Dominator Of The Opera (Humbled Superstars #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Birdie

“IT’S FINALE NIGHT FOR AMERICA’S MOST ENCHANTING VIRTUOSO!” the announcer boomed to wild applause.

The energy in the studio tonight was insane, and I took a deep breath, smoothing down my long folk singer skirt, and I walked out under the bright lights.

“Please welcome back BIRDIE VALENTINE!”

I had been sitting in hair & makeup for ages, my light brown shoulder-length curls bouncing with shiny perfection, eyes heavy with makeup and sticky squishy gloss on my lips, my breasts squashed into a top that pressed them high like two shiny glittery cantaloupes.

They had really played up the whole sexpot vs. America's Sweetheart angle for the finale.

Audience members were holding up signs identifying who they thought should win—me or the curly-haired crooner named Timmy Tune-ups, who was so popular the studio had taken out extra security against all the panties constantly being thrown at him while he sung.

As we were guided to our places, I tried not to look over at the judge’s table, even though just knowing he was there watching made my skin tingle, sent waves of arousal between my thighs.

This was the most significant moment of my life, the culmination of the 5-week singing competition I’d quit my job as a bartender to join.

An idiot move? Possibly.

But it could potentially change my entire life. It could massively jumpstart my career as a singer.

And here I was still thinking about him.

Forrest Davies-Jones.

Because how could you not be obsessed with him? The absolutely legendary composer, director, and mega-powerful mogul. He’d written and produced some of the biggest songs in the business, with a commitment to musical perfection, and directed smash hits from classical operas to Broadway.

In fact, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Feeling his eyes on me, wondering what he thought about me, if he was impressed with my singing.

I didn’t necessarily have the most classical voice and he was such a classical voice specialist. My voice was raw, low, throaty. The opposite of every other person who had been his favorite in previous years.

But the way he looked at me? It was positively sinful.

I didn’t know how he felt about me, but every time his eyes slid over, I felt slick dripping sweat roll down my back. Because I was the one he had chosen to mentor. I was the one who got his sparing words of praise.

And his favoritism didn’t go unnoticed.

I knew there were people who thought I’d only made it this far into the competition because of my “sex appeal.” Or that Forrest had pulled strings.

“Mr. Davies-Jones treats all the competitors equally,” the America’s Most Enchanting Virtuoso PR had assured the public.

Well, I hoped that wasn’t true. . .because we had slept together. Just a few times, but each one was imprinted on my memory—the passion, the need, the feeling I would explode without his masterful hands on me, coaxing my body to make sounds I’d never dreamed it could. . .

Forrest lounged back in his chair, chatting with the other judges, and I forced myself to not look over to add fuel to the fire because I knew what I’d see.

A very tall man, sexy as hell at 60, thick silvery hair with a neatly trimmed beard, broad shoulders, black suit jacket and snowy white shirt with the top few buttons undone so I could see the tanned skin of his powerful chest.

Delicious

The final songs were a blur, and the judges praised both of us, but of course I was waiting on what Forrest thought.

He was always sparing, cautious with his praise, which is why I practically drooled over every bit of it.

“Your voice is—so raw and untamed. It has an innate hedonism to it that is so striking—almost an animal quality to the way your voice caresses those notes. Most unique.”

Well, that didn’t sound like something he’d say about anyone he’d cast in one of his operas, but I couldn’t help my cheeks flushing with pleasure.

Maybe if I won—maybe he would see then that I was good enough to be in one of this shows.

But when Timmy and I stood next to each other, two blindingly bright spotlights shining on us as the studio audience held their breaths. . .

“The winner of America’s Most Enchanting Virtuoso competition and the $100,000 prize is. . .Timmy Tune-Ups!”

The bright happy smile was already pasted on my face, stretching from cheek to cheek as the video cameras lingered on me, ready to capture any frown or pout so the headlines tomorrow could be, “AMERICA’S MOST ENCHANTING SINGER? MORE LIKE AMERICA’S NEXT TOP BITCH, AM I RIGHT?”

