But that show in Atlanta...
It was fucking amazing. Never felt anything like that in my entire life. Once I got past the nerves and was able to remind myself that I was a good musician and people truly liked my work, I was able to revel in the experience of it all. The crowd was fervent for me and their energy became mine. I sang the best of my life with power, clarity, and ranges I didn't know I had within me.
It was a moment I'll never forget and while I still have nerves thinking about tonight's show, I'm more than ready to take it on. I'm almost craving that feeling again.
Emma and I came back to the venue a few hours ago since I'd be doing sound check soon, and she's been holed up in the bus ever since.
"She still in the same position?" I ask Red as I lift my chin to the bus.
"Yup," he says in a rumbling voice. "Nose pressed up against that computer. Works too damn much."
"Agreed," is all I say as I push past him and the dog. I'd reach down to ruffle Sirius' fur, but both of my hands are loaded with shopping bags.
Turning sideways, lifting the bags so I don't trip, I climb the steps and turn into the living area. As expected, Emma's at her desk, fingers flying on the laptop. She doesn't even turn to acknowledge me, and I know she heard me coming in.
I walk through the living area, and when I reach her desk, I don't slow down, just say as I pass, "Come here."
I head straight to the bedroom where I throw all the bags on the bed, turning to face Emma walking in behind me. Her eyes go down to the parcels I just deposited, and then back to me. "What's all that?"
"New clothes for you," I say as I cross my arms over my chest. "You need to try them on now, so anything that doesn't fit will get returned."
"New clothes for me?" she asks hesitantly. "You went shopping for clothes for me?"
"The stylist here in Miami did," I tell her. "I snooped through your suitcase and gave her your sizes."
At that admission, Emma's eyes narrow at me and she grits out, "You went through my clothes?"
"Yup," is all I say, and I stare her down, daring her to argue with me about any of this.
And I'm banking on an argument. My time having Emma on this tour is limited. She didn't come to the Atlanta show, preferring to stay on the bus, where she scurried to after the press conference she sat in on with me. She didn't want to hang at the after-party, and she's refusing to engage with me otherwise. She's all work, work, work and that is most definitely interfering with my plans for her.
Ordinarily, I'm a patient guy and I could give her more time, but fuck that. I decided since we were in Miami for a few days, I'd take the bull by the horns and start insisting that my little employee start doing what I want since I'm the one paying her.
"Just why in the world did you think I needed you to buy me clothes?" she asks in short, clipped bursts of anger.
"Because you," I say as clearly as possible as I wave my hands toward her, "dress like an Amish spinster. And while you did a good job fielding reporters at the Atlanta show, you sounded a little rehearsed and you can do better. I'm not quite sure anyone really bought what you were saying in your prim little business suit. You're a member of the rock industry now, and you should look the part. Not like you should be up there quoting the stock exchange."
"I was nervous," Emma practically growls at me. "And my clothes don't have a damn thing to do with it."
"You represent the brand of Evan Scott," I say adamantly as I lean toward her. "And you're going to act the part with one-hundred percent devotion."
"I'm not wearing clothes you choose for me," she bites back stubbornly, her little hands now clenched into fists.
"You most certainly are," I retort. To make my point, I start emptying the bags out onto the bed. Clothes start piling up... jeans, sexy skirts, skimpy shirts, high heels and boots, and--
"You bought me lingerie?" Emma screeches as she grabs up a bra done in black lace with red satin trim.
"Technically, the stylist did," I tell her. To add fuel to the fire, I grin at her. "But I would not be averse to you trying that on right now and perhaps giving me a little fashion show."
"Oooh," Emma screeches in anger, taking the bra and throwing it at me, where I catch it cleanly before it hits my face. "I am not trying on any of this, and you cannot dictate how I dress."
And fuck me standing... she's goddamn hot as hell right now. Same high color to her cheeks, eyes blazing, and hair seeming to fly all around her face as if the torrent of anger coming at me is electrifying it.
"I am your employer," I tell her imperiously, folding my arms back across my chest without letting go of the sexy bra. "I am an entertainer. I have a brand. I can most definitely tell you how you should dress."
"Not down to my underwear," she hisses at me, her cheeks flaming brighter as her eyes flick to the bra.
"You wear granny panties, Emma." I sneer at her in disgust, and yes... real disgust because Emma is a passionate woman and should never be wearing grandma underwear. "You act like you wear granny panties. It's bad for my image."
If I thought she was mad before, her eyes practically blaze with undisguised fury. She leans her upper body toward me, her fingers flexing outward and clenching back into fists repetitively. Through gritted teeth, she snarls, "You conceited, narcissistic barbarian. How dare you think to judge me based on something as shallow as my clothing?"
I cock an eyebrow at her and chide, "Come on, Emma. Granny panties. You can do better than that."
"Aagh," she screams in frustration. I'm stunned when she bends over the bed, gathers up an armful of clothing, and throws it at me. "You... you... you asshole!"
And I'm a fucking goner.
My hands shoot out fast, grabbing her by the shoulders, and I pull her into me so hard her head snaps backward. I get just a brief glimpse of her eyes rounding in surprise before my mouth is crashing down onto hers.
