Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Chloe
Past
The crowd’s gone feral—seventy-thousand bodies jumping in sync, one heartbeat, one beast. Fans are losing their collective minds, and I’m right here, soaking it in.
From our air-conditioned VIP suite, the vibe couldn’t be more different—wild energy out there, chilled champagne in here.
I’ve never been in a suite before, but God help me, I may never go back.
Carter commands the stage below, black tee plastered to his chest, sweat-slick hair flinging back as he belts out one of Pulse’s hits. That voice—gritty, raw, soaked in sex—rips right through me.
I can’t believe I’ve had that voice inside me.
Literally.
Last weekend on the yacht? One for the books.
Not just because of Carter’s rockstar anatomy, but because of Z.
Sleeping wrapped in his arms, warm and wanted, I got a glimpse of what real could feel like.
I’ve always known, theoretically, what having a boyfriend means.
But experiencing it—even just a sliver? Yeah. I liked it. A lot.
I sway to the beat, hips loose, the music rolling through me.
A strong arm snakes across my chest from behind. I drop my chin to his forearm to hide the smile stretching across my face. We move together, perfectly in sync.
His lips brush my ear. “You know, I’ve never been jealous of Carter.”
That gets my attention.
“Oh?”
“The fame, the fans, the no-privacy: I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Poor bastard can’t even take a piss without a security detail. Not for me.”
On the stage, Carter cradles the mic like a lover’s face, sweat glinting under the lights as women scream their hearts out.
“Until last weekend. For a few minutes.”
My ribs lock around my heart.
Damn, this man.
He doesn’t elaborate, so I lean down and kiss his forearm. A silent thank you.
I was starstruck at seeing Carter. And instead of being possessive, Zac gifted me the fantasy.
He offered me to him. Because of me. Just like when I keep him warm in my mouth.
That’s my kink, not his. He’s generous in the most twisted, thoughtful ways.
He gave me exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
And then, before I can overthink it, his voice is low in my ear.
“I want to talk to you,” he says, “properly. Not just at Eden.”
I glance up at him over my shoulder, brows drawing together. “Okay…” The word comes out slower than I mean it to. I’m not exactly sure where this is going or what he means.
He pulls something from his pocket—a small, sleek flip phone. A burner, brand new.
“This is just for us. You can use it or not. I won’t push. But if you want to talk… I want to hear from you. I’ll pay for your time.”
I take the phone, fingers brushing his, and slip it into my purse.
“Thank you,” I reply quietly. “You don’t have to pay me. I want to talk to you, too.”
He nods slowly.
I don’t know what to call this thing between us, but it’s no longer transactional. We’re breaking the rules, pushing all the boundaries. I know it’s real. And real is rare. So I give him the one thing I know he needs.
“I’m not going anywhere, Z. Until you say so.”
In front of us, the crowd roars and the song crashes to a close. The girls behind us let out a whoop. We turn to find Hailee and Cora twirling with their drinks, cheeks flushed and eyes shining.
God, I adore them. If I had time—if I had the luxury of health—I’d pour myself into friendships like that.
But studying medicine is brutal. Add a chronic illness and my Eden shifts on top of it?
I’m barely surviving. Any scraps of free time I get, I spend at the gym, trying to keep my body strong enough to carry me.
I know Hailee better than Cora as she’s Madame Anna’s right-hand woman.
Cora only worked at Eden briefly, so we never really had a chance to connect.
Still, if I ever had the bandwidth, I’d claim Hailee and Cora as my ride-or-dies in a heartbeat.
Low-maintenance, real, down-to-earth. Unlike Blaire…
she’s different. I never get good vibes from her.
That smug, mean-girl energy? Yeah, I steer clear.
Feels like high school all over again, and I graduated from that drama years ago.
Actually… where is Blaire tonight?
The next song’s a slow one. The girls pounce, yanking James and Dameon away from their work talk and onto the makeshift dance floor before either can protest.
I turn in Z’s arms, letting him draw me into a slow, easy sway. My hands slide behind his neck, our eyes locked. The music fades, the crowd disappears. It’s just us.
Everything about this feels right. Right place. Right man. Right time.
The glint in his eyes says he’s about to drop something downright dirty and delicious, and I already know I’m going to love whatever comes next.
“I’ve got an idea. If you’re game.”
I smirk. “I’m always game.”
“Come with me.”
