I glance around, studying the room in the dim light. It must be nearly dawn as there’s light around the curtains. If anyone had asked me a few weeks ago what Rush Osman keeps in his bedroom I would have guessed all his music awards and huge, framed photos of himself. What he actually has on the walls is art that’s a compelling mix of Impressionism and graffiti that looks like it should be hanging in a New York art gallery. The only photograph sits atop a dresser and it’s of a man who looks a lot like Rush but isn’t Rush, with a red electric guitar and a small blond boy on his lap.
Beside me, Rush stirs in his sleep. I wriggle carefully out from between the sheets, doing my best not to wake him. I wrap myself in my robe and shove my pajamas in my pocket, and let myself quietly out into the corridor. No one’s about, and I manage to get back to my own room without being seen and slip back into bed for a few more hours’ sleep.
When I meet Rush downstairs for our dance practice, there are other dancers using the space to practice and so we have to act normal. I try to set a good, professional example for the dancers we’ve hired, but Rush seems more interested in surreptitiously manhandling me in a way that makes my blood heat.
He drops me over his arm and his hand slides between my thighs.
“That’s not where your fingers should be,” I whisper.
“That’s not what you said last night. And says who?”
“Your choreographer.” I can’t help smiling up at him despite my words. He pulls me to my feet and manages to give my ass a squeeze as we’re transitioning to the next steps.
If this is what he’s like while our arrangement or whatever this is, is secret, what will he be like if we start telling people? People have been taking loads of pictures here, though they’re not allowed to post anything while the video is still under wraps. What if there are already telling pictures of us? It’s not like we’ve been squeaky clean outside our bedrooms. We’ve been downright dirty, actually. If we walked down a street together in London and he can’t keep his hands to himself, then the game will be up.
I can feel him pushing for me to decide what we are so he can tell freaking everyone. That’s more control than I’m willing to relinquish right now. When it’s just him and me, I want to give up everything. Where other people are concerned, though, the reins will slip from my fingers and suddenly everyone will be looking at me and talking and—
“Dree?”
I realize I’ve spun to the right, away from him, instead of to the left.
He gives me a lazy smile, and I realize he knows I’m distracted because I was thinking about us. Well, I was, but probably not in the way he was hoping. Striker’s fans already hate me. What if Rush’s do as well?
And does it even matter if they do?
I need to get a goddamn grip. All I’m trying to do is carve out a career for myself and get involved with a man who makes me happy. Everything else I should just block out as white noise.
I’m trying, but I have to try harder. This is my life, not anyone else’s.
We finish our practice and Rush heads off to the studio to record. Meanwhile, I have twelve dancers to put through their paces.
The rehearsal goes well and I grab some lunch a few hours later, sitting with a couple of the dancers and getting to know them. When I finish, I notice Rush isn’t around. Curious, I head for my room, but go the long way around past his studio.
He’s in there, alone, leaning against the sound deck with his guitar slung around his neck. He’s frowning and playing a variation of the solo from “Not Only.” As he sees me coming toward him, his guitar riff changes to something funky and a bit dirty. He bites down on his lower lip as his eyes travel over my body, an I want to fuck you expression in his eyes.
Heat bubbles through me. I pretend like I’m not on the verge of collapsing at his feet and begging to suck his dick. “Great riff.”
“No kidding.”
I snort with laughter. “Conceited much?”
Rush smiles. “It’s not mine. It’s David Bowie’s.” He plants a kiss on my mouth, still playing the guitar, his hands moving along the fret board between us.
“Still pleased with yourself though, aren’t you?” I whisper against his mouth, and when he reaches around me to cup my ass in his large hand, I wiggle against it.
He makes a noise deep in his throat. “Cheeky girl.”