Blazed

chapter Eight





"THAT SKIRT IS so short..."

"You mentioned." I swatted at Blaze's hand as I climbed out of our taxi onto the pretentious red carpet that was typical of one of Henry's establishments. He said that he liked his guests to feel important when they arrived, like royalty. That was bullshit, he just knew how to market his businesses.

The Roses looked a lot like a small backstreet theatre, boasting a grand stage with rich red curtains that drew across by old fashioned pulleys. In fact, it had been at one point. The building had been renovated roughly fifteen years earlier, keeping the exterior's old world charm of the street facing ticket windows that often sat vacant. But inside, the auditorium itself had been rebuilt with a few mod cons like mismatched ultra-modern chrome bars fully stocked with all manner of spirits, and seating booths towards the rear similar to those in Esme's.

As one of the first businesses Henry had started, it was one of the roughest around the edges and that was why I liked to go there. It lacked the archaic yet still super-sterile air of Tudor blood-money and graced the least of his attention. Bands played there the most, seconded by independent theatre groups. Esme liked to hire out the building for her annual winter ball and knew exactly how to glamorise it to greatest effect. It didn't attract the highly polished crowd Henry aimed for, instead enticing bohemians and alternative-rockers through it's doors. The kind of people we were here to see.

But The Roses had a dirty little secret. Technically, it was mine. The club had been gifted to me after Henry saw how keen I was on the place, and that had immediately dulled it's appeal. Designed as a ploy to brighten my mood and draw me into ruling his empire, the idea of being responsible for anything or anyone was horrendous to me, and I'd shied away as soon as the gesture had been made. There would undoubtedly come a day when I'd regret throwing all the benefits and privileges Henry had granted me back in his face, but that day wasn't in sight.

Instead, I stood in front of it's doors with a man who suited the demographic of any power hungry mogul, groupie or sycophant, tugging at the leash to cash in my backstage pass like a hyperactive teenager.

"I can see where your backside meets your legs. That hot little crease just below your buttocks..." Blaze grabbed me and spun me around, catching my bottom lip between his teeth then sucking it gently, groaning lowly against my mouth. "I changed my mind, let's go back to bed."

"But it's Monday's Miracle! You can't drag me out like this, full of your cum because you denied me my right to shower, then change your mind when we're right outside. It doesn't work like that."

"The hell it doesn't." He cupped himself through the seam of his jeans and shook his head at me. " 'Full of your cum'— Your dirty mouth might be the death of me, Emmeline." Pulling me up close to him, he reached behind me and traced the ridge between my backside and my thigh. "I can see this."

"You know, from the way your lips have swollen and reddened, your pupils have dilated, and that vein in your neck is pumping away, I'd say you're crushing on me pretty hard, Blaze."

"I daresay I am, cupcake. And I daresay that you know exactly how hard."

I knew because I felt it too— the way that nothing else had mattered that afternoon because I'd been with him. The air became heavy and humid around him, suffocating me in a way that was almost erotic because it was so safe. He was a talisman that protected me from the world, and more importantly myself. I was the most level I'd been in years and it was down to nothing more than the fact he was in my life, even if he wasn't in the same room. Stupidly, I'd put him up on the same pedestal as Hunter but found myself placated by the fact that he gave me what I'd needed for so long.

Still, I hated it when he got that look in his eye, that wild, inflammatory look he got when he spoke of how he felt for me. "I'm sorry."

"You keep saying that," he laughed, pulling me into an embrace and rocking me playfully, "but you wouldn't be if you understood. My heart aches for you sometimes, for the worldly things you don't know because the world has been cruel on your young mind."

"Hey!" I pushed back to look at him and scowled. "I'm not so naive! I might have had a pretty shitty adolescence, but you must only have a couple of years on me. Three at most."

"You think so?" Looking almost embarrassed, he cocked his head at me and pursed his lips. "I turn thirty next February." What? There was no way this guy was in the twilight of his twenties, putting a little over seven years between us. My birthday had been a few weeks before we'd met— I was barely in my twenties and he was fast approaching his fourth century of life. He'd had so much more time to define his parameters, wants and goals, so what the hell did he want with a kid like me?

And then I thought of the twelve year difference between Daniel and Jonathan, the illicit student-teacher affair that had turned into a fairytale. They'd met in college, Daniel as a student and Jonathan as our graphics professor, and the heat wave that moved between them from the first moment had been palpable. The number of years that separated them had been irrelevant and unimportant, less of a factor than their professional positions or lack thereof. Who was I to grumble at the sex god's age when he wore it so well?