Emma whimpers, possibly in fear, and I have a moment where I go shockingly still. But then Emma's hands grip onto my biceps and she squeezes, and that's enough for me.
Curling an arm around her lower back, I pull her tight into my body so she can feel every single hard inch of me.
And I mean hard.
It happened right around the time she called me an asshole and I thought I saw fire leaping from her irises.
Emma gasps into my mouth when I press her belly against my cock, and I use that slight opening to slide my tongue into her mouth.
Fucking amazing.
She tastes like mint, and her lips are soft, reserved, and orderly, but prim little Emma gives her tongue right back to me. It swipes at mine boldly, and her moan fills my mouth... causes my brain to go fuzzy from the sheer, sweet pleasure of her taste.
I want to kiss her for hours.
No, days.
Kiss her for days and days.
But I want to fuck her too. As she squirms in my arms, seeking to get closer, I want more than just a kiss. I want to bury my cock so deep in her hot pussy that I almost come in my pants at the thought.
I loosen my arm around her back only to slip my fingers in past the back waistband of her shorts.
Her cute, soccer mom Bermuda shorts that hide her legs from me.
Emma cries out when my fingers graze her skin, and then she moans when I push them past the waistband of what I'm betting are indeed a pair of granny panties. I didn't actually look at her underwear when I was trying to get her sizes, but I'm taking an educated guess here.
Angling my head, I take the kiss deeper, and she practically melts in my arms. I raise my other hand, bringing it right to her jaw, where I grab ahold of it to hold her in place. She's so restless and squirmy and I don't want her trying to shy away from my mouth.
With a nip to her lower lip, I slide my hand further into the back of her panties and push my index finger right down through the crack of her ass, intending to go down as far as possible to maybe a touch of her wetness.
But that move so thoroughly shocks my little nu
n that she rips herself out of my arms and stares at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. And Christ... she looks so fuckable right now. Skin glowing, hair messed up, chest heaving up and down, and her nipples poking hard through her bra and shirt.
I hold in an internal groan at the thought of my teeth on those nipples.
"What do you think you are doing?" Emma rasps out in between panting breaths. She looks at me with unfiltered accusation.
"Seems to me I was kissing you," I toss back at her, holding myself in check so I don't launch myself at that hot little body.
"You can't do that," she huffs, and then licks her lips.
Fuck.
Those lips. On my cock. I absolutely fucking need them there at some point.
"Emma," I saw on a low rumble of need. "Come here."
She shakes her head, denying me. "We can't. It's not proper."
"I am not a proper type of guy," I warn her as I take a step toward her.
She holds her hands out in a silent plea for me to come no closer. "You're my boss. I'm your employee."
"Which means you have to do what I say," I tell her with an evil grin. "And I say you should come here and let me kiss you again."
"Evan," she hisses at me in reproach. "I get you are a man, and that you have physical needs... but that doesn't mean that you can just take me because I'm convenient to you. And you may be my boss, but you don't have the right."
I can't help it. I burst out laughing, throwing my head back and closing my eyes as they start to water. When I dare to look back at her, the bewilderment clouding her face cracks me up again.
"Oh, God... Emma," I say between chortles. "Could you be any more proper? Well... I guess if you were British you could be, but Christ almighty, you're fucking adorable."
She narrows her eyes at me. "I don't find this funny."
I sober instantly, my dick still achingly hard, and I tell her huskily, "No. It certainly wasn't funny when your tongue was sliding against mine or you were grinding on my cock."
"I... I... I didn't..." she stammers, and then gasps when my hand shoots out and wraps around the back of her neck.
I pull her in a little closer, only so I can peer down at her. Her chest is heaving again, and my cock thumps in my pants when her eyes cut down to my lips in anticipation.
Yeah... she wants me, but she can't reconcile herself to it.
"Emma," I say softly, and then bend down just to kiss the tip of her nose. I see the surprise in her eyes when I pull back. "You are neither convenient or here just because I have needs. I've wanted to fuck you since that day in the police station when we first met, and that has nothing to do with the work you were hired for. You also have the right to say no to me--"
Her eyes cut down to the clothes on the bed.
"Not on the clothes... you're going to accept them and wear them," I tell her with no room for argument. "But if you don't want me... if you don't want to know what if feels like for me to be balls deep in you... you only have to say no."
Emma let out a tiny moan right around the time I said the word "balls", and while I am absolutely certain I could have her right now with a little more persuasion, I release my hold on the back of her neck.
"However, until such time," I say as I step backward and turn to the door, "I expect you to dress like you belong on this tour with me, and I expect you to be at my shows. I'll have someone bring you a backstage pass for tonight."
She doesn't say a word as I walk out of the bedroom, through the bus and down the steps. I hope to God I don't run into anyone right away, as I need a few minutes to get my dick back under control.
But outside of that tiny worry, I'm filled with victorious elation, because I just learned that, without a doubt, prim little Emma Peterson wants me as much as I want her.
CHAPTER 10
Emma
"He's amazing, isn't he?" Tyler says loudly as he leans over toward my ear.
