Page 33 of Uncharted Desires

The lounge was full to the brim and the music was blasting. Kat could barely hear the surrounding people, so she spent most of her time feeling the bass flow through her body as she drank her vodka sodas.

One guy from a group she’d never heard of was sitting next to her talking about how awesome their band was because they were touring with so-and-so. Kat had lost track of the conversation as she nodded at his bragging. She didn’t feel like pointing out that the venue she’d just sang in was twice this size.

She was on her fourth or fifth drink when Lydia flew by pulling Kat from the couch.

“Sorry, I have to borrow her,” Lydia yelled.

Kat stood up, smiling at the guy, and walked onto the dance floor hand in hand with Lydia.

“Just in time, Lyd!” Kat yelled into her ear over the music.

“You looked miserable. Why didn’t you just get up?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to be rude.”

Lydia made a sound of disgust. “You don’t owe any guy your time.”

Kat just shook her head and started dancing to the beat. It was easy for Lydia to say things like that.

Song after song played while they danced and laughed. Eventually, a guy Lydia deemed worthy began dancing with her and she danced away from Kat.

She looked around for Cher and didn't see her. In fact, she didn’t see anyone she recognized. The rest of the crew must have gone back to their trailers. Kat decided it was time for her to go too, but a hand grabbed her wrist, pulling her back.

Her body ran into a very solid object. She looked up, realizing that the object was . . . gulp . . . Weston.

What was he doing out on the dance floor? He rarely came around the crew, he was usually in the super VIP—as Kat called it—with his entourage.

“Where are you going?” He leaned down, his breath fanning her neck.

“Back to the trailers,” Kat managed to spit out.

It wasn’t that she had a hard time talking to Weston, it was just that he made her nervous, and then she became awkward, spewing out the first thing that popped into her head. Word vomit was what Lydia called it. She wasn’t the best at being social but throw in an incredibly attractive rock star and she was the worst. Alcohol helped though.

It was when they talked about music that they had their best conversations. They would go back and forth for hours about compositions or lyric changes. She had been a big part of the album they were currently touring, and she felt a lot of pride in that.

Weston pulled her body closer to his as his hands moved down her sides to the beat. “The night’s just getting started. Why would you do that?”

Her jaw dropped. Was he flirting with her? No, that was impossible because Kat wasn’t his type. Or did Weston even have a type these days?

Then again, there was no harm in dancing with him. Right?

She placed her hands on his chest and moved them up slowly, testing the feel of him under her skin. He felt entirely too good. “Is there a reason I should stay up?”

Where the hell did that come from? Kat didn’t have a flirty bone in her body and here she was flirting with the Weston Monroe, while somehow their hips had fused together, moving to the beat of the music. His hand moved from her side and splayed across her lower back, holding her possessively.

“Shit, sweetheart, I can think of a lot of reasons to stay up tonight,” he drawled.

Kat was doomed. She shouldn’t do this. She would still have to work with this man the next day, and it would be weird because there was no way he would want anything beyond tonight. She would not fool herself into thinking he would ever want more. Kat was already awkward as hell around him, and this would make it worse. She had never excelled at the one-night stand thing.

“You know, you always run around in these tight little black skirts after shows and it drives me wild,” he whispered in her ear. His hand roamed down her hips.

Kat couldn’t breathe. When had he ever paid attention to her like that? He was always in the back room with much more beautiful people than her. She looked at him, uncertain where this was coming from, but also too tipsy to fully work out if she cared. Weston fucking Monroe just said she—boring, plain Kat—drove him wild. She inadvertently licked her lips and heard him groan.

The song ended and his finger traced up her arm and over her shoulder. “What’s it gonna be?”

She nodded, and he stepped back, pulling on her hand. She followed him to a darkened hallway, and he pushed her against the wall, his tall frame caging her in, blocking out all semblance of light.

“I need to hear a yes, Kat.”