"I must make the most of us both being vicenarian's before you stagnate."

"You been reading the dictionaries at work, cupcake?"

"My life has recently become quite a boring slog of staring at doors waiting for my favourite non-enabler to arrive. It was the dictionary or one of Esme's overtly feminist 'women's interest' magazines."

"Tough call."

I murmured in agreement and turned my attention towards the boom of music that radiated outward from within The Roses like a shockwave. They were inside, and I was practically vibrating with excitement to meet them. It may not have been a big deal to Blaze after being one of the group's founding members but the experiences of fame I might have experienced as a privileged teenager or student had been lost to illness, obsession and convalescence. In a way, this opportunity made up for the wild-child I never was and had decided not to be when unwillingly submerged into a world of popularity with Henry. Not paying much interest in those who sat around me at A-list functions and dinner parties, I'd blocked out the famous faces when I might have stared in awe.

But if I'd taken it all in my stride then, maybe I might not be so convincingly anxious and star struck now. I might have known Blaze already and looked like less of an attractive prospect had I not spent years cutting my nose off to spite my face.

"Why did you leave the group? All the respect in the world to him, but you'd have made a much better frontman than Chase-bloody-Garret."

"The tours." Blaze answered flatly, obviously a little sore over the subject. "As much as I hated it, my responsibilities kept me tied to London. My opportunities to leave are restricted to weekend trips and overnight red-eye drives. It was too much strain on the guys and an impossibility with international tours." Wistfully, he shook his head and rested it against mine.

"That was a long time ago."

"It was. Six years." I felt his frown before I got a blurred, up close look of his eyes darkening. "I thought life might have changed by now. I thought I'd have more freedom."

"Do you regret it?"

"In some ways. I still got a lot of media attention, what with my face already known as their singer, so I didn't lose out there. It led to a lot of work, the work you know. But as much as I loved the music, I couldn't hold them back. Chase is a good guy, I knew he'd do me proud, even if he does act like a bastard around pretty women." He shot me one firm, very pointed glance. "You'd do well to remember that."

"He'd stir another man's broth?"

"Not if he enjoys being attached to his genitals..." The humour was there but tainted by possessive vehemence I couldn't help but smile about. Blaze sighed and rolled his eyes at me, trying to look annoyed and failing miserably. "Alright then, let's introduce you to some rockstars."

MONDAY'S MIRACLE WERE an award winning collaboration of four far too attractive men who sang far too angry songs. Even after a generous dose of bad publicity after a particularly nasty case of blackmail, they were still one of the biggest UK bands to grace the industry.

And I was sitting with them in a club nobody knew I owned, drinking and talking movies. What were the chances? We sat on the stage itself in couches and chairs dragged up from the base level, surrounded by their equipment and using an overturned crate as a table for the drinks we'd swiped from the bar. The band made comments that the owners would probably kill them for helping themselves. I casually said that I thought the owners might be particularly forgiving. I may not have taken the offer to have jurisdiction over the business, but Henry would know that I'd been there and be lenient.

I easily could have gotten away with calling Chris, Esme, Daniel and Jonathan down, but for once in my strange life, I was selfishly enjoying the limelight from being sat with incredible company that were honestly looking at me like I was the amazing spectacle in the room.

Pictures didn't do Chase Garret justice. He looked to be on top form that night, blonde hair combed back over a face that boasted bright blue eyes and an attractively angular jaw line. He had a foul reputation, but that didn't seem like the man who sat on the other side of Blaze, who was territorially obstructing our conversation by hovering backwards and forwards while we tried to talk around him. Chase was the kind of gorgeous one-time-only lay I enjoyed in Blaze's absence and I think they both sensed it.

"So you seem way too hot to be a nerd." The drummer, Jordan, forced a ceasefire with his observation. He was quieter but sharper, with keen brown eyes and long hair that fell to his shoulders. A p-ssy cat by nature without a doubt, and shy in bigger crowds. I could relate. "Hot and smart don't really mix."

"What can I say?" I pouted at him sarcastically. "I'm the whole package."

"I'm not convinced. I think you hide your lies in your boobs."

Blaze sat up poker straight and glared in his direction. "Why are you looking at her rack, Jord?"

He laughed back awkwardly, clearly not knowing where to put himself. It was strange seeing Blaze so on edge when he was usually such a gentle soul, so cool and collected in spite of his name. It was a revelation almost, seeing a crack in his composure.

The unease was contagious. Was he having second thoughts about introducing me to his friends like this?