He grabs my hand and leads me to the couch tucked away at the back of the suite, still with a clear view of the stage, but semi-private. He takes a seat and draws me into his lap so I’m facing away from him, my back nestled against his chest.
“I’m going to open my zipper. You’re going to lift your skirt and sit on my cock. Got it?” he whispers, his mouth brushing the back of my neck.
My heart skips. “Here? Now?”
The waitstaff are still bustling around, clearing glasses and refilling platters.
I’ve got no problem getting fucked in front of his friends and the girls.
We spent the whole weekend naked on a yacht—this isn’t exactly new territory for me.
But that was private property. Trusted staff. This? This is a civilian zone.
Z told me to wear a long skirt and skip the panties for tonight. He clearly had a plan. I can already feel the thick press of him beneath me, rock-hard inside his jeans. He’s ready. Honestly, I’ve been wet since I walked in and saw him looking like sin in that T-shirt-and-jeans combo.
Still, if we’re doing this, we’ve got to be quick. And clever.
“Move forward a little,” he instructs, helping me shift.
I twist to look over my shoulder, as he undoes his zipper and pulls his cock free. My body shields him from view, so no one sees when he wraps his fist around his shaft—stroking from base to tip, collecting the bead of pre-cum with his thumb and offering it to me.
I latch onto his thumb like a hungry lioness, tongue swirling, sucking hard. His eyes drop to half-mast.
One hand gathers my skirt. The other braces the base of his cock. He casts a casual glance around the suite, cool and composed. “Okay. Now.”
I raise slightly while he guides his thick head to my entrance. I sink down—slow, smooth, until I’m fully seated, completely filled. He drapes my skirt over us like a curtain, and I face forward, melting back into his chest.
We both sigh.
From the outside? Just a couple cuddling on the couch during a concert.
Inside? Filthy, beautiful, perfect.
For a split second, I was worried I wouldn’t be wet enough—that I’d get stuck halfway down, awkward and exposed.
I move a little. We both groan.
He feels too good. Too thick. I want to roll my hips, ride him hard, chase the high already curling in my belly.
“Don’t move,” he growls into my ear, gripping my hips.
“Why not?”
“Clench.”
“What?”
“Your muscles. Clench for me.”
I do as I’m told.
“Oh, fuck. Make me come like this.”
I don’t bounce or grind on him. Instead, I hold him deep and tight, coaxing him with nothing but the way I clench.
Challenge accepted.
I tighten. Release. Tighten again. Slow and steady. Good thing I’ve got Kegels of steel.
He pants against my neck, barely holding on.
A waiter approaches. “Another drink, miss?”
He’s young and kind of cute, blissfully unaware of the filthy scene unfolding under my skirt. And if he does suspect anything, he’s got a poker face worthy of Vegas.
I don’t miss a beat. “Long Island iced tea, please.”
And for you, sir?”
Z’s voice is tight, after a particularly hard clench. “Whiskey. Neat.”
The waiter nods and walks off, apparently none the wiser.
“Jesus, baby. Your cunt’s heaven. I could live inside you forever.”
Fine by me.
I crane my neck and twist, lifting my face to his, and nip at his bottom lip. “Give it to me. I’ve been a good girl. I want your cum, Zaddy.”
He makes a pained sound in between a moan and a groan. His eyes flutter, and his breathing picks up until he’s panting into my lips.
Three sharp jerks. His cock pulses inside me, coating my insides and filling me up. His orgasm sets off mine, my body automatically taking over the clenching, and I milk him through his aftershocks as my own orgasm overtakes.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“Mm-hmm.”
I fuse my lips to his, bringing one hand up behind me to bury in his hair as I claim his mouth.
But the music swells again, thumping louder into the suite—reality edging in, pressing at the seams of our cocoon.
Z breaks the kiss, his lips drifting to the side of my head, where they linger.
“You okay to walk?” he murmurs.
My pussy aches in the best way, but I push up anyway, smoothing my skirt. Z slides free, his cum leaking down my thighs.
“Yeah, but if I limp, we’re blaming the heels. Not your… enthusiasm.”
He chuckles, tucking himself back into his jeans with all the stealth of a marching band in a church.
I bite my lip, fighting a grin.
Just a clench and a well-placed “Zaddy.”
God, I’m a menace.
“No cleaning up,” he reminds me.
I blow him a kiss.
“Please, I’m always wearing you. At this point, I’m basically marinating.”
We rejoin the group as the next track crashes through the speakers and the crowd outside erupts again.
