FALLING FOR THE ROCKSTAR (#1 ROCKSTAR SERIES)

♪ eighteen ♪ 🔥

I had the green light to do whatever I wanted, whatever I was comfortable with, with Leo. And yet after that steamy kiss, I feared doing anything else, even the basic shows of affection we'd gotten used to. We stuck to hand-holding, hugging, dancing, and now and then, an actual quick peck to appease the fans and media.

Those kisses in our pictures were hot, really hot. Tabloids reported that they'd been taken seconds before we had sex on that very couch. Some magazines described it as shoving tongues down throats to prove a point; but it worked. Our stunt had succeeded. We'd calmed the storm of rumors about our relationship being fake, and Leo's manager told us we could slow things down.

But Leo insisted on still staging events together. He didn't trust the calm, and didn't want to slow things down. So we went on more shopping sprees, walks in Central Park, pretending to hide to have public sex—though we only giggled like kids as we faked moans. I'd go home at night and think of those moans, and wonder if that was what he'd sound like in bed—and chided myself for it.

Or masturbated to ease my mind.

Or begged Cameron to come over and get rid of my tension.

Sadly, Cameron and I saw each other less and less. Not only because of the high intensity of Leo and I's relationship, and the amount of paparazzi that followed me, but also because he was overwhelmed with work. He was scheduling tours and attending events and award shows as his security assistant, and when not in front of a computer, or organizing security for Leo's coming and goings, he was asleep.

A few times, he accompanied us on our outings, making things beyond awkward, with him trying not to watch us snuggling up together. I had to pretend like he wasn't there, that he wasn't my boyfriend, the one I wanted to be with. Leo and I would be lovey-dovey and kiss, and it took all my might not to stare at Cameron, to mouth I'm sorry, to beg forgiveness to him later, with my clothes off.

But he accepted it all. He held his tongue, played along. "I agreed to this, babe," he told me, whenever I brought up how sorry I was for putting him through all this. "And the money, for you...it's worth it. It'll support the pursuit your dreams, and I want that for you. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

Despite his reassurances, I couldn't help but feel like I was cheating on him. More so when I analyzed my emotions, my thoughts towards Leo; I was cheating, mentally. I envisioned myself pushing the bar with Leo, kissing him passionately again, taking my clothes off for him, getting into bed with him. The more time we spent together, the more time I wanted to spend, without interruption, without the phones and the cameras and the constant staging.

I liked Leo. I liked Leo a lot. Because when we weren't fake-kissing (anything but fake, for me) or fake-posing for reporters, we had lengthy conversations about everything. We chortled at the headlines we made, mocked the words used to describe us, and discussed our past love lives in detail. We enjoyed each other's company, even when Leo was moody and morose, or overly excited about things; to see him so raw, so real, only made me care for him more.

He wasn't the stage-diving, godly guitar player, when I was with him; he was Leo, a regular man, albeit loaded with money. A slightly sheltered, mildly rich boy who wanted recognition, who wanted to be loved, and wanted to give love in return.

My attraction wasn't reciprocated, I knew. He enjoyed me, he liked me as a person, thought I was cute, I could tell; but when it came to the rubbing and kissing and hand-holding cuteness, it was fake. He had real bodily reactions—I'd been super close to his erections more than once—but that was natural, for a man. Him getting turned on physically didn't mean he was mentally in the same place as me. I doubted he ever would be.