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tension in her core coiled a little tighter with every beat of those drums.
    Two months of this. She’d maybe known, in the abstract, how primal he was, how male, but nothing compared to seeing him perform in the flesh. To having him look her in the eyes as he sang. This was what it was like to be near him, to be the one he sang to, to know what every woman wanted from him. This was why he was who he was. It was a fucking revelation. She just had to try to remember not to take it personally.
    Lock it down, Molly.
    She got out her phone and started writing.
    She had paragraphs on Declan already by the time she noticed the music had stopped. She checked her phone; it couldn’t be over already, could it? The bass started up again below her, something she could feel through the floor, but it wasn’t a Savage Heart song.
    Molly started to breathe a little faster. If he wasn’t on stage, where was he? What was he doing?
    Why had she been brought up here?
    The air in the lounge had changed. The energy. The high buzz of the groupies chattering and gossiping had stopped, and the roadies looked serious, prepared for work. Everything tense.
    The door burst open, and it was like a freaking dam broke: the women, wearing practically nothing at all, rushed ahead and pressed in on Declan Donovan. The rest of the band melted off to the sides, found their regulars, their own fans, but the pack stayed with Declan. He was huge, bigger even then he’d looked on stage, steaming with sweat and breathing hard.
    But it was something else, something animal: those eyes again, roving, hungry. All those women, calling his name, touching him—he ignored them. Cut a path through them. A force of nature, a goddamn tornado.
    Molly watched, mesmerized, again. She tried not to respond as a woman, but holy hell, she could see the adrenaline surge in him left over from the show, could see the pure physical need in him, the power , and she answered with her own need. What would that feel like between her legs? On top of her. Inside her.
    Oh God. Be a professional. It’s just the magic of the show; it’s not real. Get a hold of yourself.
    He saw her.
    She saw his chest heave and his nostrils flare, and then he was moving toward her, too fast for her to do anything but scramble to get up. Molly saw other women peel off him like shadows, unable to really focus on anything but him; he still wore whatever it was he had on stage that made him a genuine star. Magnetism. Charisma. Passion. Whatever it was, she could feel it. She could feel herself getting drunk off of it.
    The whole room was drunk off of it. The whole room wanted him.
    It’s NOT real , she told herself again. She remembered Robbie pulling this kind of thing, trying on that rock star swagger, and seeing Declan now just made it all the more clear what a cheap imitation Robbie had been when he’d tried to front his own band. But Declan was the real deal, the womanizing, drinking, destructive force of nature that Robbie had only pretended to be, and look at how much damage Robbie had done to her. Declan would destroy her utterly. Terrible things happened when Molly lost control. She wouldn’t lose control now.
    The whole room watched him stop in front of her. Stand over her. Loom over her.
    He put out his hand.
    “Come.”
    Molly put her hand in his before she even thought about. Nodded, before she even thought about it. And then before her brain could catch up with her body—her body, her traitorous body, that had just reflexively done what he wanted, no questions asked—he was pulling her away, up the stairs, into more darkness.
    What the fuck am I doing?
    She could smell him. Oh God, she wanted to be covered in him. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure he could hear it, and she knew he felt the sweat on her hands and the heat coming off her body, and before she knew it he’d pulled her into a private room.
    His dressing room.
    Alarm bells went off in Molly’s head. All of them. Every