by T. K. Leigh
I just wish my mind could rest, too.
As I walk toward the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water, I make out the faint sound of a piano playing a beautiful melody. Drawn to it, I’m on autopilot as my legs carry me away from the kitchen and down the hallway, the music growing louder the closer I get to the recording studio. It’s haunting, the top note remaining the same despite the underlying chord changing in an even rhythm of quarter notes.
I turn off the light on my phone so as to not alert Asher, allowing his music to lead me to him, each measure sounding more heartachingly beautiful than the one preceding it. As I reach the threshold of the open door to the studio, Asher’s voice carries into the hallway, stopping me in my tracks. I peer inside, the room dark, apart from a handful of candles distributed throughout. The reflection of the flames dancing on the walls makes the song even more hypnotic and heartbreaking. With no distractions typically afforded us through technology, all my attention is fully drawn to the man sitting at the piano. I listen, unable to leave if I wanted to. But I don’t, not when I hear him sing of unrequited love, of never being enough, of finally giving up and moving forward. Not moving on. Not getting over it. But understanding when enough is enough.
A fitting story for the situation we find ourselves in. Or at least the situation I find myself in.
The intensity and passion grow as he belts out the bridge, the raspiness of his voice addicting and soul-wrenching. I know why so many females flocked to whatever bar his band played in. There’s something incredibly sexy about his voice, the way his fingers caress the ivory keys of the piano with such expertise. I started playing piano when I was young myself, so I know how difficult it is. But Asher plays it as if he were born to do just that. To write music. Share his talent with the world.
The song comes to an end, his voice ringing out against the perfect acoustics of the room. I debate trying to slip away without him knowing I eavesdropped on this private moment, but there’s a vulnerability in him, evidenced by the way he sits at the piano — head hung low, shoulders hunched, fingers still clinging onto the keys as if it’s the only thing keeping him afloat.
“That was beautiful,” I say quietly.
He shoots to his feet and whirls around, his eyes wide as they search for me in the darkness. I step out of the shadows, a candle shining a flickering light against my face.
“Izzy, what are you—”
“Is that for Fallen Grace’s new album?”
He doesn’t move for several long moments, simply stares at me, torn. I keep my eyes glued to his, unwavering, silently pleading with him not to push me away.
“No,” he finally says, his voice low. “It’s one of mine.”
With a nod, I continue into the dark room. It’s warmer than the rest of the house, due to the lack of ventilation and windows.
“It sounds personal,” I remark, studying his expression for a reaction. But there isn’t one. His face stays placid, giving nothing away, peering at me with disinterest. “Is there a story behind the lyrics?”
That gets his attention, his stance becoming rigid, the vein in his neck making an appearance, as it often does when he’s at an extreme of one of his emotions. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. It’s still a work in progress.” His mouth forming into a tight line, he scoots past me. “I should go.”
I whirl around, my mouth agape. Why does he keep pushing me away? I try to understand it, try to rationalize it’s because of the sticky situation between his brother and me, but my relationship with Jessie didn’t stop us from being friends. In fact, it was because of my relationship with his brother we became such good friends. Why can’t we go back to that? I have a feeling I know the reason. I need to hear him finally admit it. To me. And to himself.
“Why don’t you want me?” I call out as he’s about to turn the corner and disappear into the hallway. My voice echoes, the desperation in my tone surrounding me. Mocking me. Exposing me.
He stills, stopping in his tracks. His fists clenched, he shakes his head as the battle wages within, pushing him to the breaking point. He wants to face me, but he doesn’t. He wants to respond, but is afraid of what his words will reveal. He wants to wrap me in his arms, but knows with every embrace, it will become more and more difficult to walk away.
“What is so wrong with me that you can’t even stomach the sight of me now?” I choke out, not holding anything back. Not anymore. “So what? We kissed. Like you said, it was just a kiss. It doesn’t—”
“Is that seriously what you think?” he growls, turning to face me in one swift move. My heart rate spikes, the hairs on my nape standing on end. “That it was just a kiss?”
My mouth grows dry as a jolt of adrenaline shoots through me. When he stalks toward me, I back up on instinct, the power in his gaze, in his stride, in his aura startling me.
“I—”
He clutches my cheeks, stealing my protest. “Impossible, Izzy. Fucking impossible.”
“What is?” I try to look away from his stormy eyes, but I can’t, a force bigger than me keeping my stare locked on his.
