I do, practically eating at his mouth because Killian tastes so good, and because no matter how many times I touch him, I always want more. My body trembles, my legs twining around his waist, pulling him closer.

He undulates against me, rocking his hips into mine, clinging like he’ll never get enough either.

One of his hands slides to my neck, stroking it, the other dips between us. His fingers find mine, guiding them down. I wrap my hand around his hot flesh, and he groans.

“This is yours,” he says, thrusting a little in my grip. “As his owner you have an obligation to take good care of him.”

I smile against his mouth. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mmm…” He nips my chin, makes his way down my neck. “Pet him, kiss him, keep him warm at night, entertained during the day.”

I stroke along his length, squeezing the tip. Killian hums in approval.

“Like that, yeah.” He sucks at the crook of my neck. “So you know, he’ll also need plenty of quality time with his new best friend, Pretty Pussy.”

A soft laugh escapes me, but my body heats. I’m bone-tired and sore. We’ve been at it all night, and still I want him inside of me again, pushing his way in with that low, greedy grunt he always makes. The thought makes me lightheaded. My thumb circles the broad head of his cock, where it weeps. For me.

“If he’s mine,” I whisper, nibbling at his ear, “maybe he doesn’t have to get all dressed up when he comes in for a visit.”

Killian stills, his breath warm and damp at my neck. “Are you saying you want me to fuck you bare?”

I can’t tell if surprise or caution tightens his voice. I’ve never asked a guy to go without. I’ve never wanted to. But I do with Killian. “Do you not want to?” I ask, cautious now too. “Because it’s okay if you—”

“I want it,” he cuts in, husky and insistent. His gaze darts over my face. “You on the pill now?”

“Had a shot. Three months of clear sailing. So to speak.”

A familiar, cocky grin spreads over his face. “You know, going without, this speaks of long-term commitment, doesn’t it? You don’t say, ‘Fuck me bare,’ unless you’re thinking it’s just you and me for a long time.”

I still, lifting my head up. “You’re pulling me out of my happy place, Killian James.”

His chuckle vibrates along my skin. “And here I am about to sink right into my happiest place.” My noise of annoyance only serves to make his eyes crinkle. “Babe, it’s just you and me.” With that, his too thick, too hard, too fucking perfect cock pushes in.

That first thrust of his is always a shock to the system, my body reacting to the invasion with a ripple of pure heat and a pinch of sweet pain. But it’s that feeling of connection, our bodies finding each other again in the most elemental way that clutches my heart.

Killian enters me, and I am whole. It is that simple.

I know he feels it too, because his body trembles on a gusty sigh. He doesn’t stop until he’s made his way fully inside—big, bold, and undeniable.

“Hey,” he says softly, holding himself there. “Look at me.”

My lids flutter open, that lazy, languid feeling coursing through my body like liquid golden heat.

His eyes shine with emotion. “You and me, Libby. We stick together, and everything will be okay.”

I believe him. There in the dark, surrounded by his strength, I believe that nothing will ever tear us apart.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Libby

Seattle. It’s cold. It’s rainy. It’s beautiful. It’s also the last stop on the US leg of the tour. From here we go overseas—, to Berlin first. I have no idea why we’re jumping all over the place, but Brenna has explained it has to do with concert promoters and venue schedules. I really don’t care; going to Europe is exciting, and I can’t wait.

For now, though, it’s Seattle. Once we check into our hotel, the guys and I pile into a van Whip rented. He’s driving, and for once, it’s just the five of us. No crew, no managers, assistants, or journalists. It’s kind of nice.

First stop is Caffe Ladro, where I’m served a latte so pretty with its little stacked hearts on the foam that I almost don’t want to sip it. But I do, because the roasted-coffee scent is making my mouth water. It’s rich, creamy, dark, and damn delicious. I don’t feel even a little embarrassed when I moan.

The guys chuckle, but are equally engrossed with their own drinks.

A couple of scones and a second round—this time in to-go cups because, damn, that’s good coffee—and we head out to Aberdeen and Kurt Cobain Memorial Park. Cobain’s ashes were scattered, so this is the closest thing the guys can get to a grave site, and they want to pay their respects.

A soft mist falls when we finally find the park. It’s tiny and forlorn, not much to it. Frankly, the place depresses me. A homeless man shuffles by, headed for the bridge by the river as we stand in silence around a stone guitar memorial marker.

Killian’s arm wraps around my shoulders, tucking me close, with Jax on my other side, huddled up as we all are. I’m fairly certain Killian finds the place equally sad. But it’s Jax’s expression that catches my attention. He appears haunted and faintly green around the mouth.

I know Cobain was his idol. There are similarities between them—both left handed guitar players, both shot to fame with dizzying speed, and both unable to handle it. Unfortunately Cobain, unlike Jax, succeeded in ending his life.

I have no idea what Jax is thinking, but I can’t stop myself from taking his hand in mine. He stiffens at the contact, sucking in a swift breath. I’m not surprised. We haven’t spoken much since he found out about my relationship with Killian. He hasn’t been rude or shunned me, but he’s definitely retreated further into his shell.

Not looking up, I give his hand a squeeze, try to tell him I’m here, that I’m his friend if he’ll have me.

His cold fingers lay still for a moment, then slowly, he squeezes back.

“‘Love Buzz’ was the first song I learned to play on bass,” Rye says suddenly. He laughs. “Didn’t even realize Nirvana was doing a cover until years later.”

“If they loved a song, they’d play it,” Killian says. “No pretension about only doing their own songs. It was all about the music.”