I wondered if Cade knew I watched him. It wasn't anything I could control—the illegal-league rush I received from DL stanning him overpowered the safety of limp logic. For years he'd been a particular fascination of mine. At first I'd thought it was only admiration, an innocent crush that would fade over time, a feeling I could easily erase.

After a while, however, he started to seep into my thoughts at alarmingly regular intervals. I found myself regarding him with blue-balling intensity. I caught myself staring at his mouth, memorizing how his lips quirked when he struggled not to laugh at my wild antics. I stroked myself out of countless wet dreams, his name wrenched free from my throat as I came in a flurry of white-hot shame.

A few months ago, not satisfied with 2-D imagination and half-remembered dreams, I caved and got off to his picture, the one I took when he was tuning his bass during a caffeine-laced jam session in his dad's garage. Cade's hands, calloused and veiny, looked strong enough to kill me. Probably I'd watched too much BDSM porn, but when I imagined those hands around my neck, it almost got me hotter than when I was singing live on stage, fellating the mic and flirting with the thirsty crowd.

Though Cade was far from the only man I'd ever desired, he was the only one I'd craved for more than a stress-relieving hookup. I didn't want to be Cade's boyfriend; neither did I want anyone else to have him. Really, I didn't know what I wanted, other than to let him fuck me, hard and deep, again and again, until I somehow managed to absorb his mystery and gloat about the new notch on my belt. I prayed he wouldn't notice my fixation; otherwise, he might break every bone in my body if he knew how badly I wanted to do him dirty. However...