The panorama of the boys on stage, glistening with sweat and jamming in tune with a house of energetic people, sent a tingling rush through her body. Experiencing the most popular bands of her time perform feet away would stay with her forever.
Through the first two songs, Jay sang while facing her, hands in the pockets of his leather pants. The rhythmic flow of his voice penetrated her chest, deepened by the fix of his gaze. His timbre reverberated through the sound system to thousands of idolizers, yet the arousing way he moved his lips behind his headset microphone, never looking away from her, it felt as though she were his only audience.
He ended the second song on a series of erotic exhales and she felt those breaths low in her core and warm in her cheeks. He must have sensed her reaction because he winked. Lord have mercy, he was a sexy man with a killer vocal range, and if she weren’t mistaken, he was enjoying himself. A startling contrast from the hot-tempered barbarian twenty minutes earlier.
As the band transitioned into the third song, a roadie waved to Jay from downstage and held out a guitar. Jay ignored him and took advantage of the reprieve in vocals by stepping between her legs.
Movement on the stage glinted light across his brown eyes. He reached out and trailed his fingers down her arm, around her hip, made the short trip over her skirt, and under the hem.
What the hell was he doing? The arena thundered with Rio’s percussional lead and the spunky pluck of Wil’s bass. The roadie with the guitar frantically waved his arm at Jay.
“What are you doing?” she mouthed.
He pushed his fingers between her legs, separating her thighs and curling them inside the crotch of her panties. His eyes looked…off. Out of focus maybe. Was it nerves? Arousal?
Two fingers breached her opening, sliding in, to the knuckles. Her breath caught and her knees fell open as far as the skirt would allow. Desire pulsed where he stretched her, lubricating his entry. She buried her mouth in her shoulder, unsure if her moan would be picked up by his mic.
One thrust…two….three. His hand disappeared, leaving her empty and panting. He stepped toward the panicking roadie, working those leather pants simply by walking backward, smoothly and confidently. He wiggled his fingers at her and she desperately wanted them back.
She wiped the sheen of perspiration from her cleavage with the heel of her hand. Holy hell, it was hot in here.
Screams piped from the women leaning over the gate at the front of the stage. They must have glimpsed The Burn’s reclusive singer. Heads bobbed and swerved as if trying to score the best view. When the squeals threatened to drown out the instruments, she knew they had seen him.
Accepting his guitar and strapping it over his body, Jay still hadn’t released her gaze. An odd smile quirked his lips. Then he stepped from the shadows and into the edge of the stage lights.
The crowd exploded in hopping bodies and piercing shrieks. His stage appearance excited Charlee as much as the fans, but what had prompted him to cross that barrier? Was he showing off for her? Doing it because she wanted him to? Perhaps his new freedom from triggers gave him the confidence? Her fingernails bit into the cabinet beneath her as she waited to see what he would do next.
The guys must have doubled or tripled the length of the instrumental intro because they were still playing, following Jay’s lead. The guitar solo waned, and Laz arched a brow at his vocalist.
Jay missed it, his eyes on her. Raising his two wet fingers, he pumped them in and out of his mouth. The crowd shrilled, seemingly unconcerned that his head was turned sideways, eyes focused offstage.
“Good Evening, Los Angeles.”
A stunned hush fell over the arena. Jay’s greeting made Rio jerk, missing a drumbeat. Laz and Wil slowed their strumming and straightened their stances.
The quiet erupted into the ragged screams of thousands. From videos of the band’s live performances, she knew he sometimes addressed the crowd, but never from a visible position on stage. What in the world had gotten in to him? Devil-may-care, she surged with pride.
Watching her over his shoulder, Jay ambled further upstage, sucking on his fingers. “Nothing flavors rock-n-roll like the sweetly pleasing taste of *. Ain’t that right, Los Angeles?” He flicked those fingers in a peace sign and pivoted his body toward her.
The house went wild, as did her emotions. Who was this guy and what had he done with the man who loathed mobs and attention? She wasn’t offended by his declaration about *. In fact, she hungered for the confident musician strutting toward her, tapping the body of the guitar, even as something about his behavior slithered under her skin and raised the hairs on her nape.
A woman in the front row yelled, “Try my *, Jay.”