Page 90 of You Rock My World
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.
