"On the bed and on your back, Byrne."

He clutched her wrist. "In bed you will call me 'Brogan.' I will make sure you scream my name to the skies. You follow?"

Oh, masterful. She kind of liked it. "As you wish, Brogan."

He closed his eyes briefly and moaned. He then opened his eyes and fixed hers in a searing, desirous gaze. "Love, I've been called worse 'B' names, but hearing 'Brogan' from your succulent lips is heaven to my ears."

He let go of her wrist, stepped out of his leather pants, and lay upon her bed. His magnificent cock was erect and lying full and thick up past his navel. His eyes smoldered and locked her in a sexy, molten gaze.

"Get on your horse and ride." He slapped his thigh in invitation.

While she practically tore off her clothes, Byrne rolled on a condom and Carly wasted no time climbing onto the bed and raising herself above him. Grasping his cock, she lowered inch by agonizing inch. She was so damned wet and so eager that she took him all. The back and forth rocking motion sent sparks of intense heat through her entire body. Byrne grabbed her hips and thrust upward with decided purpose. She stared into his determined face. This couldn't be the same man she witnessed hit rock bottom merely two weeks ago. It was a remarkable recovery to be sure. It could turn on a dime, however, which made any relationship with him impossible. Enjoy tonight. Forget tomorrow.

Sweat rolled down her back. The intensity and the power of his thrusts caused purple and black color to swirl in her vision. She'd never experienced such passion before. She was in for one hell of an orgasm. Her head snapped back with such force she heard her neck crack. "Oh, Brogan. God, yes!"

Byrne pulled her down toward him and kissed her soundly. His tongue thrust matching the upward push of his cock. He pulled away as his animal growl and clenched teeth indicated his own intense release. Carly sat upright and watched the oblivious desire play out on his face while he bucked and writhed under her. Brogan Byrne was beautiful and magnificent in climax. His eyes stayed fixed on hers, and his forceful gaze seared her soul.

She cupped his cheek tenderly. "Brogan…"

"Have I told you how much I love the sound of my name on your luscious lips, darlin'? I have, I know, but say it again." His voice was raspy, husky, and sexy as hell. He was also out of breath.

"Brogan. Brogan," she whispered, stroking his smooth, freshly shaved cheek.

He smiled. "Off, love. Have to change the rubber."

"More?"

"Oh, aye, much, much more."

Carly lifted herself off Byrne. Wow, he was still hard. So the stamina part of the rumor was true. Byrne swung his legs around the side of the bed, stood, tore off the used condom, dropped it in the trash, and rolled on another. His head inclined toward the plush burgundy armchair. He sat down, and then crooked his finger, his smile teasing and sexy.

"Have a seat, love, right here. Facing me."

The chair was big enough she could easily fit her knees on either side of his slim, muscular hips. Carly moaned aloud at the feel of his cock filling and stretching her as she lowered onto his erection. His hands brushed the sweat-matted hair from her face. Byrne's fingers moved down and brushed past her swollen clit.

"So your hair is brown like mine. Never would have guessed."

"I'll dye mine back when you dye yours, rock star."

Byrne laughed. The sexy deepness of his voice caused her to gush once again. She seemed to be forever wet around this man. The smile left his face as he tenderly caressed her cheeks with the pads of his fingers. Some of them were callused from his guitar playing, and the rough feel caused sparks to roam through her body. His touch was electric, scorching, and blazing her skin in ways no other man's ever did.

"See me, feel me…"

Oh, God. It was a song from The Who. "See Me, Feel Me." He sang to her in such a poignant way tears clustered in the corner of her eyes. He repeated the opening lyric three times, each occasion with more feeling. He managed to sound even better than Roger Daltrey, at least to her. If it was in her power to heal him, she would. Carly got the distinct impression he needed healing. This was not hollow sex, and it scared her but also touched her in ways she didn't think she was capable of feeling. A couple of tears escaped her eyes and trailed down her cheeks.

"Oh, Brogan—" She kissed him with everything she had and with everything she was feeling.

Her unspoken response to his heartrending singing was, I see you, I feel you, and I touch you. If only I could heal you.

Carly moved her hips. Byrne's hands moved up to cup her breasts. He flicked and pinched her erect nipples. She moved faster, and her tongue explored every inch of his hot, sexy mouth. He lifted his hips to go deeper. It was too much of everything, physically and emotionally. She was building up to a burst-a-vein-in-your-head orgasm. Byrne broke away from her swollen, burning lips and clamped his mouth on her breast. That did it. She screamed.

He was right, the arrogant rock bastard. She did scream his name to the skies and more than once. She squealed in the chair facing him, against the wall, and the icing on the damned cake, on her hands and knees while he pounded his cock into her pussy. She wanted fast and furious, and Byrne gave it to her, everything she wanted and needed from him. He held nothing back. Her groans, cries, and shrieks could shatter glass. Her voice was raw and ragged like it had been pulled across a cheese grater. Hours later when she fell asleep in his warm embrace, she was sure she had died and gone to sexual heaven.

The tour was at an end. A week had passed since the concert in Montreal. Luckily, Brogan Byrne was allowed back into the States even though his drug arrest hung over his head like the sword of Damocles. As for his drug charge, he had to appear in Toronto court in November. He would get a record and a fine. He was lucky; it could have been worse. The latest issue of Rock Reports all but painted him as the Caligula of the rock world. Overstated to say the least. Truthfully speaking he was embarrassed and perhaps ashamed. Lying low was really the only option.

Nigel Winwood, the British expat who owned Cascade Records, encouraged him to take a long rest. So much for a West Coast tour. The record and promotions companies agreed this was not the time for publicity. Nigel put the brakes on the plans and postponed it until the next year. Nigel also hinted about music for a new album. Cascade wanted it sooner rather than later.

He had not seen Carly since the concert in Washington DC the night after the Montreal show. He stood in his little-used office at Cascade and gazed out the window. It was late summer. A streetcar clanged loudly as it passed by the window. The sounds of city traffic intermingled and created an urban symphony. Brogan heard music in everything, even water dripping from a tap.

Instead of heading home to Dublin maybe he would spend the winter at his private beach house in Ocean City on Maryland's Atlantic coast. Brogan was ready for a little down time. Maybe he would write some music. He had to stay nearby for his court appearance in Canada at any rate.

He had to admit, he felt better than he had in several months. Staying sober was a struggle, but it lessened with each day. Still, how would he handle the next drama in his life? Would he turn back to sex and stimulants? Carly was right. He had to steer his own destiny. However, perhaps a little help of the therapy kind was in order. Everyone seemed to be seeing a psychiatrist, why not him? Now he just had to say his good-byes to Carly. Brogan could hear her in the outer office talking to his assistant.