Jon’s fingers tightened on the sweating bottle of beer. Thankfully Rich was distracted by half a dozen women in the crowd—and if he didn’t miss his guess, a certain lead singer pretty much had him by the balls.
He’d looked everywhere but the damn stage for as long as possible. Lighting, soundboard…hell, even the goddamn rafters. Anything not to look Richie’s fucking sister. But there she was, smooth, tight and tanned dripping with sex appeal with every thread of her shredded jeans to the bits of lace patches sewn into the gaping holes that hid nothing. All it did was showcase her endless length of leg.
He hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t a boob guy. He wasn’t. He was all about the legs. He was all about James’ legs. She stood back to back with Devotion’s bassist, Ronnie. Each pulse of the beat destroyed him. James was one with her guitar and as her head fell back and the bliss hacked at any resistance he normally had. He bit back a moan as her jacket slid open and off one shoulder. More smooth skin. More tanned flesh to torment him with.
Red lace cupped small, firm breasts—just a mouthful of perfection—leaving a silver cross nestled just between them.
A strip of leather clung tight to her neck in unrelieved black. As if he needed a place to focus just above the little notch of her clavicle. And there, another tiny cross dangled. He could feel the heat of the metal on his tongue, the salt from her skin, and the passion that leaked out of her pores.
Determined not to show how she affected him, he dragged his eyes off the stage. Every long line of her was memorized anyway. With a mom like Richie’s, you were expected to show up for TLC during the downtimes of touring. Richie’s mother loved him. And hell if he didn’t love Mrs. S right back. Lusting after their daughter and Richie’s sister—well, fuck. He was just asking to be buried out in the back with Champ—Richie and Jamie’s childhood dog.
He yanked his scarf lower on one side to cover the bulge under his damn zipper. James was so off limits it was worth a lightning strike from God. Then again, he always wanted the unattainable—like she should be any fucking different. And as the girls screamed through the end of Psycho Bitch, he tried to distance himself from the blood boiling lust and focused on the band as a whole.
They truly loved to play. Stephanie’s purple scarf dripped all over smooth skin as she jumped with James. Nothing but God’s gift to man bounced as they stomped and ground their way through the end of the na-na’s. Then Steph’s teasing voice went low and he felt, rather than heard, Richie’s low growl.
Nothing about having Devotion on tour with them was a good idea. Hell yeah, they were good. There was no question the Sambora genes perpetuated talent. Stephanie was aware of her power as lead and saw fit to destroy everyone in the crowd. Ashley’s exuberance was second to her talent, and Ronnie kept them solid with her bass lines. Talent wasn’t the issue.
What they were was trouble. Stephanie would mess Richie up until he got her skirt up around her neck and James would drive him slowly mad. Period.
The house lights went low, leaving only a purple tinge to the room. Screams from the crowd heaved through the dark, growing in intensity with the heartbeat throb of Ashley’s kick drum.
She drew his gaze—as if he had a choice in the matter. James dropped her jacket, leaving a coil of leather and silver bracelets tracking up her arm. She slowly walked to the center mic, the guitar slung at her side. Her toned belly shuddered a little, denim frayed where the button of her jeans should be.
Just the tiniest jerk of his fingers and he could get into those jeans. He could peel them down and taste the hot, wet---
Turn it off.
Turn it off.
He closed his eyes and forced his aching cock to ease.
When he opened them again, a white light slowly glowed hot around James, leaving her face in shadow. Thick, dark red strips bled through the inky color of her hair, feathering around her face and flowing back over her shoulder. He could see the ends haloing around her elbows, arrowing down to that superb ass. She’d swapped out her Fender for a slick black Gibson, and that was the last time he noticed her guitar.
Her lips crowded the mic, her voice smoky sex.
He put his beer down, jamming his hands into his pockets—anything to ease the clawing hard-on he had. She tipped her head back and screamed through the chorus. All that tanned flesh, golden brown but the little scrap of red.
Push it away. Listen to the sound, find the faults.
But there wasn’t any. Devotion was tight and well versed in what they did. He didn’t know she sang. It was Steph who was the voice. Steph was supposed to be the lead. Instead, James wrapped her long fingers around the mic, her voice rough and imperfect where Steph was smooth and true, or hot and sinful—but nearly always perfect.
The song suited the rough edges that defined James. The passion and the in your face sound echoed the woman and made the song even more effective. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she fell into an equally gritty guitar solo that ended the song. Turning toward Steph they both smiled and hooked arms around each other.
Light to the dark. Steph’s sunny blonde and brown mass of curls to the crimson and midnight of Jamison. But there they were, forehead to forehead grinning like fools as they opened their arms to Ronnie and Ashley to take their bows.
Steph leaned into the mic. “Stay where you are guys! You up for becoming immortal?”
The crowd roared.
James took over. “We’re making the Since You Been Gone video for a new video release, along with this live show. So don’t go anywhere.”
He turned away, signaling for a shot of Jack. He was going to need it to get through the rest of this quick trip into hell.
“Holy shit! She was amazing!” Richie jammed in him the shoulder, pushing him a full step to the side. “Did you see Jamie?”
Slamming it back, the burn scored down his throat letting him think again. He pushed at his overgrown hair. Shit, yes he’d seen. Every part of that would follow him for days. Forcing a grin on his face, he looked up at Richie. “The girls will do just fine as an opening act.”
“Fuck yeah, they will!” Richie signaled for a shot of his own. “Cheers!”
Jon tossed another back and snapped it on the bar, turning back to the crowd. A slim brunette smiled at him, recognition sly and intent in her eyes. Her eyes were a dull brown under too much make-up, not the golden, whisky color like James’—but they’d do. And when he let her blow him—he’d just pretend it was James’ full mouth wrapped around his cock.
He smirked and nodded at her to come forward.