Chapter 16
MALIK
The sun set hours ago. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing in front of the windows of my hotel room. My phone hangs loosely in my hand, my fingers taunting me to take action. The itch I’ve been denying myself for weeks has now become unbearable. I need to fuck.
The road does this thing where it blurs into routine without ever becoming comfortable.
One city replaces the next, everything begins to look and feel the same.
You’re surrounded by people all day, crew, security, fans, voices in your ear, and then suddenly you’re alone, and the silence lands heavier than it should.
The walls of even the most luxurious hotel suites start closing in, and that’s when the restlessness takes over, creeping up my spine, settling into my bones.
This is usually the part where I don’t let it get that far.
Before the tour, I didn’t spend my nights like this.
I filled them, bodies, one hook up after another, heat and distraction.
There was always someone in my bed, breathing beside me, hands on my skin, and moans of pleasure that drowned out the hollow parts.
The sheets would be warm, carrying the scents of cologne, sweat, and satisfaction.
Renee used to call it reckless, irresponsible.
I called it survival. Sex isn’t about intimacy; it’s about not feeling the absence of it.
It’s about filling the void with something tangible, something I control.
Somewhere in the last few months, that stopped.
Weeks have passed with nothing but discipline and distance, and I don’t remember making a conscious decision about it.
I just know that my usual fixes haven’t appealed, and that restraint, unfamiliar and unwanted, has settled in its place.
My body is tight, coiled with tension that even hours in the gym hasn’t released.
Tonight, it’s finally catching up with me, sharp and insistent, like my body is done negotiating, like it’s screaming for the relief I keep denying it.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, lifting my phone, I unlock the screen and scroll.
The list is familiar in a way that should be comforting but isn’t.
Names I recognize, numbers I remember for the wrong reasons, faces attached to nights that blur together if I try to recall them too closely.
Men who have seen me naked but never vulnerable.
Men who know the taste of my skin but not the weight of my thoughts.
It should be easy. It always used to be.
I pause, thumb hovering, then send a message before I can overthink it.
Me
Sky Hotel. Meet me at the bar. Ten minutes. Don’t make me wait.
The reply comes fast. Too fast, as if he was ready and waiting for me, his phone clutched in his hand, anticipating the moment I’d break.
Phillyboy
Yes, sir.
When the knock comes, I don’t overthink it.
I’m not surprised that he found his way to my room first instead of following my direction.
Typical bratty behavior that would usually have me dragging him inside and punishing him with my dick down his throat, his moans muffled against my skin, his submission sweet and temporary.
Steven is exactly my type. Muscular, confident, beautiful brown skin, a bright smile, short locs framing a face that knows how handsome he is.
His eyes are eager, his body already leaning toward mine in the doorway.
He looks at me like I’m a fantasy come to life, hungry and reverent all at once, and maybe once that would’ve been enough.
It would have been enough to be balls deep inside his ass by now, gripping his hips, watching his face contort with pleasure as I took what I needed.
The thought of it doesn’t. . .no. I need this damn it.
“Hey,” he says, breathless, already anticipating my next move, his lips parting slightly, inviting.
“Hey,” I reply, forcing a smile. I don’t miss the widening of his eyes as I push past him letting my door swing behind me as I head away from my room.
His confusion is palpable, hanging in the air between us.
“The bar, Steven,” I call over my shoulder as he hurries to catch up, his footsteps quickening to match my stride.
We head downstairs with security clearing a path to keep me from the cameras and waiting fans.
Two large men in black suits move efficiently ahead of us, creating invisible barriers between me and the outside world.
The hotel bar is dim, discreet, tucked away from anything resembling spectacle.
Crystal glasses catch the low light, reflecting amber and gold across polished surfaces.
Music hums low through the speakers, something smooth and unassuming, bass notes vibrating beneath conversation.
I’m distracted, wondering what Julian is doing tonight.
Is he in his room? Out with Portia? Fucking Portia?
My chest tightens with a knot of jealousy I have no right to feel.
