Chapter 12
Ingrid
I’m putty in his hands.
Like completely lost to the sensation of this big, hulking, magic-fingered man.
Every nerve ending is on fire. Every brush of his fingers against me makes me forget the world outside, forget the music and the crowd and all the impossible logistics of what we’re doing.
I’m Ingrid Flockton, the biggest pop star in the world, and I’m getting fingered in a hotel alcove by a college hockey player. Yes, somewhere in my functional mind, I know this is wrong. It’s crazy. Dangerous in a million different ways.
But in the part of my brain that seeks pleasure? It’s the best moment of my life.
I ride him. Ride his hand, his thigh, his fingers pumping in and out.
He’s rough. Not clumsy–God no. No. There’s skill in his movements.
Strong. Sure. My hips buck without thinking.
My chest presses against him, my hair tangling against my cheeks.
I cry out at every brush over my clit, hot and sensitive–desperate, trembling, needing.
He says dirty things to me. Muttering how I’m tight. How good I’m taking him. How he can’t wait to feel me clench around his cock. He tells me he jerks off thinking about me. How he can’t wait to taste and feel my tits.
There’s no poetry there. No flashy lyrics or tender, sweet words. No. His tongue is filthy, and I want it in my mouth.
I can feel the tension in his body, the taut muscles beneath my palms. His other hand snakes up my back, gripping, anchoring me to him so I couldn’t run even if I wanted to.
“I’m close,” I tell him, my voice breaking under the intensity. Because if he stops, I think I may die. My eyes flick to his, searching, and I see that same stubborn, raw determination that I saw on the ice. It’s unbelievably sexy and hot.
“Come for me, Angel.”
He keeps calling me that and I don’t know why, nothing about this moment is angelic–although it may fall into the divine.
Whatever it means, I don’t care. I can’t stop chasing his touch.
My body is entirely his, trembling and pliant, craving the next stroke, the next push, the next spark of contact that will rocket me into oblivion.
I push up, clamping my teeth around his bottom lip in a mixture of protest and need, and crumble apart, shattering into a million glimmers of starlight. Every nerve ending seems to explode simultaneously, every shiver and gasp magnified, drawn out and infinite.
I cling to him, eyes squeezed shut, letting the sensation wash over me.
His lips find mine, hot and insistent, tasting, claiming, holding me through it.
I can feel his cock straining against my thigh, hard and heavy, and I want it.
I want him. But right now, I just need this–need him to keep me together while I fall apart.
When it finally ebbs, my body still quivering, I feel the heavy press of his hand against the small of my back, steadying me. I lean into him, forehead against his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin, the heat radiating from his body, the strength in his arms.
I let out a shaky laugh. “It’s your night to celebrate and it feels like I’m the one who got the prize.”
He tugs me a little closer, lips brushing the top of my head.
“Trust me, if I got to feel you come on my fingers, I’d win every game for the rest of my life.
” He pulls out and I mourn the loss of the fullness, but he’s not finished.
“If anyone’s ever made you feel like you weren’t the best part of their day, give me their number.
I’ll fuck him up–and then find you and make you come again. ”
I shiver at his words, a flush creeping across my chest, and my hands clutch at his shirt as if I can anchor myself to him. For one stolen moment, the world outside this alcove doesn’t exist. There’s only him, only me, only the pounding of my heart and the echo of what just happened.
And even though I know it’s insane, maybe even stupid, I can’t bring myself to care. Because I’ve never felt this seen. This wanted. This alive.
One thing I do know for sure: whatever control I thought I had in this situation is slowly slipping away.
The next day, we’re on the bus by dawn, heading for the next city. I’m sitting in my chair while Steven, my massage therapist, works wonders on my sore calves.
“Why are your muscles so tense?” he asks, running his thumb along the back of my leg.
“Because she wanted to look cute last night, she wore heels.” Madison drops into the chair across from mine, phone in hand.
“I did look cute.” Do I have regrets that those heels made me tall enough for Jefferson’s hands to reach me better? No. Will I pay for it on stage for the next week? Definitely.
“Ready for your daily dose of chaos?” Madison asks.
I flop my head back and groan. “Do I have a choice?”
“Nope. Listen to this one.” She clears her throat like a news anchor. “‘Stage Lights, Stadium Ice: Is Ingrid Falling for a Frozen Four Star?’”
I roll my eyes. “Very creative. Ten points for rhyme.”
Madison grins and scrolls. “‘Pop Princess + Hockey Hunk? Fans Think They’ve Cracked Ingrid’s Love Life.’”
