Close Page 2

  All of this desire coils in my belly and I can’t remember the last time I felt so beautiful. So wanted.

  I was named People’s Most Beautiful Woman this year, but dancing on the floor with a man I only know by name—a man who’s basically a boy—has made me feel more confident and more alive than anything I can remember in a long time.

  Biting my lip, I lower myself, writhing down the length of his body, noting each piece of it as I go. His chest, rock-solid inside a Sex Pistols T-shirt. His stomach, tight as he breathes heavily. Then the front of his jeans, tight enough to make my imagination run wild with thoughts of taking his zipper down with my teeth, right here in the middle of the dance floor. Of taking him in my mouth, showing him how a rock star should be worshipped, giving him the release he’s seeking, while people continue to spin and move all around us.

  A bulb flashes near me. Like one from a camera phone, and even though I know it’s impossible and that even if it was, security would delete it—it’s enough. My trance is broken, and I’m me again.

  And the part of my brain I’d shut off to dance comes roaring to life, reminding me that what I’m doing is impossible.

  There is no release from fame.

  There is no escape from image.

  And I’ve worked too hard for both of those to let a few tequila shots and a beautiful, bedroom-eyed boy derail them. I work my way back up before I stop dancing, but the passion is gone. He can tell, I see it in the newfound intensity of his eyes on me, but I avoid them.

  “I’ve gotta get back to my friends!” I explain loudly, so he can hear it over the roar of the music. So that I feel more like myself again, the nice, polite woman who explains why she is leaving. The nice, polite woman who would never, ever fantasize about a public blowjob. Where did that come from, anyway? I tell myself I’m not still turned on by the image as I make a beeline back to our table, grabbing Hadley on the way from the spot where she’s dancing with a few strangers.

  Rowan spots us and follows suit, gesturing to our server to bring another round of shots.

  We make it to our table and sit down.

  “What the fuck was that?” Rowan says.

  I’m slick with sweat, my heart racing from the thirty- to forty-minute workout. And maybe just a little bit, from the memory of those jeans rubbing against my inner thighs as I rolled my body.

  I play innocent, hoping she won’t pursue it. I’m not ready to talk about what just happened. “What was what?” I say, pushing my hair back behind my ear.

  “Oh, you’re going to play it that way, are you?” Hadley says as the shots arrive.

  “She’s talking about the way you were grinding with Nick Ryder. She’s talking about how you were practically fucking on the dance floor. It was hot!” Rowan isn’t even trying to hide her eagerness to hear all about it.

  I shake it off, shake off the uncomfortable similarity of her words to my dirty little fantasy. “It was just dancing. Having fun. That’s what we’re here for, right?”

  “Natalia, my love. This is a perfect opportunity for you,” Hadley says, drawing circles around her shot glass with perfect French tips. “You need a good, torrid evening of no-strings sex. He’s hot. He’s single. He’s clearly interested. Grab him, grab an Uber, and go complete the breakup cycle!”

  I shook my head. “We were dancing. That’s all. I am not going to have sex with Nick Ryder. Because we were only dancing. And not even thinking about having sex.” That isn’t quite the truth. Of course I was thinking about sex with him, but not about actually doing it. It was just there in the back of my mind, a bassline that wove in and out of our rhythm. Not an option. That would be inappropriate.

  “Why on earth would you not hit that?” Rowan says, looking back to the dance floor, then back to me. Her face is screwed up in legitimate confusion, as though what I’m saying is in a foreign language. It makes me laugh.

  I chance a glance back at Nick, who is still dancing, though not the way he was with me. When his head starts to turn in our direction, I quickly turn back to my friends. I can’t be encouraging this. “Do I really have to explain?”

  It should be obvious to them why I won’t take him home for a one-night stand. I’m not that kind of girl, and even if I was, this is not the time to open myself to another round of press takedowns and social media trolling. Even if those two things weren’t issues, that decade between us is obscene.

  What I would never admit is that the way his body moved made me think wicked, dirty thoughts, and that they scared me. They made me wonder if there was another Natalia locked deep inside, a girl who wasn’t inhibited by other people’s thoughts and opinions. A girl who did what she wanted, screw everyone else.

  “Anyway,” I shake off those thoughts, pick up my shot glass, and raise it up in the air, “I’m here with my girls. I am not here for guys. I’m here to not be with guys, specifically. Let’s drink.”

  I grab my lime, ready to throw the shot back, but Hadley interrupts. “I’m just saying, if you have the chance . . . I think you should do it.”

  I look to Rowan to see what her thoughts are on the matter. She grins, as naughty as the part of me I’m pretending doesn’t exist. “You already know what I think.”

  I know exactly what she thinks, and the more I try to deny it, the more I’m going to want it, inappropriate or not.

  Chapter Two

  Off Limits

  Nick

  “Want some?” My brother, Jake, pushes his bourbon across the table toward me as I slide down in my seat at the table where he’s been holding court all night.

  I shake my head, grab for his water instead, and gulp down half the glass in one swallow. I worked up a sweat on the floor, and I’ve learned after years of playing stages that alcohol only makes the dehydration worse. Besides, I’m not sure I need anything more intoxicating than the last dance I shared on the floor.

