...Cassie drew in a sharp breath when he put his hand on her breast. He groaned at the feel of her flesh in his hand. Her breast was lower, smaller, but her nipple harder than he could remember ever making it before. He tested it between his fingers. Cassie arched, breaking the kiss, and he supported her with his arm across her back, while he shoved up her shirt and bent to taste her nipple. She pressed on the back of his head when he sucked it between his lips, rolled it with his tongue, flicked it, nibbled it, and started all over again.

The shirt was in his way. He paused long enough to rip it over her head. She did the same to his T-shirt, then tossed it on the ground with hers. Both breasts, unbound, were his. God, he loved it when she didn’t wear a bra. But he couldn’t support her and touch her, too. He looked wildly around and spotted a couch against the far wall. Swung them over to it, turned, and fell, pulling her as he went so she straddled him.

She leaned back, studying him, looking not nearly as lost in this as he was. “Just like old times, huh?”

Fuck. She’s right. The first time he’d met her—she’d been following the band for a few weeks, but he’d only seen her in passing until one day she managed to get backstage. She’d come on to him, and he’d taken what she offered.

On a filthy couch in a bloody dressing room, with bright fluorescent lights taking all the romance out if it. As if there’d been any in the first place.