But I didn’t give them anything to work with, making sure my toothy smile was wide enough to see every one of my shiny teeth, the lip gloss congealing into a sticky paste.

“Love you, girl!” Timmy mouthed to me, making the heart sign, and I made it back, putting a hand on my heart to emphasize how meaningful I found his victory.

But inside I was sick with disappointment.

There was nothing wrong with Timmy Tune-Ups, he was a nice vapid idiot, but. . . I had wanted it to be me.

I wanted to be a singer more than anything and I felt my dream slipping away.

Maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought. Did “raw and untamed” mean my voice was too amateur? Maybe I needed to take more singing lessons.

Finally the spotlight and cameras thankfully moved away to focus only on Timmy and I was able to escape into the dark hallways of the recording studio, my cheeks already aching from smiling so much and tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

Chin up, Birdie, I told myself fiercely. Don’t fucking cry over this! You won’t give up, you know you won’t. It’s just one setback.

I was resolutely wiping away my tears and straightening my boho broomstick skirt when I heard steps behind me, and an unmistakable voice: low, gravelly, sin on a stick.

“It’s only $100,000.”

“I know,” I said, lust beginning to curl into my body. “I’m fine.”

“And he’ll have to do all these appearances and events for the studio. It’s not that great of a deal. He’ll be busy as hell and run off his feet all year. You did good, baby girl.”

“Totally,” I said, my skin breaking out in prickly heat at those words. Baby girl. Why the hell was that so hot? I was melting.

“Not that good of a deal for sure. $100,000 is like chump change to me too.”

He laughed then, low and wicked, and my skin tightened as he moved closer. Each heavy footfall sent need pulsing below my waist and I waited, with bated breath, to see what he meant to do. My skin was burning, on fire with the awareness of his big, powerful body behind mine.

Forrest took one more step and then one more, and I almost whimpered to see his shiny black shoe right between my feet, the size dwarfing my strappy little heels.

My god, if he asked me I would drop to my knees right here and grind over his pointy rich man shoe until it was soaked.

One strong arm curled around my waist, taking me further into the shadows.

“There’s plenty of other opportunities, pretty girl.”

“What, like an opera?” I asked, like an idiot, but even still I couldn’t believe he wanted me.

Forrest chuckled, his voice low and rough, then he gathered up the curls falling over my shoulders in one fist, as goosebumps swept over my flesh, all up and down my body as his mouth landed on my throat, the rough scratch of his silvery beard on my skin an exquisite burst of sensation.

What would it feel like even lower?

I couldn’t repress a moan or how I melted like silk back into his embrace.

“Not an opera. Come live with me. Don’t go back home to Ft. Worth. Stay here in LA with me.”

“With you?” I squeaked, hardly daring to believe it was true.

Did that mean he liked me? That it wasn’t just sex? Me, of all the women in the entire world, with women constantly throwing themselves after him?

“Yes.”

One hand was on my waist, fingers slipping under the band of my panties, and it was so goddamn hot.

“I’ve never been to your house,” I parried as Forrest buried his other hand in my hair and tugged.

“You’ll love it, baby girl,” he growled and my insides were liquifying.

He suddenly flipped me around and his mouth met mine in a blast of pure carnal connection. I was already arching into him and the thick dick pressing on my belly, his fingers hard on my hips as he dragged up my skirts, both of us ravenous for each other.

The world’s most powerful music producer fucked me up against the wall, my eyes rolling back at my head at how he could stroke that big cock in and out, rubbing all those perfect spots no younger man had ever been able to get.

I was gasping, panting, needing more, so stretched and fucked that I was whimpering his name.

“Yes,” I whispered as sweat dripped down into my breasts and my lips felt swollen from his kisses. “Yes, I’ll come live with you.”