  I stretch my arms up, releasing some tension, then down over the seat back. I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist using the opportunity to steal a glance over in the direction of the woman I’d shared it with. She was utterly captivating. Onscreen, she’s pretty. But in person? I was unable to keep my eyes off of her while we danced. No one could, although she seemed oblivious to the pull she exuded on everyone around her.

  Even after she’d startled and walked away from me, even as I’d continued to let loose on the floor, my focus was on her, tracking her movements out of the corner of my eye as she sat with some friends, did a shot, laughed, and tried not to look back at me.

  “Was that Natalia Lowen?” Jake asks, following my gaze.

  I nod, still too breathless to have a meaningful conversation. Too breathless from working so hard, all the cardio, but also just from staring at the actress across the bar. I’ve met a million beautiful women in my life. Nonstop touring and fame do have their upsides, after all. But I can’t remember being quite so aware of someone else’s presence before—knowledge of where they are and what they’re doing even with eyes closed tight.

  Maybe I’ve just met my perfect dance partner. Anticipating each other’s movements the way she and I did usually takes thousands of hours of practice. I’d know—my old band was pure pop, with new choreography for every song, every tour. I’m no stranger to a dance studio, but even with professionals, it’s rare to sync so effortlessly.

  And even though I far prefer my music now, having my own band and more control over my sound and my image, I fucking miss dancing.

  “I thought it was her,” Jake says, studying her shamelessly even as I look away. “She looks different as a blonde. Wasn’t she a brunette before? I haven’t seen her in anything in awhile.”

  “Blonde’s her natural color, though.” Not that I know that for a fact. Although the thought of finding out sounds delicious. But with her creamy skin and pale brows, I’m already pretty sure. “I think it looks better blonde.”

  Me, I have seen most of her movies. Most men in America probably have an image of her in their sp
ank bank from one film or another. There was that swimsuit scene on the beach in What People Say. The plunging neckline in Spy Club’s famous fight scene that rumor has it shows a nipple if you pause it just right. (It doesn’t. I’ve tried.) And my personal favorite, Natalia in oversized glasses and a skirt as small as the one she’s wearing tonight as the librarian in Reading Into It.

  But the blonde? Man, it takes those bombshell looks to a whole new level, making her eyes pop and her long, loose hair sparkle under the lights like a halo.

  “You two about set this club on fire with those sparks out there. You gonna take her back to your place and show her all your other moves?” He flicks his tongue out, as if I didn’t know what moves he was referring to.

  I glare at Jake, and this time when I reach across the table, I do snag his bourbon. I throw back a swallow and cringe at the flavor, the burn. I’ve never had a taste for the stuff. I’ve always been more of a wine guy. Something about the time and expertise that goes into growing the perfect grape before transforming it into the magic of a good vintage appeals to my sensibilities. Call me a true romantic.

  Jake prefers to call me a control freak. But that’s because he’s a dick.

  Like right now, he’s making fun of me because normally I would take home the first girl that I spend more than fifteen minutes with on the dance floor. It’s kind of my style. I don’t love being out and about in crowds, these clubs never have a decent wine list, and a hookup’s easy to find. Jake usually gives me shit for it. Personally, I think he’s jealous.

  I’ve always known just what to say to a girl to get her panties off, but not him.

  To be fair, I’m jealous of him too, in other ways. Somehow he made the transition from boy band to hit solo rock star with ease. No one even blinked. There wasn’t any to-do or hoopla about his stylistic changes. He was just suddenly an adult, putting out adult records, and his fans acted like adults, behaving with manners and filling into his concert spaces in an orderly fashion.

  Me, on the other hand, I’m forever fighting my past. The groupies who show up at my stage door are just as young as they were when we were part of the Ryder Brothers, when we were more likely to play a Kid’s Choice award show than an MTV event. When our manager had made the cringeworthy decision to have our faces printed on bedsheets and pillows. When we just did whatever he told us to, and almost lost who we were before we’d signed the deal that made us stars.

  The benefit is I still sell records like crazy. I still hit the top of the charts, but my label buries my best songs behind poppier hits. I never get to make videos to illustrate the lyrics I’m proudest of. And most of all, I never have any privacy like Jake does.

  Neither of us have privacy like Jonas does, of course, but that’s another story, since Jonas has retired from the limelight altogether. From music altogether. I hate even thinking about it.

  For a few perfect songs on the dance floor, I could forget about all of that with someone who so clearly understands what it’s like to sacrifice your entire life for your art.

  So yes, I would take the girl home. And I want to take the girl home. Because she’s smoking hot. Because she understands. Because she is Natalia fucking Lowen.

  But I won’t. Because she is Natalia Lowen.

  I have too much respect for the woman, and she’s not someone I could just fuck and forget. She’s the kind of woman you write songs about. Besides, there’d be too many opportunities for us to bump into each other after, awkward as that would be. I make it a habit not to run into my one-night stands in my professional life.

  On top of all of that, the LA gossip mill’s top story just last month was about her big breakup with Garner Lee. That, more than my conflicted feelings about casual sex with the reputed nicest woman in Hollywood, is what Jake’ll understand, so it’s what I tell him.

