“Writing, huh? How’s the cookbook going?”

“I think it’s going well. At least none of you have complained about the recipes I’ve come up with.”

“What’s to complain about? Your food is amazing.” He smiled. “And since it’s going so well, you can take the night off and not feel guilty.”

Feeling vulnerable, exposed, she searched for another excuse. But there was none, not when he leaned down and whispered, “I need you there, Jamison. I like knowing you’re watching.”

“Hey, Ryder! You coming, man?” Before she could respond, Quinn’s voice drifted through the bus’s still open door.

“Go ahead,” he shouted back without ever taking his eyes from hers. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“You should go.” She tried to duck under his arm, but he refused to let her.

“Not ‘til you say you’ll come.”

“Why does this matter so much to you?”

“Because I miss you.” The words seemed yanked from him against his will.

“I’m right here,” she said, shoving harder at him.

“No. You’re not. That’s the problem.” But he finally got the hint and moved away from her. He smiled, but it was one of his stage smiles. The kind he gave the fans no matter how shitty he was feeling, but that never quite reached his eyes.

“Hey, Ryder.” This time she was the one trying to make eye contact and he was the one avoiding it. Only she wasn’t big or strong or tough enough to make him look at her—not physically and certainly not emotionally. Which was why when he stepped toward the door, she didn’t try to stop him. Didn’t do anything but watch him go.

“Don’t worry about it,” he tossed over his shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, later.”

He gave her a casual little half wave as he took the stairs in one giant step and then headed into the night, the door slapping closed behind him.

If only she could slap her own emotions closed half as easily.

Part of her was angry, really angry, that he’d used all that brooding sex appeal against her. Especially since he was the one who’d backed away from that aspect of their relationship, the one who didn’t want her despite the crazy sparks they struck off each other.

But another part of her was worried. He’d looked so lost when he’d walked into the night, so much like the boy she used to know instead of the tough, don’t-give-a-shit rocker he’d forged himself into through the years. It was stupid—she knew it was stupid—but she felt herself falling for it all over again.

Not for him. She’d learned her lesson on that front. But just because she’d made up her mind not to think about Ryder anymore—or, more accurately, had her mind made up for her—didn’t mean she’d stopped caring for him. She couldn’t, no matter how much she sometimes wished it might be otherwise. There was too much history between them. Too many feelings, especially on her side.

Which meant, she realized with a sigh of disgust, that she was going to break her own rules. She was going to try to figure out what was up with Ryder, what was hurting him. And the best way to do that was to do what he asked—to go see Shaken Dirty play and let him see her there. Maybe then he’d open up to her again, let her see inside of him.

And if he didn’t? a little voice inside of her asked. Well, if he didn’t, at least she’d tried. Maybe knowing that would be enough … for both of them.

…

He could feel her watching him.

There were twenty-three thousand people crammed into the amphitheater in front of him, all of them staring at him—focused on him—and still he could feel Jamison’s eyes on him. He hadn’t expected her to come, not after the way she’d shot him down earlier, but he was grateful that she’d changed her mind.

He’d thought that early morning trip to the grocery store would clear the air between them, would get them back on an even-keel. And maybe it had, since she was no longer looking at him with that undisguised longing in her eyes. No longer staring at him like she was imagining him naked and inside her.

He’d thought that was what he wanted. For things to go back to normal between them—Jared’s best friend and Jared’s little sister, just hanging out, having fun. But it turned out he was a sick son of a bitch, because now that things were the way he’d been sure he wanted them, he couldn’t stand it.

All he could think about was the way Jamison smelled and tasted and felt. The way she’d melted when he touched her, and run like warm, sweet honey on his fingers. He wanted to taste that honey, to feel it on his lips, his tongue, running down his throat.

He wanted her, was one step away from saying to hell with Jared, their pasts and their futures, and just taking what he wanted. What he needed.

“Careless” drew to an end to loud screams and catcalls. Bras and panties—and even a few T-shirts—pelted the stage. He dodged a bright red lacey number only to get beaned right in the face with a hot pink and white polka dotted bra.

The crowd roared. Knowing they expected it, he hammed it up. Peeled the bra off his face and sniffed it with a totally lascivious look on his face. It smelled good—like vanilla and sugar—but it did nothing for him anymore. He much preferred Jamison’s honeyed peach scent. He couldn’t help wondering what kind of bra she was wearing tonight, even as he called out, “Mmmm, delicious. The owner of this can definitely pick it up in my dressing room after the show.”

Choruses of “I love you, Ryder!” rose up from the audience. He grinned at them, got them to make some noise. Even played along when Micah slipped the bra out of his hand and hung it around the neck of his bass.

“Actually,” he told the already hyped-up audience, “I think this bra—and its owner—is all mine tonight. I’ve got a thing for hot pink.”

More laughter and catcalls. Ryder went with it, giving Micah shit and the crowd a show they wouldn’t soon forget. Bantering back and forth with Jared, Quinn, even Wyatt until the crowd was at a fever pitch.

All the while he was conscious of Jamison’s gaze on him. He didn’t know where she was—only that she wasn’t backstage—but he knew she was watching. The hardness in his dick told him that, as did the fact that he felt seconds away from jumping out of his own skin. Every second of feeling her eyes was an agony, every moment of not touching excruciating. If he didn’t calm down he was going to come right here in the middle of the stage—and that was an experience he would really rather do without.

But six days of no sex—pretty much the longest he’d gone since he was a teenager—following those very sexy moments with Jamison in his hotel room, had him riding the razor-sharp edge of sexual need and frustration. And when he crouched down near the front of the stage, reaching out a hand so some of his fans could grab or high five or just touch him, that need tipped over into insanity.

Because Jamison was there, pressed up against the stage. She was watching him with those crazy purple eyes of hers, her skin flushed a lickable pink and her full lips slicked with raspberry gloss the same color as the gorgeous little nipples he’d gotten a glimpse of in that San Diego hotel room. Guys were all around her, touching her, bumping into her as they tried to get to him, looking at her because he was. And because she was so damn, heartbreakingly beautiful.

He wanted to pull her up on stage with him, to bite her, mark her, take her right there in front of Jared and everyone so that the whole world knew that she was his. That she belonged to him and he wasn’t going to let anyone take her away.

The possessive nature of his thoughts confused him, as did the jealousy whipping through his blood. He never got like this over a woman, never felt this driving need to warn off every other male in a hundred mile radius. Yet crouching there, looking at Jamison, the need to do just that was a pounding in his head, a throbbing in his blood.