Read How to Reprimand Your Rock Star (DommeNation #2) for Free Online
Authors: Mina Vaughn
didn’t recognize stirred and stretched. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, his mouth wide with music and his body muscled and clenched with effort. His face, once so smug and impish, was now racked with powerful emotion. Fuck, he was amazing. I felt rooted to the spot, watching him move to the music of his own voice, and was positively mesmerized.
I swallowed hard and knew I wanted his vision to be true—I wanted to end up in a Miami penthouse with him, and ever since he had made that comment, I’d been itching to get my hands on some rope. And chains. Fuck. My fingers itched for skin to touch, and my mouth watered at the implication of tasting his sweat, which was now running down his body in delicious rivulets.
The song took a momentary break from vocals and the guitarist stepped forward for another solo. Keaton took this opportunity to take the black, sweat-soaked shirt off and throw it to the side. He ran a hand through his hair, gloriously peaked and black and blue, and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the back pocket of his tight leather pants.
Oh God.
The crowd screamed with a deafening peal, as he cuffed himself to the microphone stand and looked at me. He sang the chorus again; voice ragged and thick with emotion, and my mouth fell open as he serenaded me. Wet, bound, wanting. The song ended and he fell to his knees. Maybe he was dedicating the song to me after all.
Ha, yeah right, Thea .
The crowd clawed toward him, squealing, possessed. I remained anchored to the spot, wanting nothing more in my life than to take him up on his offer. He winked at me, and the cuffs fell off. The crowd applauded. Was that some trick?
“Thank you again, UConn!” he shouted, and the band escaped backstage.
The crowd pushed toward the doors and I remained in place, stunned. I grabbed the person next to me. “What about the encore?” I asked.
The burly man shrugged. “That was the encore.”
Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was Callie. UNC won , it read. I knew what that meant. We would be playing the best team in the league in their house when we traveled to the sub-regionals games there. Idly, I googled Trickster City’s tour schedule and saw to my dismay that they were going to be playing in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
On the day that coincided with our game.
Okay, I had to do this. I had to find him backstage. My newfound crush compelled me.
I nearly grimaced at the word crush . It was so innocent, innocuous. It implied we wanted to hold hands and drink from the same milkshake. Crush was not the word to describe what I’d rather do with my hands and mouth instead. Maybe I’d call it an infatuation. Yes, that was much sexier.
The same security guards who had blocked my way down to the locker room stood in front of the hallway where I knew the stage let out. I smiled, grateful I had such insider knowledge of the arena’s workings.
“You forget your tape again?”
I shook my head. “I’m going backstage.”
“VIPs only,” the corked one said. “Not basketball players.”
I held up the badge. “I’m both.”
Their mouths fell open as they both examined my badge.
“It’s legit,” the other said sadly, and allowed me to pass.
Scanning the hallway and doors, my mind strategized how to find Keaton. I put my game face on and tried to imagine where he’d be. Hooking the badge around my neck, I walked with a purpose and marched my way through the winding hallways.
As soon as I saw more security and less people lounging around, I knew my directions were correct. The room to my right was a large suite and I figured that’s where he would be.
“Mister Lowe is expecting me,” I said to the guard at the door, who was as large as a refrigerator.
He frowned and looked at my badge. “Name?”
“Thea.”
The man disappeared behind the door, and after a minute, he returned. “What’s your real name?”
I frowned, annoyed with Keaton again before I even laid eyes on him.
I swallowed hard and knew I wanted his vision to be true—I wanted to end up in a Miami penthouse with him, and ever since he had made that comment, I’d been itching to get my hands on some rope. And chains. Fuck. My fingers itched for skin to touch, and my mouth watered at the implication of tasting his sweat, which was now running down his body in delicious rivulets.
The song took a momentary break from vocals and the guitarist stepped forward for another solo. Keaton took this opportunity to take the black, sweat-soaked shirt off and throw it to the side. He ran a hand through his hair, gloriously peaked and black and blue, and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the back pocket of his tight leather pants.
Oh God.
The crowd screamed with a deafening peal, as he cuffed himself to the microphone stand and looked at me. He sang the chorus again; voice ragged and thick with emotion, and my mouth fell open as he serenaded me. Wet, bound, wanting. The song ended and he fell to his knees. Maybe he was dedicating the song to me after all.
Ha, yeah right, Thea .
The crowd clawed toward him, squealing, possessed. I remained anchored to the spot, wanting nothing more in my life than to take him up on his offer. He winked at me, and the cuffs fell off. The crowd applauded. Was that some trick?
“Thank you again, UConn!” he shouted, and the band escaped backstage.
The crowd pushed toward the doors and I remained in place, stunned. I grabbed the person next to me. “What about the encore?” I asked.
The burly man shrugged. “That was the encore.”
Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was Callie. UNC won , it read. I knew what that meant. We would be playing the best team in the league in their house when we traveled to the sub-regionals games there. Idly, I googled Trickster City’s tour schedule and saw to my dismay that they were going to be playing in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
On the day that coincided with our game.
Okay, I had to do this. I had to find him backstage. My newfound crush compelled me.
I nearly grimaced at the word crush . It was so innocent, innocuous. It implied we wanted to hold hands and drink from the same milkshake. Crush was not the word to describe what I’d rather do with my hands and mouth instead. Maybe I’d call it an infatuation. Yes, that was much sexier.
The same security guards who had blocked my way down to the locker room stood in front of the hallway where I knew the stage let out. I smiled, grateful I had such insider knowledge of the arena’s workings.
“You forget your tape again?”
I shook my head. “I’m going backstage.”
“VIPs only,” the corked one said. “Not basketball players.”
I held up the badge. “I’m both.”
Their mouths fell open as they both examined my badge.
“It’s legit,” the other said sadly, and allowed me to pass.
Scanning the hallway and doors, my mind strategized how to find Keaton. I put my game face on and tried to imagine where he’d be. Hooking the badge around my neck, I walked with a purpose and marched my way through the winding hallways.
As soon as I saw more security and less people lounging around, I knew my directions were correct. The room to my right was a large suite and I figured that’s where he would be.
“Mister Lowe is expecting me,” I said to the guard at the door, who was as large as a refrigerator.
He frowned and looked at my badge. “Name?”
“Thea.”
The man disappeared behind the door, and after a minute, he returned. “What’s your real name?”
I frowned, annoyed with Keaton again before I even laid eyes on him.