Over the next few days, we settled into a routine. I dodged calls, texts, and emails from Louise Hoffman, while Finn disappeared to his music room for several hours a day, but the rest of the time we talked, played games, and ate meals together, and it felt strangely normal, almost like we'd been doing this all along.

Neither of us brought up the sizzling attraction that I knew we both felt. It was the elephant in the room that we skirted around, but every day it felt like it was getting bigger. Soon, we wouldn't be able to ignore it anymore.

One afternoon, when Finn was spending longer than normal in his music room, I decided that I'd use music to entertain myself too. I didn't mean to bring up any of Finn's songs, but they featured so heavily in my playlists that stumbling onto them was inevitable.

I'd plugged in my earphones, because it felt a bit weird to play Finn's music in his house, but once my absolute favourite tune came on, I couldn't help singing along, completely forgetting that Finn would be able to hear it.

I was out of my chair and shaking my ass in what was probably a very uncoordinated way, when movement shifted in my periphery and I glanced towards the kitchen. Finn was leaning on the island unit, trying and mostly failing to hold back a smile.

My immediate reaction was embarrassment. My dancing was as bad as my singing, and not generally something I wanted anyone to see, let alone the ridiculously hot rockstar that I was trying not to fantasise over. The fact that I was butchering one of said rockstar's own songs was the cherry on the cake of cringe.

My second reaction was that I couldn't undo the eyesore that Finn had just seen, so I might as well own it.

"Enjoying the show?" I said, putting one hand on my hip.

Finn's lips twitched. "It was an experience."

"Consider it a tribute," I said.

"It sounded more like a punishment."

"Ouch." I returned to my seat and folded my arms, fixing Finn with a challenging look. "Okay, then, Mr Big Shot Rockstar. Why don't you show me how it's done?"

Finn's smile broadened, a hint of that old arrogance touching his lips. "Wait," he told me.

"For what?" I asked, but he was already walking out of the room.

I waited in my chair, anticipation thrumming in my veins, until I heard the footsteps that signalled Finn's return. He walked into the room, and my tongue just about flopped out of my mouth.

He was wearing the ripped jeans from my dream, and though he wore a black T-shirt rather than that grey vest, I was still seeing my most erotic fantasies come to life. His hair was messier than usual, as if he'd raked his fingers through it, and black liner was smudged around his lashes, making his eyes smoky and dramatic.

Fuck me sideways. It should have been illegal for anyone to look that fucking good.

But it wasn't just the clothes. It was the way he prowled towards me, a swagger in his step, a dark promise in his eyes. That was the look a man gave a woman when he was about to make sure she couldn't walk straight for a week.

My mouth was drier than the Sahara. Other parts of me were wetter than the Amazon rainforest.

Finn pulled his phone from his pocket, and tapped the screen a couple of times. A steady guitar riff filled the room – one I immediately recognised. "Up From Hell" – one of my favourites from Finn's last album.

He prowled closer, his eyes heavy-lidded, his lips slightly parted, and my knees fell open a little on pure instinct.

When the vocals on the track were meant to kick in, they didn't; instead, Finn started to sing.

He sang to me using a pepper grinder as a microphone.

I'd never thought that anyone could be cute and hot at the same time, but this was the cutest, hottest thing I'd ever seen.

Finn's husky vocals filled the room, and each note seemed to vibrate right through me. He moved closer, closer, then, when I was sure he was going to touch me, he backed off.

Fucking tease.

As the tempo picked up, Finn moved his hips in time with the music, first a slow sway, then a steady, rolling grind that had my eyes locked to his groin. I was sweating. Shit, I was actually sweating.

I'd never seen him perform live before, and now I was getting my very own show. My dreams were about to get a lot steamier.

All too soon, the song came to an end, and Finn flung his arms wide as he dipped into a dramatic bow.

For a moment I was too stunned to clap, then I managed to bring my hands together.

"Good enough for you?" Finn asked, straightening up with a smirk.

I had to swallow a couple of times before I could speak. "It was okay."

Finn laughed. "Tough crowd."

He'd left the music running on his phone, but I was still recovering from that performance so it took me a moment to recognise it.

"This is Jailbreak, isn't it?" I said.

Finn nodded and slung himself onto the sofa, shoving his hair off his face. "It's one of their earlier songs. An underrated classic, in my opinion."

"Mine too."

The corner of Finn's mouth quirked. "I'm impressed you recognise it. Most people don't realise Tyler Roth was in other bands before The Sleeping Dead."

"The Sleeping Band was arguably his best one, but I like his early stuff too. You can really hear him experimenting," I said.

We listened quietly.

"It sucks that he's not here anymore," I said. "Although it sucks even more for Cole."

Finn made a grunt that didn't sound entirely convinced.