“Ugh.” I press my hands on my face. “That one even sounds like bad fanfiction.”
“Oh wait, here’s my personal favorite.” She reads it slowly, savoring every word. “‘Frozen Four Favorite Scoring More Than Goals? Ingrid Fans Demand Answers.’”
“They didn’t actually write that.”
“They did. And it gets better.” She holds up the screen. “‘Backstage Pass… or Boyfriend? Rumors Tie Ingrid to Hockey Heartthrob.’”
Steve snickers under his breath. Traitor.
“I danced with him, Madison. That’s it.”
She smirks. “Yeah, sure. Just dancing. Totally explains this one–” She scrolls again and reads, sing-song: “‘Ingrid’s Mystery Man Revealed? Sources Link Her to Wittmore Enforcer Jefferson Parks.’”
I snatch her phone. “Give me that.”
She holds it just out of reach, cackling. “Oh no, honey. We’re not done. ‘Caught Off-Ice: Ingrid Flockton Dances With Frozen Four Winner at Victory Party.’”
I bury my face in my hands. “I hate everyone.”
Madison pats my knee with mock sympathy. “Correction: you hate everyone who isn’t six-foot-four, blond, and currently headed to the NHL.”
I peek at her through my fingers, my cheeks burning. “You’re the worst.”
“And you’re trending.” Which leads her to ask the big question. “So, what’s really going on with Jefferson Parks?”
“Jefferson who?” I play dumb, like my body doesn’t light on fire just hearing his name.
“The hockey player that everyone saw you canoodling with last night.”
“I don’t even know what the word canoodling means.” I blink. “But fine. We’ve been talking. It’s no big deal.”
She holds up the phone again, and there’s a grainy image of me and Jefferson on the dance floor. If only they knew what he was saying to me. “The media thinks it’s a big deal.”
“Me, dancing with a guy at a party, is a big deal? What? Can I not be seen with any men and it just be a casual thing?” I snap back, though the edge in my voice comes more from exhaustion than actual anger.
After Jefferson gave me the most epic orgasm of my life, we went back into the victory party like nothing had happened, celebrated for a few more hours, and then went our separate ways.
I haven’t heard from him, which is fine. Normal, right?
Please. I have no idea what ‘normal’ looks like.
“It’s not that you can’t,” Madison says gently. “But you’ve cultivated a specific persona. When you’re seen with a man, the fans and the media speculate. You know they’re invested in your love life.”
Invested. These people have no clue what’s going on in my life. Most of them would be ecstatic for me to get back with Jake. That’s because they have no idea how awful he was to me. But have I told anyone? No. I keep my mouth shut and let my music do the talking.
“Fine. Then let’s put out a statement, tell everyone he’s a friend of a friend. Appease the fans. Done.”
“And what is really going on? You’ll start seeing him on the sly? Sneaking around again?” That question hits like a punch and she knows it. She shakes her head, patient but firm. “This guy isn’t from your world. He doesn’t get your life and what you go through.“
“And you think the guys I’ve dated before–the musicians, the trust fund babies, the artists–got me?” My laugh is sharp, bitter. God, my dating history is littered with the worst, most entitled, immature men. “Jake didn’t get me. He destroyed me. And we both know it.”
Madison’s face softens. “I’m just saying, focus on your work. If this thing is meant to be, it’ll happen. But your schedule is insane right now. Don’t let some hot guy with muscles distract you.”
I hesitate, then smile despite myself. “He is hot, right?” I can’t help it–the memory of his big hands feels branded across my skin.
“Super hot,” Madison admits.
“Blazing,” Steven chimes in. No surprise. He has a thing for blonds.
“Look, Ing,” Madison says, “I get the attraction. Just, please, don’t let another guy pull you away from your goals.”
The thing about break-ups, particularly the one with Jake, is that it lit a fire under me creatively.
I wrote two dozen songs, put out the best-selling album of my life, and this tour has been one sold-out night after the other.
Breakups are good for me, financially. Falling in love?
Well, that's less of a positive track record.
Whatever statement Madison and the PR team cobble together doesn’t matter.
By the time we roll into the next concert, the fans have already woven little pieces of Jefferson into their costumes and signs.
The number 23 surrounded by Flock Wings has been painted onto posters.
Gold and black badger mascots wave from the pit.
And the wild part? They don’t seem angry. They seem… happy for me.
The vibration in the arena is higher than ever, or maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s the texts I exchanged with Jefferson right before walking out on stage.
Jparks23: Figure it out yet?