"Before you humiliate yourself by acting like a complete idiot..." I warned him in a quiet but strong voice that might have seemed like a whisper if it wasn't so audible. It was the hostilely sweet tone I'd learned after years of watching my mother berate Henry for telling racist jokes in public. "... remember what I chose to wear before you strolled into my life and took a rather large, spectacular crap on all that I know. You picked this outfit out and dressed me into it, commenting on said rack as you did so. Therefore you have no rational excuse to expect others to not notice too. Unless of course you're embarrassed to see me showcasing the assets I thought I understood you were quite partial to." Patiently, I turned back to Jordan, who regarded me with utmost respect, sparking the suspicion that anyone rarely spoke down to Blaze. "Try me. Challenge my inner geek."

He stammered and shook his head, sagging back into his bowl seated arm chair. Obviously, I had him at a loss by putting him on the spot.

"Permission to antagonise?" Matt, their bassist raised a hand and shrugged at me, standing forth as the only one with the guts to take me on. I nodded my assent and smiled politely. "Ironman was the best hero DC came up with."

"Wrong. Ironman was one of the best heroes Marvel came up with. Stan Lee would f*ck you up for blurring that line."

"She's good. Though not too riled..." I bared my teeth like a dog and faked a snarl. "Okay, okay. Jar Jar Binks was the greatest science-fiction character to rise from the brain of the god of everything— James Cameron."

I grabbed my drink, inwardly seething and leaned back coolly into my corner of the couch. He'd not so much antagonised as picked at the very sore point for all of nerdkind and done it in style. "Maybe Stan Lee won't f*ck you up. Maybe I'll save him a job."

"Yeah, she's a nerd alright." Matt grinned across at me, tipping his glass towards me as an apology. "Sorry I had to put you through that, Emmy. We're kind of a big deal, you know. We have to know that we're not dealing with fakers."

Secretly, I glanced across the room and clenched my jaw. I was a club owner, a mess, and technically a billionaire dressed in sheep's clothing. Albeit a pretty slutty sheep, but I was possibly the biggest faker they would have hoped to find. "Yeah, yeah. Your mouth is moving but all I hear is 'did you feel that just then? That was me killing a piece of your soul with my sick, twisted mind games'."

The light-hearted banter was disturbed by guitarist, Scott, emerging from a dressing room and laying a hard slap on the backside of the girl who came with him— him looking pleased with himself and her not so much, rubbing at the smudged line of her lipstick. She looked younger than me, barely out of school. Assumptions were drawn. I presumed Scott had taken over Chase's role as mouthpiece after his tiny 'indiscretion' last year and flaunted the position of power to rope in groupies. Whoever he was, I didn't feel the same sense of familiarity with him as I did with his bandmates. He was undeniably 'off' in comparison.

"You must be 'the artist'." His breath stank of hard liquor, detectable even at a distance. I wasn't really sure what I'd expected from them, but maybe I should have had a more realistic view that at least one of them would be more than a little narcissistic. Scott was it, probably what you'd now call the Monday's Miracle pretty boy, and he damn well knew it. "How are you tolerating his bullshit?"

Figuring he was talking about Blaze, I cleared my throat and leaned over the back of the couch to look at him deadpan. "I was fine until he brought me out in public. Are you my enemy, fool, or my way out? Will you reel me in or cast me free? Am I leaving here with you tonight, or the idiot I brought with me?" Apparently baffled by my knowledge of their song lyrics, a stunned silence spread across the stage before it was fractured by raucous laughter and the unexpected shower of glitter from a large, spontaneously popped balloon hanging from the light rigging overhead. "Oh Jesus, close your mouths! If you swallow too much of this you'll be shitting it for days."

"How in hell would you know something like that?"

"I have a friend who tried to cheer me up with glittery space cakes when we first met." It was a fond memory I had from the early days of my friendship with Chris, back when he thought that he could storm in like a white knight, fix me and take the rescued damsel in distress as his prize. He couldn't stand to see me so miserable on my eighteenth birthday, so let himself into my flat while I was at work and waited in the dark for me. He scared the hell out of me, and I laughed with him through the haze of the cannabis, but I was no closer to recovery then than I was at that moment in The Roses. It took a long time to accept that I'd always be 'in recovery'— Daniel liked to call it my remission. It just meant a lot that he'd tried.

"What's with the glitter anyway, seems kind of misplaced."