Inside the suite, it’s just us and our circle—warm, fizzy energy and champagne sweat.
Hailee’s ditched her heels and is dancing barefoot with Cora, both spinning like tipsy fairies.
James and Dameon are still locked in a work debate.
Z glances over at Dameon. “Backstage?”
Dameon lifts his drink in a lazy salute. “Already arranged.”
“Afterparty?” James asks, leaning in. “Where?”
“Dressing room,” Dameon mutters, tapping his phone. “Apparently we’ve been summoned.”
“I’m in,” Hailee sing-songs, arms still mid-spin.
Cora laughs. “We talking open bar? Because my liver’s only half-dead.”
“Come on.” Z catches my hand. “It’s not a real Pulse concert until someone licks tequila off a groupie.”
I arch a brow. “How many groupies have you defiled, exactly?”
He grins. “Not enough to compare to what I’ve done to you.”
Hailee shrieks, “Too much information!” but she’s grinning, flushed and giddy.
And just like that, the night shifts.
We make our way downstairs, the thump of bass growing louder with each floor. The elevator dings open, and boom—straight into backstage bedlam. Sweaty bodies, spilled booze, and at least one half-naked groupie.
Crew members weave through the crowd with headsets and clipboards, already packing up, ready to ship out for the world tour.
The backstage lounge has a bar built from battered amp cases with neon lighting casting everything in a haze. The walls vibrate with basslines. To our right, someone’s yelling about a missing drum key.
I stick close to Z. This world isn’t mine—not like Eden. Eden is ordered and controlled; this world is untamed.
He drapes an arm around my waist in a casual claim, fingers resting above my hip bone. I lean into him without thinking.
Carter finds us within minutes—shirt off, dog tags swinging, slick with sweat and charisma. He’s sex and trouble, the human personification of a rock ballad. The two women hanging off him look reluctant to let go when he approaches us.
“How was the suite?” Carter asks, smirking. “Bet it smells like sin in there now.”
Z shoots him a look. “What, you want a sniff test?”
Carter grins. “Depends—are you charging by the finger?”
Dameon sighs. “Jesus. Can you two not flirt like deranged frat boys for five minutes?”
“Honestly, this is their version of foreplay.” James lifts his glass.
I flash a saccharine smile. “With Z? Foreplay’s just a formality. He can slide in anytime.”
Z’s eyes lock on mine. “Don’t tempt me, little one. You’re already walking proof.”
Carter groans, clutching his chest like he’s been shot. “Aww, you two.”
James mutters, “Get a room.”
Dameon adds, “Preferably one that’s soundproofed.”
Z flashes them a smug smile. “Already had one.”
We claim a sunken leather couch in the corner—one that’s probably seen more naked bodies than a strip club booth on amateur night.
It’s been hours. We’ve drunk enough to kill a lesser liver, and played voyeur to so much casual cock-sucking I stopped noticing it after round three.
But now, the debauchery is simmering down. The music’s quiet, the crowd’s thinned, and half the band has wandered off—each with one, two, or more groupies in tow. Finally, the night’s coming to an end.
Hailee’s perched on the armrest, feeding Dameon chocolate from her purse.
Why she has chocolate in her purse, I have no idea.
Cora’s half-asleep in James’s lap. Carter’s splayed across a beanbag with a bottle of scotch and two naked girls tracing the tattoos on his chest. I sip my drink and lean into Z’s side.
His hand drifts lazily up and down my thigh.
He’s always touching me, like he needs constant contact.
“This feels… nice,” I say quietly.
Z’s mouth brushes the edge of my jaw. “It is. I haven’t had this much fun in a long time.”
I hesitate, then glance up at him. “Think anyone knew what we were up to?”
He smirks. “Only anyone who saw your ‘I just came’ face.”
I huff a laugh.
We don’t leave with the others. We linger, letting the moment stretch between us, neither of us quite ready to say goodnight. To let go.
Z helps me into my jacket, his hands warm on my shoulders.
“You sure you’re okay heading back alone?” he mutters. “I can take you home.”
“I’ll be fine,” I reply. “Besides… I’ve got a burner phone now, remember?”
He gives a devastating smile, one that reaches all the way to his eyes. “Use it.”
I rise onto my toes, brushing a kiss to his cheek. “Count on it.”
As I turn to leave, his voice follows me.
“Goodnight, Gigi.”
“Goodnight, Z.”
I press my lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile as I walk away.