Page 185 of Silver Sweet

He narrows his eyes and sweeps his gaze over me. “I’ll gloat later when my cock is inside you. How does that sound?”

Amazing.Heat swarms my neck. “Sounds like your fantasy that I will partake in.”

“Christ.” He shakes his head, basically smiling, and focuses on the bag again. “What does a rich guy buy himself on his birthday?”

“Only something priceless.” I pull out a CD.OurCD. I would’ve bought the vinyl, but it doesn’t release for another six months.

Phoenix double blinks. “We have about twenty of those in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, free copies that the label sent us,” I say. “This one was plucked off the shelf. Like a real copy in the wild.” I remove a permanent marker from the bag and hold it out to him. “I want you to sign it for me. That’s my birthday wish.”

“It’s past midnight.” He takes the pen from me. “Your birthday is technically over. You also ran out of birthday wisheshoursago.”

That doesn’t stop him from signing my CD.

It also doesn’t stop him from cupping the back of my head and pulling me into a scorching kiss. His tongue flicks into my mouth, and I’m suddenly on his lap, deepening everything. My hands slide up his bare chest. His palms run against my muscles.

Desire pools low with my pulse, and I break away to look at his signature.

His mouth finds the hard angles of my jaw as I inspect the back of the CD.

Phoenix Wolfgang St. Pierreis scrawled on the case, right underneath the song list.

“You signed your full name,” I say in surprise.

He kisses the edge of my lips. “Only for you.”

His words are a dopamine hit. My head is in the clouds, my arousal pumping harder—and it feels like nothing can break me from this sudden hunger for more touch, more him. Not even the knowledge that we never received a single review.

Phoenix turns into me, and my back thuds to the mattress while he descends on me with deep affection that stokes confidence and murders doubts. When we’re together, we become a powerhouse. And all I think is,the critics will regret it.They’ll regret not taking notice of us.

One day, they’re going to see we’re extraordinary.

43

PHOENIX ST. PIERRE

The tour has begun, and I love that The Carraways have even one fan. I love how they jump to the beat in general admission. I love how they peer up at Tom like he’s reaching a piece of them no one else has. Because…same.

I just hate this part of the show.

Blue strobes flash overhead and silhouette Tom in the foreground. The lights dictate where we are in the set. Blue = the beginning.

He’s ditched his guitar for this section. Guitar riffs play over a track so he can move around freely. He threw his black jean jacket—The Carrawayspainted in blue on the upper back—into the crowd. He’s shirtless like me now. Silver metallic paint crosses out his heart. The same paint is streaked down my cheeks.

Tom grips the mic and sings the first verse of “Your Epidemic,” stepping closer and closer to the edge of the stage. My muscles sear as I throttle the drums.

The venue is not sold out—not by a long shot—but the crowd that’s gathered in Spokane, Washington, screams so loud that you’d think we just sold out Madison Square Garden. They alsoknow all the lyrics to “Nuclear Winter” and we’ve only been on tour for five days.

Tom’s shoes hit the lip of the stage, and he fuckingleapsto a small four-by-four platform on the barricade: a temporary structure our crew sets up right before “Your Epidemic” begins.

But that’s not the part I hate.

It’s when Tom stepsintothe crowd. He puts a foot out into the darkness and relies on fans to grip his ankles and laced Vans. Theyshriek, excited and overwhelmed just by being able to touch him.

Their screams pitch over the music when he reaches out a hand and sings to them.

His energy is magnetizing.