Page 44 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

December

I go to all three concerts, this time as part of his staff. Each night, the venue is packed to the rafters with screaming fans, the energy so palpable, my skin tingles. I sing along, I dance, and I lose myself in the music. But more than anything, I admire him.

By the last night, the buzz is even more powerful. The fans are enjoying the final concert of his world tour, but also saying goodbye.

I follow the event from behind the main stage with the technicians, listening to him sing, feeling the bass vibrate through the floor and Dorian’s voice ring through the arena, every note, every lyric, overpowering.

I have my eyes fixed on Dorian, following him on a mega screen when, in an instant, everything changes.

I catch a flicker of motion in the lower rafters above him. A blur in my peripheral vision that sends a jolt of fear through me.

One of the hanging set lights, a smaller fixture meant to cast a warm glow during acoustic numbers, wobbles, then breaks free from its rigging. My stomach lurches as if I were BASE jumping off a skyscraper.

I bring my hands to my mouth as the fixture plunges downward, swinging erratically on its remaining cable before it breaks free.

In the flattened image of the display, I can’t tell if it’s on a collision course with Dorian, but the screen makes it look terrifyingly close.

Dorian turns his head at the last second and stops singing mid-lyric, his sharp intake of breath cutting through the arena speakers.

He tries to sidestep, but he’s not fast enough.

The metal housing scrapes across his face, clips his shoulder, and then crashes to the stage with a sound like a gunshot, shards of glass and metal exploding in all directions. Behind him, the band falters, the instruments trailing off, the sudden silence deafening.

The crowd gasps as one as we all stay suspended in a surreal stillness.

My eyes are glued to Dorian, my heart a wild animal in my chest, hoping against hope that he’s not hurt.

Dorian touches his temple, and when he removes his hand, blood trickles next to his eye. His fans scream. I feel like I might throw up.

But Dorian, ever the showman, barely flinches.

He presses his fingers to the wound again and blinks at the blood as if it’s more of an inconvenience than an injury. Then he turns back to the mic, his lips quirking up like nothing happened.

“Guess that’s one way to keep things exciting,” he jokes, voice steady despite everything. The crowd cheers—a few girls in the first lines cry while smiling and hugging.

Dorian raises a hand to calm the crowd. “I’m gonna take five to get this cut checked out, okay?” His question is met with a thunderous roar of approval, the kind that shakes walls. These people worship him; they’d wait all night if they had to.

Backstage, the technicians scramble, talking into their headsets, while Dorian’s tour manager, Grant, looks like he’s about to have a stroke. They’re coordinating with the band who opened the concert, signaling for them to get ready to go back on stage.

The message is related to Dorian through his earpiece.

He listens, then nods. He’s unhurried, composed, every inch the seasoned performer.

Dorian brings the mic back to his lips. “Looks like you’re gonna get a few more songs from Velour!

” he announces to the return of the opening band on stage, then waves and runs off.

The fans erupt, a sea of bodies surging with newfound energy.

But backstage, I’m still frozen.

Dorian appears from a hidden hatch, and my first instinct is to run to him. I lurch forward, heart hammering in my throat, but the medics reach him first. I stop, hovering nearby while they check him out.

They clean the cut and run a flashlight in front of his eyes, asking him to follow the beam, presumably checking for a concussion. I watch, holding my breath, my fists clenched at my sides.

Finally, they step back, satisfied.

Dorian rolls his shoulders, then he catches my eye and lifts his brows. “Hey, you look like you just watched someone get hit in the face with a light.”

I don’t laugh. I don’t even breathe as I cross the distance between us.

“Are you okay?” I demand.

He shrugs, tapping the shiny transparent coating that covers his wound. “Yeah. They, uh, superglued me back together.”

“You’re going to have a scar on your eyebrow.”

Dorian smirks. “Cool, right? I’ll look extra rugged now.”

I scoff, arms crossing. “Yeah, because you needed to get sexier.”

Dorian pulls me under the stage, away from sight. “Sexy enough for a kiss?”

The substitute band is playing above us, the sound muffled but throbbing through the structure.

I ignore his question. “Are you sure you’re okay to finish the show?”

“Yeah, I’ll live. But you know…” Dorian runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, tilting his head, considering. “I could use a little something to make it better.” He smacks his lips.

I exhale through my nose, unimpressed. “You really expect me to kiss it better?”

He leans in. “I am tragically wounded, have you no compassion?”

I roll my eyes but step closer anyway, rising on my tiptoes to press a featherlight kiss below the cut on his brow.

I meant it as a joke, as a peck without consequences.

But the moment our bodies are flush against each other, a spark ignites.

The heat of his skin, the scent of his sweat and cologne, the rhythmic thrum of music from above—it collides in a dizzying rush.

My lips linger longer than they should as his hands settle at my waist.

And when I slide back down to the flats of my feet, my chest drags against his. I don’t pull away. I brush my cheek against his jaw, his stubble scraping against my skin, rough and heady.

His fingers dig into my flesh. His lips brush my ear. I lace my fingers through his hair, not caring that it’s damp with sweat.

With him so close, every nerve in my body is on fire, sparking and crackling with an unbearable intensity. The pain of an entire year spent thinking I could never have him scorches through me, setting my insides ablaze. And the past three months of having him but in name only char my skin.

His hands on me are a matchstick, his breath in my ear the spark that sets me alight. I want to consume him, to be consumed, to let this fire burn us both to cinders. My lips part, and I can almost taste the salt on his skin, the metallic tang of the blood that’s dried on his eyebrow.

I drag my mouth along his jaw, savoring the roughness, the tickle of his stubble.

I turn my face, my lips nearly touching his. His breath has turned uneven, his grip on me iron-tight.

When I brush my lips over his in a whisper of contact, Dorian goes still.

I lift my gaze, meeting his black-rimmed blue eyes, and in them, I see everything—the desire fighting with restrain fighting with… love .

He’s never said it, but I’ve seen it. It’s been there for a while.

And I feel the same. My heart pounds so loudly that I’m sure he can feel it even through our clothes.

Every rational thought screams for me to stop, to pull back, to wait.

My brain scrambles to douse the flames, but it’s hopeless.

The longing is too intense, the pull of him too strong.

I can no longer contain the flood of feelings I have for this man.

My senses are drowning in him—touch, sight, hearing, smell—the only one missing is taste .

A thousand reasons why this is a terrible idea race through my mind.

He needs to get back on stage. We’re in a crowded arena in the middle of the last show of his world tour!

We don’t have time. But neither of them is strong enough to override the singular, all-consuming need that’s taken hold of me.

He looks at me, hungry and desperate, but he’s already setting his jaw, bracing himself to pull back. And it’s that hesitation, that moment of uncertainty, that undoes me. Because if he’s holding back for my sake, I’m the only one who can tip us over the edge.

The dam of my restraint breaks. I can’t contain it anymore. The rush of emotions is too strong, too overwhelming, washing away the doubts and fears in a tsunami of pure, unfiltered desire.

I pull Dorian down to me, and finally, finally , I kiss him.