Page 67 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

FIVE YEARS LATER

S weat rolls down my temples. My heart races as I control my breathing. My focus remains on Jagger, watching the tension and frustration roll off him in waves despite the lust in his eyes.

Lily belts out the chorus of her newest song for the music award show audience, her husband, family, and friends, and then the instrumental break starts. I grin, knowing my husband’s jealousy is about to escalate.

From a rising platform, three shirtless guys appear—dancers for Lily, me, and the other girl performing with us—and their hands skim over our bodies.

Perfectly in sync—after I made them rehearse until their feet were bruised, it better be perfect—we spin, facing the men.

We waggle fingers in the air and shove them, gracefully of course, until they land on chairs, and our heeled feet come up to their chests.

The routine continues in front of the star-studded crowd with the seductive, empowering dance, Jagger’s eyes blazing from two rows away with a combination of desire and malice. Even Noah’s presence next to him doesn’t seem to calm him.

Don’t judge us. The show is PG, despite the wardrobe people trying to make it otherwise.

I hope these dancers remember what I told them about avoiding me after the show.

The final note hits and the lights drop in a single beat. The crowd erupts in applause, and the lights return just in time for me to get a final glimpse at the table.

Except Jagger’s not there.

Backstage, I’m met with compliments about the choreography, a few asking if I’m available to hire.

I am, of course. Maddox was right all those years ago.

I did need to find my passion again. But after a couple of tours with Lily, I realized what I always knew.

It wasn’t in performing. It was in creating, so I traded center stage for the rehearsal stage, courtesy of Sin Records after they hired me to be the label’s choreographer.

I didn’t initially believe they’d have much work for me, but Maddox is elaborate with his video ideas and the label eventually branched out into pop-rock for a few select artists that Jagger discovered.

Tonight’s performance was a one-off. A request from Lily to be part of the act, not just the designer of the movements.

Fortunately, I am not confined to Sin Records if I don’t want to be—FYI, it’s still surreal to be able to choose who I work with and not feel the constant stress of performing or surviving—and I tell them to call me.

I’m almost to the dancers’ dressing room when a hand covers my mouth, and I’m pulled to a dark room.

My heart hammers behind my ribs. Blood pulses in my ears. But not out of fear. Pure adrenaline and excitement buzzes beneath my skin, sending electricity down my spine.

“I almost forgot how insane I get when I see you dress… move like that in front of other men,” his rough voice growls in my ear before nipping at my lobe, then skimming his lips down my neck.

“I didn’t,” I whisper, breathless and already ridiculously turned on. “But for the record, I have on plenty of clothes. Everything is covered.”

“Doesn’t count when it’s so goddamn tight, I can see your pussy lips in the dark.” His hand slides down my bare stomach to my core, sliding beneath the tight spandex pants, as if proving a point, and I involuntarily grind against his palm, seeking the friction.

“You could not,” I rasp. “Besides, it’s better than the pasties they wanted us to wear. Lily told them no. She wanted us sexy, but not an exploited sex show.”

He spins us so my back is to the door, palm wrapped around my throat as he uses his thumb to tip my chin. “If you’d been dressed like that, I—”

“Would’ve sat there like a good boy, then do exactly what you did because you’d never embarrass me in front of everyone or cause a scene over my work .”

He squeezes my throat tighter, eyes narrowed as they dart between mine.

“You’re fucking lucky I love you.” His lips slam into mine, tongue sliding into my mouth, possessive and unhinged.

A reminder who I belong to, but it’s not for me.

It’s for him. The reassurance that no matter what I’m here.

I’m his. Something, even after all this time, he still needs.

I’m not sure if it’s because of what happened with my dad, or his own issues with not being enough, but I never deny him that comfort just as he never denies me anything .

His fingers slide into my leggings again, finding my center, greedy, desperate for him. In less than a minute, stars explode behind my eyes. Before my vision returns, I feel his mouth latching onto my clit, and I have no idea how he got these tight as hell pants off so fast or so easily.

I’m erupting again in no time, my limbs tired and exhausted from the dance and his worship. And just when I think we’re done because time isn’t on our side—I’m pretty sure he goes on any moment now—he has me in the air, my legs wrapped around him as he thrusts inside me.