“That it was just a kiss. It could never be just a kiss. Not with you. Hell, I told you I’d wanted to kiss you for years. That’s true. I have. I’d lost track of the number of times I went to sleep after staying up all night with you and fantasized about how your lips would taste. Grew jealous whenever I had to watch my brother kiss you. God, Izzy.”
His grip on me tightens as he brings his head closer to mine, a whisper between us. My breath quickens as I bask in his spicy, sweet scent, the aroma of citrus and wood wrapping me in comfort. The only comfort I’ve ever known.
“Every time I saw him kiss you, all I could think was how I should have been the one doing that.”
I open my mouth, not wanting to bring Jessie into our bubble. That would cause it to burst, to implode into a fiery mess. He cuts me off before I can say anything.
“Every time I saw him place his hand on your leg and run his finger along your exposed flesh, all I could think about was how cavalier he was about it. How he should have appreciated you for the fucking gift you were.”
He loosens his hold on my face, one hand going to my nape, the other sliding down my frame. When he lifts the hem of my tank top and caresses the exposed flesh, a shiver runs through my body.
“And every time I said good night to you, only for you to go to bed, to his bed…” His nostrils flare, a tick in his jaw. “All I could think about was that it should have been my bed. My arms that held you. My body that worshipped yours.”
No words come. How can I respond? Tell him I always craved his company but assumed he’d never be interested in me, not when so many girls who were more mature and experienced than me sought him out? That every time I heard him perform a new song, a part of me wished he were singing about me?
That the real reason I ended things with Jessie was because I realized I’d also fallen in love with Asher?
“I don’t have the same competitive nature as my brother,” he continues when I don’t say anything. “I don’t need to prove I can be the best at everything I do. I never wanted to graduate at the top of my class. Be class president. Run the world. The only person I care about being better than is the person I am today.” He chuckles, a momentary break in the tension. “Although, after tonight, you could probably argue I haven’t exactly been a good person.”
My chest squeezes at the reminder of the position I put him in. I told myself I wouldn’t allow him to put his relationship with his brother at risk. But that was before I was cast under his spell again. Before I was reminded of why I’d allowed him to possess a piece of my heart. Before I had a taste of him after years of fantasizing. It’s left me desperate for more.
“I’ve never wanted something he had, never wanted to be him.” He returns his hands to my face, leaning toward me. “Until you.” His hold on me tightens as he erases the last bit of space between us, sealing my mouth with his.
He leaves me
no room to protest, his kiss touching every part of me, stealing my breath, invading my soul as I succumb to what this man does to me with just a simple meeting of our mouths. But nothing with us has ever been simple. His kiss isn’t, either. In it is a piece of his heart. And mine. Fusing together in this beautiful connection most people search for their entire lives.
I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, curving into him, even a heartbeat between our bodies too much space. He moans, a surge of electricity reawakening me. His hands roam my body, his sensual touch making me feel wanted. Not like so many other men who just wanted to cop a quick feel of my chest before pulling out their dick. But not Asher. Hell, he hasn’t even brushed a single finger against my breasts, which only increases my need, moisture pooling between my thighs at the thought.
A hand grips my hip, and he backs me across the room until my legs hit the baby grand piano. Grasping my ass, he lifts me onto the surface with ease, as if I weigh no more than a speck of dust. I try to stay in shape, but I’m not a waif. My five-seven frame is leggy, my Mexican heritage giving me an ample chest and curvy hips.
When I part my thighs and pull his body between them, he groans, his lips leaving mine for the first time. A man starved, he runs his tongue along my jawline, the scruff of his unshaven face causing a delicious ache to settle in my core. I’ve never been so aroused, so ready to toss aside reason for one moment of ecstasy.
“Fuck, Izzy,” he growls as I tighten the grip my legs have around his waist. When his erection throbs against me, I whimper, my body trembling from the sensation of him through our fully clothed bodies. If I’m on the cusp of coming undone from this, I can only imagine what it’ll be like when it’s flesh against flesh. I refuse to wait any longer to find out.
I fist his shirt in my hand, tugging him into me, my fingers fumbling for the buttons. He straightens, abruptly stepping back. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach as my eyes lock with his. I swallow hard, unsure if I can handle him rejecting me yet again.
Then a lazy smirk crawls across his lips as he leisurely unfastens the top button of his shirt, making a show of it. My shoulders falling out of relief, I place my hands behind me on the piano, sucking in my bottom lip.
“If you’re trying to audition for one of those all-male reviews, I’ll have you know they’re quick with taking off their shirts. Hell, most of the time they’re not wearing a shirt at all.”
He pauses, mid-unbutton, a single brow cocked. “Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well then…” He smiles deviously. “Maybe you should give me a lesson.”
