His eyes drill into me as I dodge roadies, cords, speakers, and instruments, telling myself that I have no reason to feel inferior to this man, but that doesn’t mean I believe it. I’m still in the fake-it-’til-you-make-it stage of the process.

I desperately want to know what he thought of my performance. The question is bubbling up inside me. I will not ask. I have to grind my teeth to hold it in. In my world, that’s just inviting criticism. Despite my vow, the question comes tumbling out as soon as I’m standing before him.

My smile I wear for the cameras when I really want to run away is in place. “So, what did you think?”

He uncrosses his arms and pushes off the speaker. My heart hammers in my chest as he opens his mouth and then closes it again without speaking. He takes one step toward me, his frown in place.

I wrap my arms around my body, prepared to ward off a verbal blow.

“I watched you last night.”

Shock zings through me at his statement. “In San Antonio? I thought you were just waiting outside to drag me home by my runaway-wife hair.”

“No. I watched the whole damn thing, and you’re insane if you think you shouldn’t be headlining these shows.”

I think my heart stutters to a stop . . . and then restarts with heavy, tripping beats.

“What?” I whisper.

“You’re too good to be an opening act. I don’t know shit about the music industry, and I didn’t think I’d like country music, but I like your music. You’ve got this voice that grabs a man by the throat and won’t let go until the last note fades.”

Speechless, I swallow. Creighton reaches out to wrap his hand around my upper arm and steady me.

I’m still recovering from his confession when he asks, “Where to now?”

“Um, backstage for a little bit, and then they’ll come get me for ‘That Girl.’”

His hand slides down my arm to lace his fingers with mine. I let him lead me out back into the hallway toward my dressing room. We hear chants and screaming from Boone’s room as we pass.

People try to talk to me, but I don’t hear them. I just follow Creighton, staring at the white dress shirt stretching across his shoulders as his words play on repeat in my head.

“I like your music . . . You’ve got this voice that grabs a man by the throat and won’t let go until the last note fades . . .”

You’d think his compliments would banish the insecurity that’s settled inside me, but instead they unleash a way bigger problem.

I think I could fall for my husband.

“Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” My throaty moan is porn-star worthy.

Creighton’s growl vibrates against my clit, and the fingers of one hand grip my hip tighter.

Part of me hopes I’ll have bruises to prove he touched me there. I need some reminder that his amazing Grade-A, blue-ribbon-winning skills are real. Seriously. He deserves an honorary degree from some fancy-pants university for his talents in this area.

I buck my pelvis against his mouth, desperate to get more, and eager to find the edge so I can sail off into an orgasm. I earn a sharp slap to my thigh.

“Hold still, or I won’t let you come.”

“Oh God, please,” I moan.

He lifts his head away, his fingers still buried inside me, and I whimper at the loss of stimulation. “You’ll take what I give you, when I give it to you.”

“I’m already begging. What more do you want from me? Just let me come!”

My eyes flick open as a deep chuckle fills the expanse of my brand-new tour bus. Right now, I couldn’t care less how shiny, fancy, new, and overwhelming it is. I just want to come.

“Bossy thing. Guess it works out that I can’t get enough of this sweet little cunt of yours.”

I know I should climb up on a soapbox and tell him I don’t like that word. The c-word. But my brain has no control over the flood of wetness that hits my center when he says it.

He doesn’t miss it. The two fingers buried in my pussy curl forward, stroking my G-spot.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet.”

“Say it again.”

“You’re so—”

“No. What you said before.” I’m babbling now, and I don’t care. I just want more of his dirty words and his devastating tongue.

“That I can’t get enough of this sweet little cunt?”

My inner muscles clench, and he groans. I wish I had the coordination to reach down and stroke his cock, but I’m slumped back on the black leather sofa, and he’s down on his knees before me.

The thought that I’ve somehow brought this man to his knees is enough to shove me to the edge of orgasm.

“I’m going to come.”

Creighton lifts his head again. “No, you’re not. Because I’m not done eating your pussy yet.”

“But—”

“You’ll wait until I give you permission.”

Creighton lowers his mouth to my pussy and laps at the juices before flicking, nipping, and teasing my clit. I dig my nails into the new leather, not caring what marks I may leave, because suddenly I don’t want to disappoint him by coming before he allows me. The pleasure rises harder and faster, and my control begins to disintegrate.

I open my mouth to beg yet again, but Creighton’s words come first, directly against my clit.

“Come for me. Now. Hard.”

I slam my eyes shut as the tension inside me bursts, surging within me and spreading out through every nerve ending. I lose complete control, bucking against him and burying my hands in his hair as I scream his name.

I ride the sensations, and his continued teasing, until I can’t handle any more. I tug his head up and melt into the couch. Holy. Shit. I’d say the man’s tongue should be bronzed, but that would be a waste.

I’m still lazily floating in the post-orgasmic haze, enjoying Creighton’s hand smoothing up and down my inner thigh and the press of lips on my hipbone, when someone knocks on the door to the bus.

“Tell them to go away,” I whine.

At any other moment, I might care that I sound like a little brat, but right now, I really, really don’t. All I want is to savor this feeling for a few more minutes, and then give my own knees a workout while I return the favor.

Creighton complies with my request, and his deep voice punctures the bus’s silence. “Go the fuck away!”