Strike a Chord

by Salsbury, JB

  The whispers start, and one of the women looks at my and Tommy’s clasped hands. Tom tenses at my side and tries to pull her hand free. I let her go only to throw my arm over her shoulders and bring her to my side, her boobs to my ribcage. The elevator dings and the doors open on the thirtieth floor.

  The couples shuffle through the doors. One of the guys lingers and turns toward me. “Are you Ethan Crow?”

  “No, but I get that all the time. You guys have a good night.”

  The elevator doors close on the dejected foursome.

  “Why did you deny who you are?”

  I lean back against the wall, wishing I could pull her between my legs and feel her warm body against me from hips to chest. “I love my fans, I really do, but there’s a time and a place.”

  “Or maybe,” she says, untangling herself from my arm. “You didn’t want them to see you with me and start rumors about you.”

  “Ah yes, those horrific rumors about me with my arm around a beautiful woman can be so inconvenient.”

  Her good humor fades along with her smile, and awareness fills the small elevator space. “Beautiful?”

  “Do you have a vision problem I’m not aware of?”

  She shifts uncomfortably on her feet and crosses her arms. “You said I look like a boy.”

  The elevator stops on our floor.

  I grimace at the memory. “Yeah, but a pretty boy.”

  “Whatever.” She attempts to act casual, blow me off, but she has no hat to hide under now, no big T-shirt or sweatshirt to mask the flush of her skin.

  She lets me take her hand to lead her to my suite. “So your idea of doing something fun was to bring me to your room—oh my God…” She steps inside the presidential suite and walks straight to the window. “You can see the whole city from here.” She whips her head around to look at me. “Is that a patio?”

  “Go ahead and take a peek. I need to grab something.”

  I leave her to explore and hear her talking to herself. I can’t make out sentences, only words like lucky and money. I grab my swim trunks from my bag and stuff them into my sweatshirt. A text comes in from my assistant.

  You’re all set. The manager will meet you at the entrance.

  You’re a lifesaver.

  “I can see Central Park from here! And the Empire State Building!”

  I walk out of the bedroom as Tommy’s coming in from the terrace.

  “Is that a piano?” She acts as if everything in the room is something she’s seeing for the first time. Her excited smile is contagious.

  “No, it’s a xylophone, Tom. Of course it’s a piano.”

  She sits on the bench and lifts the fallboard. “A Steinway.” Her eyes dart to mine. “Do you play?”

  “What kind of a question is that?” I sit beside her on the bench. “Scoot over.” I plunk my fingers on the keys, hammering out an aggressive “Chopsticks.”

  A burst of laughter from her lips catches me off guard and I find myself in awe as she loses herself to it.

  “Okay, Mr. Billionaire Musician. Please tell me you didn’t get your start playing ‘Chopsticks’ on street corners.”

  I look down at the keys, put my right foot on the pedal, and play the first verse of a song Jesse wrote for Bethany a while back.

  Her eyes brighten. “You can play.”

  “Did you think I was a one-instrument chump?” I say, still playing the song. “Fun fact? Bass wasn’t my first choice, but it was what Jesse needed when I was offered the gig, so I jumped on it.”

  “What was your first choice?”

  “Lead guitar, obviously.”

  “Why obviously?”

  I wink at her. “They get the most pussy.”

  She lifts one brow and I notice the shape is natural, not drawn-on or manicured with wax and tweezers. Tommy is a beautiful woman in the most natural state of femininity and without even trying. Makes me think if she put forth an effort, she’d be a force that would leave men begging.

  “Just what you need,” she says dryly. “More pussy.”

  “Your constant compliments are really tiring.” I drop my hands on the keys, making an awful sound reverberate through the room. “Let’s go.”

  We head back to the elevator, this time finding it blissfully empty. I hit the button for the second floor.

