Page 36 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

A frenzied energy thrums through the backstage corridors, pulsing like a second heartbeat under my skin.

The VMAs are about to start, the air buzzing with anticipation.

My talent liaison pass dangles from my neck, a flimsy, laminated reminder I don’t really belong in this world—at least, not the way Dorian does.

But tonight, I’m here. And he’s about to sing. Nothing else matters.

I smooth my hands over the fabric of my backless slip dress, my fingers tracing the silky material at my sides.

The deep plunge in the rear feels like a secret hidden under the oversized cardigan I draped over my shoulders.

The dress is sexy, but the covering and my low-heeled ankle boots tone it down.

It could still pass for a semi-professional, big-event-appropriate attire.

When I reach the backstage area, I spot Dorian at once, my eyes zeroing in on him even in a small crowd. My chest reacts first with a jolt, then warmth floods in—a thick, liquid heat that spreads through me.

He’s standing with his band in a loose circle a few feet away, the final moments before his performance ticking down.

I pause, taking him in. The way he runs a hand through his hair, the casual yet charismatic posture of his body, the focused expression on his face as he talks to his musicians.

His outfit from rehearsal is back, the intricately embroidered black velvet vest hanging open over his chest, leather pants laced tightly along his thighs—dark, sexy.

An aura surrounds him, a palpable energy that draws everyone in, making it impossible to look away. He was born for this.

As they do their pre-show ritual, Dorian claps his hands together and says something I can’t hear. The band responds in unison, then they break up and get to their respective positions to make their entrances. Dorian stays.

My eyes trace the lines of his body, remembering how it felt to be pressed against him, the heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles.

A thousand what-ifs flood my mind, each one more dangerous than the last. What if we hadn’t been interrupted?

What if he had kissed me? What if I had kissed him ?

As if sensing my gaze, Dorian looks up and his black-rimmed eyes find mine. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his lips, and my heart becomes a squirrel in my chest, scrambling madly.

“You made it.” I read the words on his mouth more than hearing them over the crescendo of the crowd.

I lift my backstage pass in silent acknowledgment as I step closer so that we can hear each other talk. “Perks of being your PR handler. The job comes with all-access privileges.”

His gaze drags over me, heat flashing in his eyes at the short hem of my skirt. Dorian takes a slow step forward. “Since it’s no longer a rehearsal but the actual show, do I deserve a good-luck kiss?”

He’s messing with me. He wouldn’t kiss me here.

But we haven’t been alone since Monday morning on his couch—we’re not alone now —and kissing him is all I’ve been thinking about since I left his house.

How his full lips would feel against mine, the taste of him, the electric shock that would undoubtedly course through me.

Every text, every call since then has only fanned the flames higher.

The rational part of me knows that crossing this line could complicate everything, but the rest of me is screaming to just go for it. To hell with the consequences.

I bite my lower lip, torn. The noise of the arena fades into a distant roar, drowned out by the pounding of my heart.

All I can see are his eyes, bright and dark at the same time and inviting—challenging.

He’s testing the waters, seeing how far I’m willing to go, and a part of me wants to dive in headfirst.

“Can’t,” I breathe.

His lips twitch, amusement dancing in his expression. “Aww, merciless.” He glances toward the wings where a stagehand is holding up fingers, counting down to his cue. Then he turns back to me, gaze playful. “You sure you don’t want to join the fans below the stage? Throw your bra at me?”

I narrow my eyes, then lift a single finger, curling it in invitation, beckoning him closer. Dorian leans in, his breath warm against my cheek as I whisper into his ear, “Sorry, I’m not wearing a bra.”

Dorian goes still.

Then he stumbles back as if I’ve shot him in the chest, clutching his heart like he’s been fatally wounded. His mouth parts in silent devastation, his entire body teetering as if he were about to collapse onto the floor.

For a moment, I believe he might actually fall on his ass. But at the very last second, he pivots, spinning on his heel and launching himself across the wings toward the stage right on cue with the music—but not before blowing me a kiss.

And then he’s running across the stage to the roar of the crowd, disappearing under the blinding spotlights, swallowed by thousands of screaming fans.

My heart screams with them.

The music explodes through the venue, the deep bassline reverberating through my ribs as the crowd erupts in even more enthusiastic cheers.

I watch from the sidelines as Dorian takes command of the stage, his voice wrapping around the audience like a living thing.

The sheer energy is intoxicating. It’s a performance that will be replayed for years to come.

The crowd is a single, writhing entity, hands in the air, bodies swaying in unison to the rhythm he sets. It’s a sea of adoration, and he’s the undisputed king.

I can’t take my eyes off him. Sweat glistens on his skin, catching the light as he works the crowd into a fever pitch.

Each song flows into the next, a seamless medley that takes the audience on an emotional rollercoaster.

They scream the lyrics back at him, their voices cracking with the intensity of their devotion.

Even the other famous singers in the first rows can’t sit still.

After fifteen minutes of pure adrenaline, Dorian bounds off the stage, still breathless, sweat glistening down his sternum. His smirk is exultant as he heads straight for me, his chest rising and falling under the open vest. “Not bad, huh?”

I cross my arms, feigning nonchalance. “You were okay, I guess. But I didn’t see a single bra thrown.”

He grins wider, stepping closer. “Tragic, really.”

“What do you have to do now?”

“I need to change before heading into the audience.” He sighs, tilting his head toward me. “You have two choices. Stay here and keep watching the ceremony like a responsible professional.” His voice dips lower, teasing. “Or… you could accompany me to my dressing room.”

“And watch you strip? How scandalous.”

“I promise to be very professional about it.” He cocks an eyebrow. “If you can do the same.”

It’s a slippery choice. I shouldn’t go. But it’s been two days of wanting to be alone with him and not being able to. The smart thing would be to stay here, to keep things in the safe zone, to avoid any more temptation than I can handle. And yet… I want to go.

My mind races through the potential outcomes.

If I go, we’ll be alone in an enclosed space.

The tension between us is already at a breaking point; one wrong move and it could snap.

But then again, one right move and it could be everything I’ve been imagining.

Every rational thought is drowned out by the way he looks at me.

I think about the kiss he asked for that I denied, no matter how much I wanted to give in. I pretend to consider for another second, then sigh dramatically. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t wear your T-shirt backward on national TV.”

He grabs his chin, mock-pensively. “The risk is real.”

With one last glance at the screen broadcasting the ceremony, I let him take my hand and lead me down the hallway, away from the flashing lights, the screaming fans, and straight into trouble.