Chapter twenty-nine
Violet
The dream that was Lake Como dies the second we step through the penthouse door in Milan.
One second, I’m floating on that impossible high—sun-warm skin, the lake glittering behind my eyelids—the next, it’s gone.
Swapped out for hotel air-con, city noise and the one person I didn’t need shoved in my face on arrival.
Cindy’s balanced on the arm of the couch with Xander’s arm around her. Theo, Kai, and Chris are sprawled around the living room, shoes off, scrolling on their phones.
Her gaze snags, slides to Carter behind me, then comes straight back to me. I can practically hear the rusted gears grinding in her head.
Nothing massacres a post-vacation high quite like your teenage trauma smiling with too many teeth.
“Welcome back,” Chris calls. “How was the break?”
“Perfect,” Carter says with zero hesitation.
I stop walking, because—wow.
Right on cue, the guys kick in.
“Aww, man,” Kai groans.
“Don’t make me gag,” Xander mutters.
“Please don’t start reciting sonnets,” Theo adds, lobbing a jellybean at Carter’s head and missing by a mile. Carter takes it all with that smug, infuriating grin. He doesn’t give a single fuck who knows he’s gone soft over me.
Cindy’s gaze whips between us again, slower this time. I can see the moment it registers. Surprise flashes, then something sour creeps in before she slaps on a polite smile.
Message received.
Vacation’s well and truly over.
I carry my bags into Carter’s room and drop them in a heap on the floor. I should probably unpack. Or at least separate the “clean” from the “absolutely not.” But everything still smells faintly of Como. Of him. Lake water, sunscreen, sweat, and sex.
I’m not ready to wash any of it out yet.
I drag myself back to the main room. The guys are still scattered across the couches and chairs; Cindy is flipping through a magazine that she’s definitely not reading.
I treat her like she’s not there and step around her.
At the long table by the windows, I set up my command center: laptop, charger, camera. I slot the cable in and connect it to the camera. The folders pop up, and a grid of tiny thumbnails floods the screen—three days of escape reduced to postage stamps.
Voices drone in and out around me.
Chris is mid-briefing. “Wheels up for LA tomorrow. Two nights there, then New York. You’re all Liam’s problem after that.”
Groans all around. A few halfhearted cheers. I tune them out and scroll.
Como spills across the laptop.
Carter waist-deep in the lake, sun bouncing off damp skin.
Carter in swim shorts on the lounger, grin wide, sunglasses crooked.
Carter sprawled across the bed, hand reaching for me.
And him behind my camera, insisting on taking photos of me naked, telling me to “hold still, Storm.”
My phone chimes, jolting me.
Megan
Need to catch up. Last leg logistics. My room in 5?
Work waits for no one, not even schmucks in love with rock royalty. I quickly upload the Milan concert photos to the cloud and email the link to Megan. Disconnecting the camera, I tuck it under my arm, and close the laptop. When I straighten, I can feel the weight of his eyes.
Carter’s by the balcony, lighter in his hand, cigarette already between his lips. He looks at me full-on with no effort to hide it.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say walking up to him. “Megan wants to go over the brief for LA and New York.”
He nods once, mouth pulling into a sulky line. I bet he’d drag me back to Como if he could. I lean in with the intention of a quick kiss, but his hand hooks around my neck and deepens it, mouth hot and firm, stealing the breath right from my lungs.
I forget who’s around us, watching, until the catcalls start.
“Get a room,” Kai cackles.
Xander wolf-whistles. Theo starts humming an eighties porn soundtrack under his breath.
I break the kiss, rolling my eyes, breath short. “Grow up,” I tell the room, brushing my lips with my thumb.
“Come on, you love us,” Theo calls back.
“Hmm, debatable.”
I rest my hand on Carter’s jaw for one last second. “I’ll be back later.”
“Better be,” he replies, catching my wrist and giving it a squeeze before he lets go.
I walk away, letting Cindy’s stare slide right off me. I ignore everything and everyone except the taste of him still on my tongue and the ridiculous fact that I can’t wait to walk back into this chaos just to be near him again.
***
Two hours later, my ass is numb from sitting cross-legged on Megan’s hotel carpet.
She’s got venue blueprints spread across the bed, call sheets printed and highlighted within an inch of their lives, and a laptop open with three time zones on display.
Dave’s perched on a chair backward, chewing on a pen cap while he talks about narrative arcs.
Mika leans against the wall, camera on the floor by his foot, adding notes about what still needs to be captured.
We walk through schedules, security plans, media windows, and shot lists. By the end of it, LA and New York are a military operation, starring four sleep-deprived rock stars. But we finally have a plan of attack for the last two cities on the band’s home soil.
LA and New York are going to be insane. Full-blown media frenzies, back-to-back interviews, red carpets, radio stations, TV spots, press junkets.
PR handlers will be glued to our asses. Every second cordoned off into “content.” The boys will be in full show-pony mode.
I’ll be catching whatever’s left in between.
I won’t see Carter properly. But it’s fine. Really. Because I’m staying in New York after the tour wraps up, seeing Indigo and Anne. Hogging my niece until Liam physically removes her from my arms. And I’ll be able to see Carter in his city for the first time, away from the tour machine.
We haven’t sat down and talked about “after.” But I don’t need a roadmap to know what I want.
Wherever he goes, I go. That feels terrifying to admit, even in my own head, but it’s also the clearest truth I’ve ever known.