  The elevator pings. As the doors open, the manager from the hotel is waiting in his black suit and sharp haircut. “Mr. Crow.” He shakes my hand. “I’ve opened the spa for you. Pease feel free to make yourselves at home.” He opens the glass doors that lead to a large gift-shop-type store that is dark because of the late hour. “The locker rooms are to the left, both women’s and men’s. Pool, spa, saunas to the right. I will ensure you don’t have any unwanted interruptions.”

  “Thank you, Mr.…?”

  “Calvin Thomas, sir.” He smiles politely at Tommy, then just as he said, he leaves us without interruption.

  “He opened the entire spa just for us?” Tommy whispers as if she might be overheard even though we’re completely alone.

  “Perks of my job. Now, first things first.” I pick a tiny pink string bikini from a rack. “You need a swimsuit.”

  “Pink?” Her nose wrinkles. “No way I’m wearing that thing.”

  I exchange the pink for the same suit in black and hand it to her. “What’s wrong with pink?”

  “Black, gray and denim. Those are my colors. And I’d prefer something with a little more coverage.” She pulls a gigantic blue one-piece bathing suit from the rack, complete with a built-in skirt.

  “No.” I put back both suits. “You’d look good in pink. Compromise?”

  I pull out a tasteful, coral-colored one-piece that’s cut high on the hips and low in the back. Classy, but sexy in a Pamela-Anderson-circa Baywatch kind of way.

  She plucks the price tag and her jaw falls open. “One hundred ninety-eight dollars?”

  “Take the bathing suit, Tom. Go put it on. Tonight is on me.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Fine, then just wear what you have on. I’m sure your beater will look great wet.”

  She glares, snatches the bathing suit from my hand, and huffs, “Fine” before stomping off to the ladies’ locker room.

  I watch her go, saying to myself, “I win.”

  Chapter Ten

  Taylor

  “Would you just take it off already?” Ethan pleads from his position on the first step of the hot tub.

  I have a death grip on the towel at my chest. “I’m not ready.”

  “Not ready? How could you be more ready? You’re in a suit, standing at the edge of warm, bubbling water.”

  He is the picture of male perfection under his clothes, just as I knew he would be. I’d gotten a small glimpse the day he rubbed me with glitter, but he’d held me so close, I felt more than I saw. Way more. I’d spotted the black abstract tattoo on his rib cage but didn’t get a good enough look to tell what exactly it was.

  I remind myself to ask him about that later, when I’m not seconds away from a full-blown nervous breakdown.

  “What more do you need?” he asked. “A string orchestra to serenade your stubborn ass into the water?”

  I’ve rubbed my bottom lip raw with my teeth. What Ethan doesn’t know is I haven’t worn a swimsuit since I was nine years old. It was always easier to wear swim trunks and a baggy T-shirt the few times I went swimming. The one time I decided to buy a suit, I couldn’t believe how much they cost and refused to support the absurd gender-based pink tax. What I’ve learned tonight is that not all one-piece bathing suits are the same—meaning, they don’t provide the same amount of coverage. If anything, I think that string bikini he first suggested would’ve left more to the imagination than the suit I’m currently wearing. Thank goodness there were razors in the locker room or I could’ve really embarrassed myself.

  “That’s it.” Ethan climbs from the tub and closes in on me.

  My grip tightens. “Stop! W
ait, okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Nope, you had your chance.” He levels me with a glare. “Give me the towel and get your ass in the hot tub.”

  “I said I would, okay?” I close my eyes, take a steadying breath, and drop the towel. Before Ethan gets too good a look at me, I scamper into the water and hide beneath the bubbles.

  “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” He sounds casual and unaffected as he takes the steps into the tub and sits at the opposite end.

  Of course he’s unaffected. He’s probably seen every variety of the female body, all shapes, sizes, and colors. Mine is certainly unexceptional, something Ethan pointed out early on. I do look like a guy—narrow hips, small boobs, unimpressive curves.

  I feel myself relaxing a little. Whether it’s the warm water gently rolling over my muscles or the thought that Ethan doesn’t see me as anything more than “one of the guys,” I’m not sure.

  “This is nice.” I lean my head back and close my eyes.