From my place backstage, I have the perfect view of Evan as he winds down his last song of the night. It's an acoustic version of his most famous song... the one he put free on YouTube, which made him a household name.
It's soulfully brilliant, telling the story of love and loss from the eyes of a little boy who simply loves a little girl.
I may have listened to this song only about a thousand times since I first heard it.
"So amazing," I agree, although I'm not sure Tyler hears me as he simply nods and turns away.
I don't spare him another glance though, preferring to watch Evan as he sits on a stool, one booted foot planted on the stage, the other on the second rung. The acoustic version is a little slower than the recorded one, and his voice is purer.
Definitely sexier.
And even that thought causes my heart to just skitter out of place.
What happened today in that bus is still beyond my comprehension. One minute, we're fighting, and the next, we're engaged in the most sensuously epic kiss of my life. It was no-holds barred. It was carnal.
It was so dirty.
Especially when his finger--
I can't even think about it. I'm afraid people will take one look at me and know what I'm thinking.
A man has never dared to touch me back there, and I honestly don't know if I was turned on or appalled, although I am sure I was freaked out, which is why I pulled away from him.
I realized as his finger came so close to my... um... well, that my world was getting ready to change in a way that could alter my very existence.
Frankly, it scared the crap out of me.
Evan scares the crap out of me.
And yet... I cannot stop thinking of kissing him.
I can't stop thinking of the dirty things he said to me, because it's unlike anything I've heard before. I'm not a virgin, having lost that title my junior year of college with Chris. He was my one and only sexual relationship, and it was nothing like what I experienced in those few minutes with Evan.
Chris was making love with the lights out and lots of cuddling and sweet words.
Evan is... well, he'll never be that, and I don't know if I could survive someone like him.
Crossing one arm over my belly, I nibble nervously on my thumbnail as I watch Evan perform. My eyes cut out to the thousands of fans, swaying back and forth and singing along with him. To the women surrounding the stage, looking at him with adoration and promise if he'll just look back at them.
But Evan doesn't, I notice. He's into his music, and it's the only thing that matters to him in this moment.
For the first time since I've met Evan, I get something about him that I didn't understand before.
He lives for this.
This is his breath and his life.
My head drops down and I look at my outfit.
To my surprise, this afternoon about two hours after "the kiss," Evan's Miami stylist came onto the bus and offered to show me how to put all the outfits together. I hadn't touched the pile of clothes. They were still scattered over the bed and on the floor where they landed after I threw them at Evan.
I'd stewed for those two hours, telling myself I was not going to wear a stitch of that clothing, and that he couldn't make me attend his shows. That it was well outside of the purview of my job description.
I told myself that for two hours, and yet when the stylist showed up, all I could think about was Evan perhaps kissing me again, and would it be different if I were wearing something he liked.
It was maddening that I would even be thinking that, and yet I tried on all those clothes.
Even the lingerie.
Tonight, I chose an outfit that I would never in a million years have ever had the guts to try. It's a pair of tight black pants--not necessarily leggings--that hug every inch of me from waist to ankle. They're shimmery, almost a metallic shine. It's paired with a white silky camisole that doesn't cut too low over my breasts, but doesn't quite reach the waistband of the low-slung pant. Some of my stomach is bared. Of course, I felt a little too naked wea
ring that, so the stylist gave me a faded jean jacket to wear over the top. And after she advised me on what to wear, she provided a small bag of makeup. I only took advantage of a little eyeshadow and mascara, as I've never liked the way that stuff feels all over my face.
I look back up to Evan as he sings the last few lines, the roar of the crowd starting to peak as they know the end is nearing.
What in tarnation am I doing here? Wearing clothes he's bought me--including a matching bra and panty set done in white lace. Coming to a show that he commanded me to attend, despite it not having anything to do with my job.
Is it because of that kiss?
Am I subconsciously putting myself out there... in his line of sight... to tempt something more?
My entire body slumps with the realization that I might actually be devolving into a tramp.
With the last strum against the guitar strings, Evan reaches a hand out and wraps it around the mic perched on a stand. Placing his lips close, he says, "Thank you all for coming. Good night, Miami."
The fans go crazy and the arena starts blazing with lit cell phones waving furiously. The word "encore" floats around until it becomes a loud chant that can be clearly heard above the cheering.
Evan smiles and steps off the stool, resting his guitar against it. He starts walking my way, looking out over the crowd and waving to them as he exits.
Then his head turns and he stares at me.
But only at my face for a moment before his gaze travels so very slowly down my body, all the way down to the strappy black sandals I'd been given to wear with this outfit, adding an extra four inches onto my petite height. He continues walking straight at me as his eyes slide right back up my body, and when they lock onto mine, I feel my entire body tremble.
Blazing satisfaction is written all over his face, whether it's because I wore his clothes or because I came to see his show, but he bears the look of triumph.
Evan walks right up to me and without saying a word, grabs my hand. I gasp as he pulls me off to the side and behind a curtain, which houses another curtain right behind it. He draws me a few steps in until we are completely out of sight and then his hands are on my face and his mouth is molesting mine.