（Untitled）
Nobody told me that dating a rockstar would be this annoying.
It was about a month since we’d been going out — a month of me juggling shifts at the Gilded Lily, him and OnlyFans (of which I had only actually managed to somewhat juggle the Lily and him, not even having time to film the actual video I wanted), and I was tired.
I was supposed to meet him for breakfast in this cute little place around the corner from his apartment and he still came in thirty minutes late.
“You know, I’m gonna start charging a late fee for every minute you leave me hanging,” I told him, sipping the Pina Colada.
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “You know I’m no good with time.”
“Which is exactly why each minute you’re late is gonna cost you a solid grand,” I told him. “I ordered for you. The Ricotta-stuffed Omelette.”
Milo slid into the booth across from me, looking unfairly good for someone who’d — knowing him — rolled out of bed twenty minutes ago. Black t-shirt stretched across his chest, a few fresh ink lines peeking from the sleeve, hair still messy and dripping from the quick shower.
“Add it to my tab, babe,” he said, stealing a sip of my drink. His foot hooked around my ankle under the table, pulling my leg between his. “You look edible. That little sundress should be illegal in public.”
I arched an eyebrow, feeling him lift my leg to his lap. “Flattery’s not getting you out of the late fee, rockstar. And stop looking at me like that. We’re in public.”
“Exactly why I’m looking.” His thumb drew slow circles on my calf. “Been thinking about you. The balcony video’s been on repeat in my headphones. Got me hard in the studio yesterday just hearing you moan my name.”
“Well, there isn’t gonna be any more moaning until I get those heels you promised me,” I said.
“They’re at the apartment. Gonna fuck you wearing nothing but them.” He leaned back as the server dropped off his omelette, but his eyes never left me. “How was your shift last night?”
“Same old. Grabby hands, big tips, Burgundy threatening to castrate some guy who got too fresh. The usual.” I pushed a piece of fruit around my plate. “Dahlia asked about you.”
“Oh, yeah? What about?” He picked up the fork and snapped off a piece of egg.
“Something about tickets for a show?” I said, my eyebrows furrowing. “You’re playing something?”
Milo chewed his bite of omelette slowly, like he was buying time. He swallowed, took another sip of my Pina Colada, and shrugged one shoulder like it was no big deal. “Yeah. Small thing. Private show for some label people and a few industry friends. Nothing crazy.”
“How small?”
He shrugged. “A couple thousand?”
“That’s small?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
“We usually sell out arenas.”
“Is Brett’s wrist better?”
“Yeah,” he said, reaching for my drink again. “Doc gave him the all-good. Dahlia wants tickets for her and some of the girls?”
I nodded. “Though, I’m pretty sure she could’ve asked Killian. Listen, what’s between the two of them? I asked once but she dodged the question.”
“She signed an NDA,” he said.
“An NDA? For a hookup?”
“Not a hookup. They were together for a while.” Cross leaned back in his chair, his hand kneading the top of my foot where the shoe wasn’t covering it. “It wasn’t by choice — the NDA.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kill… He’s the golden boy. The management does everything to keep it that way, which means NDAs, tight schedules, relationships the label approves of — so on and so forth.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s the music industry.” He emptied my glass and set it on the table with a soft thud. “They own his image.”
Well, I couldn’t say that didn’t get me thinking. “Should I… be signing anything?”
His mouth twitched. “Yeah. Your name on my skin.”
I rolled my eyes yet my mouth curled in a grin. “The cheesiest line I’ve heard in a hot minute.”
Milo’s grin widened, that dangerous, lazy one that always made my stomach flip. He kept my foot in his lap, thumb pressing into the arch; it made me fantasize about those hands elsewhere. “Did it make you wet?”
I kicked his hand away, pulling my leg back. “Arrogant fuck.”
“You’re mean.” He pouted and then grinned. “And hella expensive. Not to mention mouthy.”
I rested my elbows on the table and linked my fingers together. “So leave,” I challenged, leaning forward just enough that the neckline of my sundress dipped a little lower.
And so did his eyes. He grinned and changed the subject. “So, you’re gonna come?”
“To the show?”
His foot found mine again under the table, sliding up my calf with shameless intent. “Yeah.”
“When is it?”
“Next Friday.”
I hadn’t even considered it until he asked. A month of this — stolen nights in his penthouse, quickies in his car after my shifts, lazy mornings where he’d wake me up with his mouth between my legs — and I still hadn’t seen him perform live.
“You want me there?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. The way his foot kept sliding up my calf under the table, the heat in his eyes every time they dipped to my cleavage — yeah, he wanted me there.
Milo’s grin sharpened into that rockstar smirk. “You’ll like it. Small crowd, good sound, no screaming teenagers trying to climb the barricade. Afterparty at the venue. Private.”
Yeah, a couple thousand people sure sounded private.
“I’ll think about it,” I ended up saying and sipped what was left of my watered-down Pina Colada — mostly ice now.
He looked good like this: freshly showered, a little stubbled, that new ink on his forearm still shiny with ointment.
He’d gone out early yesterday morning to get it done. Eight letters in cursive — Baby Doll.
“Will there be cameras?” I asked carefully.
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Not the kind you’re thinking.
Label’s filming for promo, but nothing that’ll end up on your OnlyFans.
” He chewed, swallowed, then leaned in. “Though if you’re still holding out on that video…
I could always film us in the green room after the set.
You, me, the heels, and my mouth between your legs while the crowd’s still cheering outside. ”
The thing was, I wasn’t sure I wanted the world to see our most intimate moments anymore. I know it had started out that way — I know that had been my intention — and still was, I suppose — but the more time I spent with him, the more… precious, I guess, these moments between us became.
His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Come on. You’ve been so busy with the club I’ve barely seen you. Miss that pretty pussy riding my face, Mary.”
I didn’t say anything to that, lost in thought — watching the exposed brick of the café wall behind him.
“What?” He frowned.
I took a breath, toying with the straw of my now empty glass. “You’re playing a show and I’m still slinging drinks in a strip club. Feels unbalanced, rockstar.”
“Quit then.” He said it so easy, too. “Thirty-five K was just the opening bid. I’ll cover your rent for a year, two years, whatever. Film all the videos you want on my balcony. Or my studio. Or the tour bus when we hit the road again.”
My finger stopped at the rim of the glass. “And what? Become your kept woman? Full-time Baby Doll?”
“Better than letting drunk assholes grab your ass every night.” His thumb pressed into the soft spot behind my knee. “I don’t share well, Mary.”
My eyes narrowed. “You shared me with half the club when you offered to buy me like a bottle of whiskey.”
“Ancient history.” He grinned. “A whole month ago. I’m a changed man.”
That made me laugh. “Yeah, alright.”
“I’m serious, doll. Want to keep that apartment? I’ll pay for it. But you’ll spend nights in my bed.”
“Doesn’t sound like there’s much room for argument.”
His grey eyes locked on me. “There isn’t,” he said, and then — “I always get what I want, doll.”
That sounded like both a threat and a promise, and I don’t know what turned me on more.