"Glitter," Chase started, rolling his eyes when Scott flounced off with his plaything, uninterested in the conversation, "lost a lot of credibility when the whole 'sparkly vampire' thing became pop-culture. We're trying to prove that you can rock it without being queer about it."

"You're trying to prove that one of the campest decorations in existence isn't queer?" I pulled a face and mumbled into my glass. "Your logic is flawed."

"Precisely!" Their faces seemed to light up, leaving me confused and needing an explanation. "It's totally f*cking flawed, that's the beauty of it. It's a direct contradiction of itself and still, we're doing it proudly. Everyone is flawed, no matter how much they want to deny it, but flaws should be embraced and celebrated. We'd all be pretty boring without our f*cked-up-ness— no interesting tales of woe to rivet people or any sour experiences to shape us. Think of someone 'normal' who's never suffered at the hands of negativity, then think of someone who's a mess. Who's more interesting?" Immediately, I thought of my sister, Tallulah, who never paid much attention to the fact her little sister was trapped in her own personal hell. She lived the high life everyone else could only wish for, and she was boring as sin. That was her flaw, that she was flawless.

"I get it," I nodded, and I did. Blaze's philosophy of appreciating how screwed up I was wasn't as exclusive as I'd first thought. There were a whole host of people out there who wore their quirks almost proudly on their sleeves, and after years of feeling like I was the most damaged person in the world, it wasn't until I was sat in the company of an ex-blackmailer reliant on psychostimulants to not be a complete bastard that I realised that my life could be so much worse.

I WAS ALREADY drunk when we were ushered off the stage so the roadies could do their last minute checks and open the venue doors, swaying slightly on purpose to make the light cast off the silver sparkles on my skin. A sense of warm euphoria filled me instead of the usual intoxicated haze, along with the vague sense of guilt that I should have been sharing the experience with my friends. Still, I'd heard that when life hands you lemons, you should make lemonade, and while I didn't have the necessary equipment to start a production line for carbonated beverages at my disposal, I did have some sort of alcoholic lemon cocktail in my hand. It seemed like a fair compromise.

"So where are we sitting?" I wandered between the seats, running my free hand over the soft suede fabric of the seats as I walked. "Or standing? Are we standing?" Blaze grunted quietly and jerked his head towards the stage. He'd been unusually quiet since his telling off, speaking only in response to a question. "You're freaking me out."

"What?" As much as he tried to make it look like he had, he didn't snap out of his bad mood. "I'm sorry, I'm just distracted."

"No shit. Do you wish I'd stayed at home?"

"Yes, but not for the reason you think." Sighing, his chin dropped to his chest. A sign of defeat. "I like having you to myself. I like being centre of your attention and it's not that way tonight."

"Don't be ridiculous." Setting my drink down on a table, I cupped his face in my hands and forced him to look up at me. "Just because I'm not looking at you doesn't mean I'm not caught up in analysing how you feel. You're driving me f*cking crazy with your silence and making question why. I'm wondering what I'm doing wrong and what big mistake is going to stop you from going home with me tonight."

"But Scott—"

"Oh my god!" I threw my head back to laugh. Blaze caught me in his arms when I staggered back and lost my footing, cradling me against his hard, also slightly sparkling body. I lost my senses for a minute, drunkenly stupefied by the glitter. " 'I was wishing that I could believe you were real. And I was wishing that I wasn't afraid'."

"Did you... did you just Bella Swan me?"

I fanned my face with my hand. "I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me. Though with my inhibitions stunted, I can promise that the sentiment is true. Scott was just a challenge— I was showing off to some unsociable arsehole. That's the usual response to meeting people you idolise, but I don't lo—" Blaze cocked his head at me when I stalled, cutting myself off before I said something stupid. It had almost fallen from my mouth without thinking, a four letter word with the potential to ruin my life.

But yet, he dared me with a look, goading me to sabotage myself. "Don't what?"

"I don't..." The alcohol fuzz turned into a nervous churn in the pits of my stomach. I needed to think of something else, and fast. "I don't look at them like I look at you. They're almost fictional to me, people I'll probably never meet again. But by your own admission, you're a constant figure in my life. You brought me here, so I wouldn't disrespect you by leaving with someone else. You're my first choice for everything these days and I can't see that changing, not when you keep making out that you're going to marry me or something."

"Marry you?" His face flattened and became expressionless, plunging me into a realm of panic and regret. Oh Jesus, that's not what he meant. It was never what he meant. When he talked about permanence, he meant nothing more than being a weekly fumble for the foreseeable future. What were you expecting? A live in lover, patiently waiting in the wings until you decide you don't want Hunter anymore? Yes, remember him? Why would he ever change his mind when you've pushed him to the back-burner? You just need someone to love, don't you? You just need something hopeless to cling to. You wouldn't want Blaze if you could really have him. You'd just f*ck it up by getting too fat...