Now that we’re here—that we’ve somehow made it out the other side of our ugly history—I’m not walking away.
And I’m sure as fuck not letting logistics ruin whatever this is shaping into.
No long-distance relationship for me. I want my happy ending. The whole cliché—daily mess, shared coffee, fights over laundry, sex on actual weekday nights that aren’t borrowed from a tour schedule. For once in my life, I’m actually reaching for it instead of daring the world to try me.
When I make it back to the penthouse, the place is quiet. Everyone has disappeared. Even Chris is nowhere to be seen, and he’s always lurking about.
My laptop is where I left it on the table. I close the lid properly, scoop it up along with my camera, and head for the master bedroom.
Carter’s exactly where I expect him. Stretched across the ridiculous king-sized bed, back braced against the headboard, phone in one hand, one ankle hooked over the other. His hair’s still damp from the shower, dirty blond brushed off his forehead, and he’s wearing nothing but black boxers.
My self-control starts writing its will.
He looks up the second I step through the door, those blue eyes running the length of me.
“Where’d everyone go?” I ask, dropping my gear on the dresser and stripping off my clothes.
“Siesta,” he says, tossing his phone aside. “Last pocket of downtime before LA turns us into dancing monkeys.”
He crooks a finger.
I smirk and crawl onto the bed, aiming for his side, ready to curl in.
But he has other plans. His hand snaps around my wrist.
“I’m hungry,” he murmurs. “Come sit on my face.”
Heat rushes through me so fast, I swear I could steam the sheets.
I swing a leg over his waist and lean down until my hair falls around us. His hands slide up my thighs, calloused fingers rough against my skin.
My lips find his with a soft press.
He grips my hips and guides me up his body until I’m exactly where he wants me. I settle over his mouth, take a breath. His tongue slides inside me and the relief is instant. He’s exactly where he belongs. Home.
I rock against his mouth, gripping the headboard for leverage. The wood bangs against the wall with every movement, a loud rhythmic thud that I’m sure travels into the rest of the suite. Heat spreads through my belly, the coil winding tighter and tighter.
I’m so close. Just as I start to tip—
He pulls me off him.
“Not yet,” he orders.
His mouth, nose, and cheeks are slick, his usually bright blue eyes dark with satisfaction.
My breath catches between a groan and a protest.
He reaches for the bedside table and pulls out a heavy-duty magic wand before leaning back against the headboard.
“When did you get that?”
“I went shopping.” He smirks. “Well . . . Chris went shopping for me.”
He pats the mattress between his spread legs. “Lay back against me.”
I shift into position, settling between his thighs. His chest presses against my back, solid and warm, his heat soaking into my skin. His scent wraps around me, instantly calming my racing heart.
I spread my thighs and hook them over his.
He moves my hair over one shoulder and grazes his teeth along my jaw, then down the long line of my neck.
A helpless moan slips out.
The wand buzzes to life in his hand, loud in the quiet room.
He doesn’t go where I expect. Instead, he drags it slowly along my arm. The vibrations ripple through my skin, sending little shocks of sensation everywhere. He traces it across my collarbone, then circles one nipple before moving to the other, taking his time.
I start panting.
The wand is intense. I’ve never used one before—they always looked terrifying. But I’m so wet now it’s almost painful. My hips twitch instinctively, trying to guide his hand lower.
He ignores the hint completely.
The wand drifts down my stomach at an excruciating pace.
I groan in frustration.
“Shh, Storm,” he murmurs hotly against my ear.
Two fingers slide into my mouth. At the same moment, the wand finally reaches between my thighs. My back arches violently and I suck down on his fingers to muffle the cry that tries to escape.
He holds it there for maybe ten seconds.
Then pulls it away.
I gasp around his fingers.
Again.
The wand returns. My body jerks helplessly, pleasure surging—
Then he removes it.
Each time he does it, the time gets shorter. My body grows more desperate, more sensitive, hovering right on the precipice.
Sweat beads along my temple. My thighs tremble, muscles strung tight. I’m practically delirious from the build.
“That’s it,” he murmurs approvingly. “Fucking beautiful.”
“Please,” I whine around his fingers.
I don’t know how long I can stay balanced on the tip. All I know is that I need the next hit.
“You ready?” he asks. “Count them for me.”
The wand presses back against me. This time he doesn’t take it away.
The pleasure detonates through my body. My back arches as the orgasm tears through me, my whole body locking up as a cry rips free. Carter slips his fingers from my mouth and wraps a hand loosely around my throat, grounding me. Holding me.
He moves the wand away and I drag in a ragged breath.
“Count for me,” he murmurs.
“One,” I gasp.
He shifts his legs wider, spreading me open even more.
The wand returns.
My body reacts instantly—tightening, shaking—and I’m thrown straight back over the edge before I can even brace for it. The second orgasm crashes through me, hotter and sharper than the first.
“Two,” I wheeze, barely managing the word.
There’s no pause this time.
The buzzing returns again.
I’m so sensitive even the faintest touch would be too much—but the wand hits and the pleasure explodes through me in a blinding rush.
My body jerks violently. I soak the wand, and the sheets beneath me.
“Atta girl,” he whispers proudly against my ear.
“Three,” I slur weakly, eyelids fluttering.
“You did good, Storm.” His hand slides soothingly over my stomach. “Rest. Although we’re going to have to work on that stamina,” he adds. “Next time I want six.”
My eyes close.
The last thing I hear is the quiet hum of the wand shutting off before sleep drags me under.