“You’re mine, Halfpint.” He grunts as he powers into my body. “I may have to let others look once in a while, but you.” Thrust. “Are.” Thrust. “Mine.”

“Yours, baby. Always yours. Til death and beyond.” He swells inside me, exploding with a muffled roar as he bites down on my shoulder.

He leans back, reaching up to brush my hair out of my face. “You were great out there, by the way.”

“Just so you know, the entire time I only saw you.”

“I know.” He kisses me, long and slow this time, then sets me on my feet and helps me fix my clothes. “Guess I better get out there before they come looking.”

“Probably,” I giggle. “Any hints about what song you’re singing.” I’ve been bugging him for weeks to tell me, but he has been tight lipped, which of course only made me more curious.

“Nope.” He tucks himself back into his jeans, then drags his hand through his messy locks. He opens the door of what I realize now is a closet. “You’ll find out when everyone else does. And when the show is over, you’re going to explain why you haven’t told me you’re pregnant.”

I grab his arm before he walks out with wide eyes. “You know?”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he drags me to him. “Baby, you can’t spend as much time as I do with my head between your legs and not notice. Not to mention…” He makes a pointed look at my breasts. “Did you think, after five years, I wouldn’t notice those were bigger.”

My cheeks flame. “I was waiting until I confirmed with a doctor. It could’ve been another false alarm.” I’d had a few of those since we decided Noah needed a little brother or sister a year ago.

“Nah. Those other times, I knew you weren’t pregnant.” He kisses me one last time, and I tell him to break a leg as he walks away.

After I’m changed, I go to our table, making it just in time for Jagger’s introduction.

I look around the table, noticing Noah is nowhere to be seen.

My brows dip in concern. “Where’s Noah?” I ask as I lean over to Casey.

She doesn’t look at me or even acknowledge I spoke, making my stomach clench.

I look around at a few other tables, knowing Noah’s outgoing personality means he won’t hesitate to make new friends , but still see no sight of him.

Panic rises in my chest, squeezing my throat. I grab Casey’s arm, hard enough to make her squeak. “Casey, where is my baby?”

Graham reaches over, unwrapping my fingers from his wife’s flesh. “He’s fine, Poppy. Now sit back and watch the show.” He jerks his head just as the lights lower.

The sounds of an acoustic guitar echo through the venue, making my brows dip. Jagger’s music is never acoustic. The spotlight hits the stage, and my heart stalls as I stare at my two boys side by side on stools, each with a microphone.

Noah couldn’t look more like Jagger if they were twins.

Same dimples, same curly locks flopping over his pale green eyes.

And that grin as he sits on his stool, feet dangling, strumming away at the same rhythm as his dad, singing a song, totally unlike anything Jagger’s ever done about being your best self.

How they got the producers to go along with this, I don’t know. But I can guess.

When they finish, Jagger helps Noah off his stool. My chest fills with pride as he stands there with more patience than I knew he had, waiting on his dad.

Instead of going backstage like the other artists, Jagger carries Noah from the stage through the crowd. They stop at our table, but they don’t sit. Jagger reaches his hand out to me, and I take it, letting him pull me to my feet.

“What are we doing?” I ask as he wipes his thumb over my cheek where tears have trailed.

“We’re bored, right, buddy?”

Noah looks at him and nods before turning to me. “We want the arcade and ice cream, Mom.” I snort at his duh tone.

Side note: the first time he called me that I bawled for four hours. When Jagger made it official, I bawled again.

“But they haven’t done artist of the year yet.” Jagger has gotten a lot of nominations over the years, and even won best song twice, but artist of the year has always eluded him.

He shrugs. “I don’t need an award. The best one is right here.”

I press my lips together, shaking my head. “All right, boys. Let’s go get our game on.”

Jagger wraps his arm around me, Noah still on his hip.

As we walk hand in hand out the building, Jagger leans over and whispers, “Can we tell him?” When I cast him a curious look from the corner of my eye, he clarifies. “That he’s going to be a big brother.”

“Not yet. Let’s get to a doctor first, impatient.”

“Fine,” he huffs and I laugh.

We spend the rest of the evening playing games with our son, laughing, and then passing out from too much pizza and too much ice cream.

By the way, he totally won artist of the year .