"Emmeline?" Blaze clicked his fingers in front of my eyes to halt Fat Emmy's tirade. "Whatever she's saying, it's not true."

"What?" Flustered, I stepped back out of his arms and folded mine protectively over my torso. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it seriously."

"Shame. Could you imagine the honeymoon?" Simpering at my feeble squeak, he reached for my hand and pulled me towards an ornate wooden staircase that twisted around the back of the room, inclining slowly towards a balcony that housed the dressing rooms. "Stop worrying about saying something to scare me away. There's nothing you can do to get rid of me."

"I'm a post-op transsexual with a taste for necrophilia."

"If that were true, you'd be happy to wake up next to me. I sleep like the dead."

THE dressing rooms were the epitome of Hollywood chic. Harshly bright bulbs were set into the frame of a mirror that spanned the entire length of a wall above a wide shelf that normally would have been used for the likes of face paint and make-up. In Monday's Miracle's case, it was used as a drinks counter and desk, cluttered with MacBooks logged into their social networking accounts, media players and an entirely too extensive collection of mobile phones. Chase, Jordan and Matt sat quietly together while Scott and a girl— not the girl he'd been with before but just as young— dry-humped in a dark corner.

Between the three well-behaved musicians sat a petite girl with acid green hair styled into a tall quiff. Below the spectacular 'do, her face was childlike and youthful. Why were they surrounded by young girls?

"Oh, Blaze." She smiled brightly from her seat and heaved herself up to stand. "Are you ready?"

He shot her a smile that got his usual stammer inducing reaction of near-disgusting desire and tugged me over to a couple of folding canvas directors chairs facing the mirror.

"You've lost me," I blinked at his brightly illuminated reflection, "ready for what?"

"Oh, I'm going on stage for the first part of the set tonight. Didn't I mention it?"

Even Scott stopped his entirely too graphic necking session to watch my reaction.

"You? On stage?"

"Sure. It probably won't ever happen again, so when they asked me this morning, I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather have watching me from the sidelines. You want to be my groupie?"

"Oh Blaze," sighing dramatically, I slouched down in the chair and draped an arm weakly over my face, "I want to be a lot of things right now, but groupie is only second on my list."

"What's first?"

"On your face." The whole band cracked into laughter again, reflecting the type of girl I'd been pre-Hunter— the girl who offered little more than vulgar humour to a situation. It was bitter sweet, being someone who made people laugh so effortlessly but would never be seen as anything more than the clown. I was well-liked or ridiculed, but never a face that people would pick out in a crowd as exceptional. Living proof that brains weren't as favoured over beauty as people liked to make out.

As ever, my perception was flawed. Scott unfurled himself from girl number two and left her sat alone in the corner to join the rest of his group. "Well damn, Blaze. Your girlfriend is awesome. Muy caliente. Muy bien."

Feeling my face turning puce, I tried to hide behind my hand and tease the residual glitter from my hair. "Oh, I'm not—"

"Yeah," Blaze's arm snaked around my shoulders and stunned me into an obedient silence, "she's the best."



AND without even asking, that was how I became that woman in his life without the complications of being that woman in his life. Monday's Miracle would use my 'label' in an interview about their secret gig the next morning, an interview that would get me in trouble. My background would remain a secret, but the world would know that Blaze had picked his woman from billions and I was her.

Neither of us would make any demands for more time— his long absences would carry on and I wouldn't chase him. We both seemed to accept each others reluctance— no, inability to make an emotional investment. But on the outside, we looked just like any other couple out with friends.

Nothing would change. The words 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend' meant nothing. They were just name tags we wore so the world knew who we were to each other on some deep, fundamentally f*cked up level of fantasy we didn't care to debate. Maybe he'd steal a couple more cheeky kisses and hold my hand when it wasn't necessary, but it wouldn't uncomfortable or intense. Just natural. As natural as breathing. As natural as the storm that would definitely follow when our uncomfortable truths and complications came into the light.

But I took that moment and grabbed it both hands. My ignorance was indeed blissful, my head swimming, and my 'boyfriend' about to go out on stage for the first and only time in six years, ready to sing his heart out to approximately three hundred lucky people. I was the luckiest of them all.