Kenn Roth had been one of the hair metal greats back in the day, trashing hotels with the best of them. He was also Cole Roth's dad, and was most likely the reason Cole had followed in his footsteps. Hopefully Cole wouldn't follow his dad's path the whole way – Kenn Roth had died years ago from a combination of a drug overdose and alcohol poisoning. He'd only been forty-five.

"He was one of my earliest influences," Finn said. "Definitely someone I drew inspiration from when I started forging my own path in rock."

"That must mean a lot to Cole," I said.

Finn's face darkened. "Cole is a fantastic artist in his own right, but he's always been in his dad's shadow. His attempts to get out of it have led to him becoming more and more lost." He rubbed his thumb over his skull ring. "I'm not sure he'll ever find his way back now."

"Is that something you can relate to?"

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You seem lost sometimes, and you've changed so much since your teenage years. Weren't you trying to get out of Momentum's shadow?"

"I thought you didn't follow me back then."

"I've been catching up."

Finn locked his hands behind his head, his gaze on the fire. "I don't know if I ever thought about the similarities, but you have a point. I always wanted to be one of the rock greats, and instead I was conscripted into a manufactured boy-band. It's not easy shaking off that image."

I shifted in my seat, facing him more fully. His head was still turned to the fire, but he watched me out of the corner of his eyes.

"When we first met, I asked why you went solo and you said it was because you were the best. Were you serious, or were you giving me a typical rockstar answer?"

Finn sighed. "I was serious. I always knew I didn't want to spend my life prancing around for shrieking teen girls, but being given the world on a silver platter turned me into a cocky little shite, and I did think I was better than the others."

Vocally, he actually was, but it wasn't helpful to say that.

"Starfinder made us famous so quickly, and suddenly we were releasing albums and selling merch, and flying around the world to tour, and everyone knew our names, but no one ever checked if we were coping with all that. Our bastard manager developed an image for each of us, and I had to live up to it so much that I wasn't sure who I was anymore. Then, once I left the band, I pretty much lost control. I experimented with drugs, I drank way too fucking much, I did stupid shit with my money and acted like a dick, and I know that that's what kept me afloat those first couple of years. People were more interested in what I'd do next than they were in my music, though obviously that worked in my favour long-term."

"But it still meant that you were trying to live up to an image," I said softly.

Finn stiffened; obviously we were straying into sensitive territory. I plunged on anyway.

"You were desperate to ditch the boyband image as quickly as possible. That's not why you reinvented yourself as a rockstar – you did that because you were following the path you'd always dreamed of – but you still weren't being yourself, were you? You were being Kenn Roth. You were being every rockstar that you grew up listening to, and I get that, because in some ways being a rockstar is as much to do with the lifestyle as the music itself. But you still weren't letting yourself just be."

Finn abruptly got up and crossed to the kitchen. He pulled a bottle of whisky from a cabinet and uncorked it, before returning to the sofa.

"You have a point," he said, after a tense pause. He rubbed one hand over his left arm as if he was trying to scrub his tattoos away. "I wasn't allowed to get tattoos while I was in the band, so the second I left, it was the first thing I did. That's why some of them are such utter shite. I was getting them for the sake of getting them, not because I was trying to create art." His hand moved higher, to the roses that covered what had once been a naked woman. "Some of them I even got just to shock people, to make it really fucking clear that I wasn't a Momentum boy anymore."

I stretched out a hand and he passed me the whisky.

"Okay, I have to ask. Was the flying dick tattoo one of those?" I said.

Finn glanced at it and chuckled. "Nah, Jude dared me to get that while we were piss-drunk in Vegas one time. It's pretty bad, isn't it?"

"It's not the best," I agreed, passing the bottle back.

Finn chugged it. "Hey, at least I only came home with a shite tattoo. Jude came back with a whole wife."

"As opposed to half a wife? A third of a wife?" I quipped.

He smiled.

"I got a drunken tattoo once," I said. "No one dared me, it just seemed like a good idea at the time."

Finn's eyes roved over my bare arms and legs, exposed by the shorts and T-shirt. "Where is it?"

I grinned and reached for the bottle. "I'm not telling you."

He leaned forward, still studying me. "What is it?"

"I'm not telling you that either."

"Oh, come on, you can't tease me like that," Finn protested.

I smiled and sipped whisky.

His eyes speculatively narrowed. "Is it something dirty?"

I mimed zipping my lips.

Finn leaned forward, interest gleaming in his gaze. "Is it a dick?"

"No."

"Is it sexy?"

"Absolutely not."

"How disappointing." Finn took the bottle and tilted it to his lips. "Is it an ex's name?"

"God, no. I'm not that stupid."

"Yeah, I've never done that either," Finn said.