I shouldn’t care, right? He’s not mine, never was officially, yet my thoughts obsessively turn to him.
I imagine his fingers, precise and elegant, moving over Portia’s skin the way they move over piano keys.
I imagine his mouth, a mouth I never knew intimately, pressed against someone else’s throat.
I barely hear Steven order some fruity cocktail as I absently ask for a scotch, neat, double, something to burn away the images in my head.
I lean back in my seat when the waiter leaves and Steven talks while we wait.
The leather chair creaks beneath me as I shift, trying to focus on the man in front of me instead of the ghost in my head.
He talks about the tour and how he will be in the front row tomorrow, his eyes bright with excitement.
He mentions how he’d hoped I’d call him and now here we are, like fate brought us together.
I resist the urge to tell him it wasn’t fate, just loneliness and habit.
He lowers his voice, leans in closer, and says he missed my cock, even though the term is a turn off for me.
The crude phrasing lands wrong, makes me wince internally.
I let his words bounce off me, like rain against a window.
I nod. I smile. I listen, and I feel nothing. My body is going through the motions while my mind wanders elsewhere, down corridors and up elevator shafts, searching for Julian.
Then the music in the bar shifts, and suddenly Julian’s quick strokes of the piano fill the room.
One of his compositions on his set list, heavy and aching, the kind of song that doesn’t ask permission before it rips your heart out.
The melody is haunting, delicate at first, then building with an intensity that feels like confession, like sorrow, like longing transformed into sound.
I close my eyes for half a second. I let myself drown in the emotion of the melody.
The notes pierce through my careful indifference, reaching places I’ve kept locked away.
Even here. Even now. I can’t shake him. Even when I actively sought to push him as far from my thoughts as I could.
Julian Miles Reed has always and will always be the very heart of me.
That revelation has me pushing back my chair, the legs scraping against the polished floor.
Standing, I reach down, pick up my drink and drain my glass.
The scotch burns a path down my throat, liquid courage or liquid escape, I’m not sure which.
“Let’s go,” I whisper to Steven, who I’ve managed to shock twice this evening.
His eyebrows lift in surprise, but he stands quickly, eager to follow.
I don’t know why I’m forcing myself to treat this as more than it is, a band-aid over a wound that requires surgery.
The elevator ride is crammed with anticipation.
Steven presses into me, attacking my mouth as soon as the doors slide shut, his body warm and insistent against mine.
His cologne is too strong, too sweet, filling the small space until it’s difficult to breathe.
I kiss him back because that’s what I came here to do.
Because my body responds even if my head doesn’t.
Because heat is heat, and for a moment, it almost works.
His hands slide under my shirt, fingers tracing my abs, dipping toward my waistband, bold and presumptuous.
The doors open, and as they part, Julian is standing there. Time stutters and my stomach drops, like missing a step on a staircase. Julian, perfectly composed in a tailored navy shirt that brings out the richness of his skin, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in the scene before him.
Steven pulls back first, wiping his mouth, suddenly aware of the shift in the air.
Julian’s gaze flicks between us, sharp and assessing, something unreadable tightening behind his eyes.
His jaw clenches once, a muscle jumping beneath the smooth skin, before his expression settles into practiced neutrality.
“Oh,” Julian says coolly. “Don’t let me stop you.”
He steps away from the doors, keycard in hand, and makes his way down the hall toward where I assume his suite is located. His footsteps are measured, unhurried, as if what he witnessed means nothing to him.
The doors slide shut again, sealing us back into the intimate space, but the energy has changed completely.
Steven laughs nervously. “Damn. That was awkward. Wasn’t that Julian Reed?” His voice holds a note of excitement, the thrill of celebrity recognition momentarily overshadowing the tension.
I swallow, throat suddenly dry. “Yeah.”
The rest unravels quickly after that. Back in my room, hands roam, clothes come loose, mouths collide again, but the spark is gone. The lights are too bright, the sheets too stiff, the air too cold. Every touch feels like an imitation of something else. Something I didn’t come here for.