CHASE JOINED ME on the sidelines as Blaze took his place at the microphone for the first four songs on their set list. I barely noticed him though, partly through the desire to honour my promise that Blaze's was the only face I saw, but mostly because of how nervous I was for him. Of course, he hid any nerves he might have had well, hopping between the balls of his feet to the music that played out to the crowd that roared when they saw four shadows walk out onto the stage.

The gap between the recorded music ending and the live music beginning was torturous and agonisingly long. The first chord hit me like a bolt of lightning, charging every nerve with static and standing every hair on end. Already, I was captivated, and tipped forward on my tiptoes waiting for the sound everyone was waiting for.

His voice triggered a wave of red hot, molten and raw emotion that pooled into my chest and choked me. I hadn't known what to expect, but as ever I'd underestimated just how soulful and deep he could be in so many ways.

The stage lights lit him up like a divine entity, the reds, blues and whites reflecting off his bared forearms while he strummed at a guitar, yet his eyes still looked vividly emerald no matter what colour shone at them.

Fascinated, I watched him sing on that stage like he did it every day with a voice as silky as his laugh. The crowd was mad for him, ravenous even, and bounced on their toes to the beat of the drums and bass guitar. On occasion he glanced sideways and shot me a smile that hit me so deep down inside that I started to feel light-headed and winded.

"First time watching him?" I nodded, unable to speak, Chase laughed and crammed a glass into my hand. "He's a complete show off. Great showman. Ah." He pointed out towards the stage just as Blaze took a step back and ran out across the stage, throwing himself over the dangerously small sea of heads and hands that somehow still carried him safely to the back of the room while he continued to sing as though he was standing still. My heart jumped into my mouth the minute his feet left the ground but I quickly coughed it out with a laugh when I knew that he'd reached the foot of the wooden staircase safely.

"He's crazy." I muttered, turning slightly to smile at Chase. I knew my eyes must look far too bright and pupils too dilated like I was drugged. Honestly, it felt like I was.

"He is. Are you too?" There was something in his tone that told me he wasn't talking about my mental stability.

I tested the waters with a vague response. "It's not like that." Instinctively, I thought he was referring to Blaze, but didn't want to risk incriminating myself with any awkward confessions. Besides, when someone implied that a man that transcendent was crazy for me, I couldn't help but be a little sceptical, not really sure how I could possibly deserve that kind of high regard.

"Sure looks like it's 'like that', Emmy. I've spent a long time warning him that one day he'd meet a girl who'd turn his life upside down and force him to seriously consider the way he lives. I'll be the king of Denmark if you're not that girl."

"I'm just a font of sarcasm, uncomplicated sex and a guaranteed lay." Definitely not the dream woman he was making me out to be.

"There's no such thing as uncomplicated sex." He squeezed my shoulder gently and made towards the stage as Blaze emerged next to us, glistening with sweat and his shirt tucked into the waist band of his jeans. Was I really that much of a big deal for this man who was so damned beautiful it hurt to look at him?

"So, what do you think?" Without hesitation, he curled an arm around my waist so our bodies were flush against each other. "Enjoy the show?"

"You're amazing. Ah..." I glanced downwards, hoping that my hair would cover the embarrassment. "Amazing out there. Quite a turn on actually."

"You want me inside you? Too bad you'd just fall asleep afterwards, or I'd service you in the middle of that audience and nobody would ever know. We'll have to wait." I pushed myself back from him and grunted an objection. "It's as much as a disappointment for me too, Emmeline. That skirt is so short..."

"You keep saying," I tugged at the back of it fruitlessly, covering no more flesh that before, "I keep telling you that it's your own damn fault for picking it."

Blaze bit his lip playfully and pulled me back towards him by the V of my vest. "My, don't we get feisty when denied the good lovin'?"

I sneered. "Who says it's good?"

"Oh, mean implication! But I know you're lying." He dipped down and kissed me, softer than he ever had before. I melted into him and wrapped my arms around his bare neck, one hand sliding down to the firm muscles in his chest. I was— I was crazy about him. That much was sure. How I'd ruin my life over another inconvenient fixation was still a mystery. "Just for tonight, Emmeline, let's not focus on why we can't and focus on why we are anyway. Now, nothing would make me happier than seeing you stripped, sweating, caked in glitter and boneless after a good f*cking across that stage..." My jaw hit the floor at his brazenness and my eyes tracked across the length of the stage. That was a tantalising idea but we both knew that it would put an abrupt end to our night. "But I'll compromise and settle for sweating and caked in glitter. For now. Into the fray with you."