  “You get sore after a streak of shows?”

  “Yes.” I peek at him and see he’s in a similar position, head back, water to his chest. “How about you?”

  “A little, yeah. We try to keep up the high-energy stage performance, which means a lot of jumping around. I don’t bounce back like I used to.”

  Silence stretches between us, and the intimacy of it has me scrambling for conversation. “What does your tattoo mean?”

  He grins, even with his eyes still closed. “Have you been checking me out, Tommy?”

  Yes. Maybe. “No, just making conversation.”

  “It’s not obvious?”

  The tattoo reminds me of one of those inkblot tests, and it spans the space between his armpit and hip at his ribs. “Is it a phoenix bird?”

  He blinks open his eyes. “Crow.”

  Right. I probably should’ve figured that out on my own.

  “Do you have any tattoos?” He eyes the water at my shoulders as if he’s trying to see through the thick bubbles to my body beneath.

  “No.” I cross my arms at my belly. “Nothing is important enough to me to have it inked on my body permanently yet.”

  “Smart.” He drops his head back again and closes his eyes. “If I would’ve gotten a tat at eighteen, I’d be sitting here with the words your name tatted on my dick so I could use it to pick up chicks.”

  “I’m not convinced you don’t have that on your dick.”

  He peers at me over the steamy water. “I’d be happy to show you.”

  “Hard pass.”

  “Your loss.” He relaxes his head back against the tub’s edge.

  There’s a knock on the wall behind him. “Mr. Crow?”

  “Come on in,” he says, eyes still closed.

  Three men carrying trays of room service food step up to the hot tub.

  “Set it down. We’ll take care of the rest.”

  They do as he instructed, and I stare in awe at the variety of different dishes—pizza, pasta, fresh fruit, even pancakes and—“Cannoli?”

  “Every flavor available.”

  I grab one drizzled in chocolate. “Including toothpaste?”

  He chuckles. “No, these are without toothpaste.”

  I stare at the dessert but hesitate.

  “They’re not toothpaste.” He narrows his eyes. “You don’t trust me.”

  “I had a butt plug put into your mouth. Forgive me for being overly cautious about your retaliation.”

  He throws his head back and laughs, the sound washing over me and giving me chills despite the hot water. “I’ve had much worse in my mouth.” He pushes to my side of the tub, so close his leg brushes against mine as he reaches for the dessert.

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “You should be.” He winks and takes a bite of the cannoli. “See?” he says through a mouthful of dessert. “Not toothpaste. Damn, that’s good.”

  I wait for him to swallow before I brave a bite. The creamy center is a burst of sweet on my tongue that ignites my hunger. I push out of the hot tub to grab a slice of pineapple and mango… or is it papaya? The cold fruit combined with the warm steam is refreshing, and I sit at the edge of the tub and pick at more food.

  “There’s so much food here,” I say through a mouthful of blueberry pancake.

  “I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for.” His voice is gravelly and I wonder if he’s getting tired.

  Better eat what I can before he calls it a night and I lose my chance. I wonder if I can get a to-go box. I moan. “This is the best pineapple I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Oh yeah?” He slides closer to me. “Save some for me?”

  I grab a slice and hand it to him, but he pushes his big body past my offering until his ribs are against my knees. His eyes linger on my lips.

  “What are you doing?”

  Those pale brown eyes darken with a carnal hunger. “I want a taste.”

  Even a woman with as little sexual experience as I have can’t misinterpret his unspoken request. I shouldn’t let him kiss me. I know better than to get tangled up with a rock star. I’ve had a front row seat to the kind of damage they can do.

  And yet…

  The memory of our first kiss haunts me. Tempts and teases.

  We’ve already kissed once. Would one more kiss really be so bad? Besides, to Ethan, a kiss is as informal as a handshake. He doesn’t need to know that a kiss is the extent of my sexual experience.

  But… “I said no funny business.” I can hardly hear my own timid voice over the sound of the Jacuzzi bubbles.

  His gaze darkens as he holds mine. “Do you see me laughing?”