  “So it’s probably not exactly the time to try to bang her,” I conclude.

  “Actually, it’s exactly the right time to try to bang her,” Jake says with that mischievous glint in his eyes as he grins at me. “But, whatever, man. I don’t mind not getting all the scandalous details. We can just sit here and stare at each other. Unless you want to go find someone nameless to take home?”

  I don’t. But he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Yeah, it’s a real drag to spend time with your favorite brother, isn’t it? Especially when the bourbon’s comped. I’m hitting the john. Be back.” I jump up from the table and make my way to the restroom in the VIP section. What I don’t mention, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed, is that I just saw Natalia head this way.

  Even though I have decided that it’s not cool to try to defile America’s Sweetheart—just the thought of defiling America’s Sweetheart gives me a semi-—I still can’t help wanting to see her again. Wanting to talk to her. Maybe this is the beginning of a song, after all. That connection we had on the floor has intrigued me, and I’m suddenly drawn to her like a performer to the spotlight.

  Although she’s shining brighter than any stage light I’ve performed under.

  She’s just going into the women’s restroom when I walk into the darkened hall that houses the bathrooms. I take advantage of the moment to slip into the men’s and splash some water on my face, make sure my hair’s not sticking up weirdly or anything. “Be cool,” I tell my reflection, then head back out to the hallway and lean as casually as I can against the wall.

  I only have to wait another minute before she pushes back through the door, and then we’re alone in the hallway.

  “Hey,” she says when she sees me, her eyes lighting up.

  I forget all about playing it cool at the sight of her long legs and that tight black miniskirt. I’m hard already, and there’s no way I’m going to just talk to her. Maybe I’m not taking her home, but I have to touch her again.

  “Hey,” I say casually, as if I didn’t just follow her back here. She makes no move to leave, but I fear she will if I don’t stop staring and start talking. “You done for the night?”

  “Dancing? Yeah, I am. My feet couldn’t take any more in these heels.” Though it’s disappointing that she won’t be out there moving her body against me to the next beat the DJ turns on, I’m also relieved that I won’t have to share her with anyone else on the floor. When we dance so perfectly together, it would be an insult to see someone else try to take my place.

  And even without the movement and proximity of dancing, I’m still just as hyper-aware of every small motion she makes, of the space between us, of how close we really are.

  That awareness has me noticing that she’s just as aware of me—her eyes focus on each of mine in turn before flitting down to my mouth and back up again. Her hands clench and unclench as though she doesn’t trust them not to reach for me. Each breath heaves just slightly in her chest, as though she’s unable to take a deep one, as though her pulse has sped up at the sight of me.

  I don’t know what it means, but I’d be an idiot if I took this moment to just start a conversation about dance partners.

  I’ve fantasized about fucking Natalia Lowen so many times, but now that I see how her eyes dilate when she glances at my lips, and I can smell the soft floral perfume that she wears, all my imaginings already pale in comparison. This sensory overload is nothing I’d ever factored in alone in the shower. I find myself taking a step toward her, knowing she’ll take a step back, pushing her farther into the dark corner of this hallway.

  “You looked good out there,” I tell her. I take another step, watch her as she takes another one backward.

  My eyes brush up her body from those designer heels that show off her smooth, muscular calves, up the curve of her toned thighs to the tease of skin visible beneath her cropped shirt. The v of her neckline shows off the swell of breasts that still have a sheen of sweat on them, and when my eyes reach her face, she’s flushed, but smiling, and I can tell she likes it. Likes me looking, likes me wanting.

  I like everything I see.

  I take anothe
r step, and this time she doesn’t move. She holds her ground and allows me to move close enough that I can lower my voice when I tell her, “You felt good out there, too.”

  Her whole neck reddens, clear down to her chest, and I wonder how far down that heat spreads. To the nipples I can see outlined beneath her shirt? To the toned stomach it barely covers? Farther?

  “I, um . . . yeah?” she stutters, her eyelashes fluttering.

  “Your energy, the way you move.” I smile because I know I’m making her flustered. It feels good to be in total control, something Jake never understood. It feels good to have power over someone else’s subconscious reactions. And watching them is so delicious that my cock is throbbing.

  “It felt so good to dance with you.” My tone, the next step I take, leave no doubt that I’m talking about my dick. She doesn’t move away, if anything, she arches toward me a little. I’m staring at her lips coated in pink gloss that I’m sure she reapplied while she was in the bathroom because it looks fresh, and I just want to lick it off with my tongue before moving my way down her body.

  I’m not asking her to leave with me. It’s off limits, and I know that.

  I know it, because of all the reasons I said before, because I respect her. Because I’d have to see her again. Because I don’t want to be an embarrassing reminder of that night she did something out of character. Because songs are more powerful when they’re about what didn’t happen.

  But then she steps forward and twines her hands in the material of my T-shirt and pulls me toward her, and in the half second before our mouths crash together, I think fuck it. Just one taste.

  Just one taste can’t hurt.

  She tastes like cinnamon, lip gloss, tequila with no chaser.