirt I wore was tighter than the Bon Jovi one and I couldn’t get it up fast enough to suit the raging argument I was having with myself.

He crossed to me and stopped me, dragging the shirt back down. “Duchess, no. Not like that. Not for me.”

“Now I’m not good enough for you. Which is it? I’m a whore or a Mary?”

I pushed my hair out of my face as the full effect of my strip session sunk in. God, what the hell was I doing? Why did he leave me so off-balance?

He stood in front of me, tipping his forehead down to touch mine. “Neither.” He lowered his mouth to mine. “None of those things,” he said against my lips and then it was nothing but his flavor blooming in my mouth, in the space around me. He tasted like the dark scent that clung to his skin and permeated the air.

Like spice and fresh rain.

Like darkness.

I’d been living in the spotlight for so long. I wanted to taste his dark again.

I pushed my hands up under his shirt. His belly quivered under my fingertips. He was ridged with muscle and smooth, hairless skin. Just a soft, thin trail at his belly button that disappeared into his jeans. The farther up I searched, the more he stilled. He drew in a shuddering breath.

At my touch?

Then I found the tough skin.

Scar tissue.

I knew about the accident. Everyone knew about the night that had ended Nash’s career. And about his collision course lifestyle before it. The reckless singer who had destroyed as many clubs as he’d controlled with his powerhouse voice. He was a legend in the U.K. and had been roaring up the charts here when the car accident had taken him out of play.

Instead of doing a comeback, he’d disappeared. The kind of ghosting that left the press salivating for a meaty story.

Only there hadn’t been one. Then whispers of his uncanny genius in the studio. A song here, a record there, an unknown artist exploding into the stratosphere after Nash worked on his album.

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