  He’s definitely not laughing. He’s not even smiling. He’s doing that sexual mojo thing where reason and common sense dissolve like ash to be replaced by fantasies of his lips on mine.

  I lick my lips and lean in, giving him permission to take what he wants. I expect him to come in hard, like he did the first time, but instead he slips a hand up the back of my neck, cupping my head and bringing our mouths close. He brushes the tip of his nose against mine, a tender move I wouldn’t expect from a man like him. His other hand cups my jaw. The pad of his thumb runs along my lips in a worshipful way, as if testing them to see if they’re real. I lean into his touch, craving more of the feeling only his hands can bring. He presses his torso against my knees and they spread for him to move closer until he’s settled between my thighs at the hot tub’s edge.

  He brings his mouth to mine in a slow, closed-mouth kiss so soft it’s like the flutter of butterfly wings. He kisses each corner, my upper lip then my lower, and finally takes my mouth. His tongue slides against mine, a slow caress, a gentle coaxing, savoring the moment as if this kiss had been recorded and someone hit slow motion—deep, heavy, and deliberate.

  Ethan was right—I feel myself liquefy under the control of his mouth. My muscles turn to putty, my legs lose all feeling. I have an irrational desire to fall back, to feel him crawl over me, and to cradle his weight between my thighs. Every nerve ending comes to life, making my skin hypersensitive to his touch—the press of his thumb at my neck, the tug on my hair between his fingers.

  All too soon, he breaks the kiss, rests his forehead on mine, and breathes.

  “Good, right?” I say, referring to the pineapple and hoping to break some of the weirdness I fear will grow between us.

  He blinks open his eyes and stares at me. “Best I’ve ever had.”

  I think he’s talking about the pineapple, but a stupid, irrational part of me holds out hope that maybe he’s talking about the kiss. Maybe he’s talking about me.

  Or maybe he’s just dishing out the same old tired lines he uses on all the women he’s been with. The thought sours my stomach.

  “I like watching you eat.” He hands me a bottle of water, grabs himself one, and settles back on his side of the hot tub.

  How can he have such self-control while I feel faint and kiss-drunk? Thousands of women’s worth of practice.

 
I clear that thought from my mind and force myself to move away from the food and back into the water.

  He studies me with rapt admiration. “I’ve never been around a woman who enjoys food like you do.”

  Embarrassment flushes my cheeks and I hope he thinks it’s the hot water. “When I was young, there was never a lot of food in the house.” I laugh uncomfortably. “I eat like it might be my last chance. Old habits.”

  “I like it.”

  Why won’t he stop looking at me like that? As if I’m on the menu and he wants to eat me in case he never gets another chance.

  If I were brave and sexually liberated, I’d cross the tub, straddle his hips, and demand he finish what he started. But I’m not, so I drop my head back, close my eyes, and curse my weakness.

  Ethan

  Is pineapple an aphrodisiac?

  I remind myself to look that up when I get back to my room. Either the tropical fruit has some dick-hardening enzymes or I am insanely turned on by Tom.

  From across the hot tub and through a veil of steam, I watch her fidget with her bottle of water and look everywhere except at me. She lacks sexual experience, confidence, she’s uncomfortable voicing her desires—all qualities I find off-putting. Women who know exactly what they want and ask for it turn me on while making my job a whole hell of a lot easier. Less guessing, zero fear of rejection, low risk of going too far too soon.

  With Tommy, I have to try to read her mind, listen closely to the cues her body sends, and hope like hell I’m not misinterpreting. When I kissed the taste of pineapple from her lips, her thighs trembled against my ribcage. Could be desire. Could be fear. I took the safe route and backed off even though it was nearly impossible to do so.

  She wraps her lips around the water bottle and I watch her throat as she swallows. My fantasies take me to the most depraved places in my head, places I’ll never get to with Tommy. I have to wonder, why am I wasting my time? She was right when she said there are other women who could give me exactly what I want. And yet here I am, captivated by the inexperienced Tomboy.