I took the whisky. "And there was me thinking you'd be covered with the names of supermodels and groupies," I teased.

"The only time I'd even consider getting someone's name tattooed on me is if it was my wife's. But I never plan to get married, so it's a moot point," Finn said.

"Do any of your tattoos mean anything or are they all random?" I scanned the jumbled images on his arms. "Like that bull one, for example."

Finn gave me a rueful grin. "That was one of my earliest tats. I was drunk off my arse and didn't know what to get, so I decided to get my star sign, Taurus. When I woke up the next day, I remembered that Taurus isn't my star sign."

"Oh my God, how did you forget that?" I giggled.

"Drunk off my arse," Finn reminded me. "Probably higher than giraffe tits, too."

"That'd explain it."

"Yep."

Finn tapped his forefinger on another tattoo, a black patch with a skull in the middle and the numbers twenty-seven. "This one means something. I got it when I realised that I was losing control, when I was drinking too much and doing too many drugs, and honestly? There was a point where I was worried I'd join the 27 club."

I swallowed, thinking of all the artists who'd died at that age, creating the informal term.

"I know now that I won't," Finn reassured me. "But the tat reminds me of where I've been." He took another long swallow of whisky. "It reminds me to look out for my friends too. Almost all of us went down a dark path at some point that could have landed us in the club. Cole still might, though I'm not sure he'll even make it to twenty-seven if he keeps going the way he is."

I lowered my eyes to the floor. "I really hope he gets better."

"Yeah, me too."

Silence fell for a few minutes, as we passed the bottle back and forth, then Finn grinned.

"This doesn't get you out of telling me what your tattoo is," he said.

"It's really not that big a deal."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

"It's a butterfly, okay?"

Finn pulled a face. "I don't believe you. Why would you be so coy about a fucking butterfly?"

"Because it's a really shit butterfly."

"I think I need to see it to be sure."

"Not a chance."

Finn mock-pouted. "What if I show you my dick tattoo?"

"I've already seen it," I said, my eyes returning to his bicep.

Finn's smile sharpened. "Not that one. My literal dick tattoo."

"Wait." I frowned, not sure if I was understanding right. "Are you telling me you've got a tattoo . . . on your dick?"

"Yeah."

I waited for a punchline, but it never came. "I don't believe you."

I expected him to either admit he was kidding, or playfully persuade me that he was telling the truth. I did not expect him to jump up and start unzipping his jeans.

My eyes bugged. "What are you doing?"

"Proving it."

He wasn't actually going to – oh holy shit, yes, he was. Finn shoved down his jeans and boxers, and I automatically squealed with shock and covered my eyes, but not before I saw the outline of a heart tattooed right on his cock. Fuck me, he was telling the truth.

Finn roared with laughter. "You should see your face."

"Pull up your pants," I said.

Wait, why was I asking him that? Hadn't I wanted to get him naked?

Clothing rustled as Finn covered himself, and the next time I looked, he was sitting back on the sofa, a shit-eating grin stretched across his face.

"Why the hell would you do that?" I said.

"You didn't believe me," he replied.

"No, I mean, why the hell would you get a tattoo there of all places?"

"Cole dared me to," Finn said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You could have said no."

"Yeah, that didn't occur to me at the time."

My eyes dropped to his groin and I quickly looked away again, but I couldn't unsee what I'd seen.

"Didn't it hurt?" I asked.

"It's fucking needles jabbing into my dick. What do you think?"

I grimaced.

Finn chuckled. "Seriously, though, the actual tattooing didn't hurt as bad as I thought it would, but you have to get hard for the artist to draw the stencil on. That wasn't a problem for me because the tattoo's only small, so the stencil took no time, but I could see it being really awkward if I'd wanted something more detailed. I'd have to keep disappearing to the bathroom to wake myself up."

"Oh my God," I said. "Do you have to stay hard while they're actually tattooing it?"

It was Finn's turn to grimace. "I can't imagine the guy who could maintain an erection while needles are going into his dick."

"That would be a turn-off," I agreed.

"The difficult part is stretching your dick out so the artist can tattoo it," Finn said.

"How the hell does that work?"

Finn's eyes sparkled; he was enjoying this. "I used a can of Coke."

"I'm sorry, what?" I said.

"Yeah. I took a Coke can –" he mimed doing so "– put it at crotch level, and then pulled my dick tight over it."

It took me a moment to speak. "Is that how it's normally done?"

"The skin always has to be stretched out, but I don't know if everyone uses cans to do it," Finn said.

"I can't believe we're having this conversation."

Finn passed me the whisky bottle. "You look like you could use another drink."

"I'm not sure any amount of alcohol can erase what I've heard."

Finn bared his teeth in a semi-feral grin. "Let's find out."