“In what?” I straighten, my voice rising in pitch. “Stripping?”
His eyes flicker with mischief as he closes the distance between us, leering at me in a way that strips me bare. In the most tantalizing of ways. “Didn’t you say Bernadette made you all go to striptease and pole dance lessons?”
“She did, but…”
He leans into me and his teeth capture my earlobe, tugging on it, erasing any objection from my mind. I’ll do whatever he asks if it means I’ll be rewarded with his tongue on me. On every inch of me.
“Please, Izzy. Dance for me. Just like you used to whenever our band played ‘Amante’.”
All it takes is hearing the title of one of his earlier songs to be transported back to my college days. To my roommate dragging me to a club where a hot, local band was playing. To falling in love with the music and making a point of returning week after week. To being unable to stop from swaying my hips whenever they played that particular song, a sensual, Latin-inspired rhythm that spoke to me the first time I heard the opening measures.
He extends a hand to me. Does the idea of stripping for Asher turn me on? Hell yes. But to this song? One I always felt he wrote for me after he noticed me in the audience that first night. After his earlier confession that he’s been wanting to kiss me for years, it’s not that far out of the realm of possibility.
My eyes focused on his dark pools, I place my hand in his. In one quick movement, he pulls me off the piano, spinning me around so my back is pressed against his front. The sudden motion steals my breath, a gasp escaping. My surprise turns into a burning need when he sensually circles his hips against me.
“When I wrote it, I always imagined you stripping to it. Even though I didn’t even know your name.” He runs a calloused hand along my collarbone before easing his way up to my throat, wrapping his fingers around it. I crane my head, my breath coming in pants, a surge of hunger filling me from his possessive hold. His mouth skates near my earlobe, teeth nipping at my flesh. “Never thought that fantasy would come true.”
He drops his hold on me, stepping back. I remain still, a bundle of sensation. How the hell did we get here? How did I go from wanting to clear my head to considering giving Asher a striptease in the span of mere minutes? As is always the case with us, some things just can’t be explained.
The opening lines sound from Asher’s cell phone, and I close my eyes. My body still tingling, I’m on the brink of unraveling, a slave to Asher’s touch. And I’ll do whatever it takes to have his touch again.
I glance over my shoulder, flashing him a seductive smile. My tongue skates across my bottom lip in an elaborate show, as if I’m about to feast on the finest of delicacies. That’s exactly what this man is. Six-foot-two. Broad shoulders. Defined muscles. And that perfect V disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. I could overindulge on him for hours and still not get my fill.
With slow motions, I face him, swaying my hips in time with the music as I advance toward him. My hands resting against the hard planes of his tattooed-covered chest, I push him into a chair in the corner of the room. He doesn’t protest, simply obeys my unspoken command, his eyes never leaving mine.
I take several steps back, increasing the distance between us. One of the things I’d learned in my striptease lessons is that it’s important not to give it all away at first. Stay out of reach. Make them want you. Beg for you. That’s what I do.
The music comes to an abrupt stop, and I dart my eyes to Asher.
“I’m going to start the song over.” There’s a flash in his gaze. A heat. A warning. “If this is the only time I’ll ever experience this, I need to milk it for every damn second. Every chord. Every eighth note. I need it all.”
“God, I love a man who can talk music to me,” I joke in a sensual tone, although my words hold a great deal of truth. Music has always been a turn-on for me. And a man who plays a musical instrument? One who appreciates the patience and practice essential to master it? That’s the kind of man I want to be with.
“Well, you can blow my horn any day, baby.”
I giggle, then quickly cover my mouth. “Sorry.”
“What are you sorry about? I love your laugh.”
“I know. It’s just… I’m supposed to be doing this whole seductive temptress act here.”
“Well, tempt away.” He starts the song again before setting his phone on a nearby table, freeing his hands.
I close my eyes, taking a moment to allow the provocative rhythm to invade my soul as it did all those years ago when I couldn’t help but move with the melody. It has a more mature sound now, evidence he must have re-recorded it. When his voice sings about spotting a beautiful woman in a bar who ends up infiltrating his every thought, it’s deeper, more raspy, more soulful. The way Asher is today.
Shaking off my nerves, I fix my expression in front of me, emboldened by the fire I can make out in Asher’s gaze. The few flickering candles create the perfect ambience for this, the darkness a blanket protecting me, allowing me to pretend I’m all alone, dancing for no one. It’s not the first time I’ve danced to this song. This is no different from dancing to it when his band played it during my college days.
Except this time, I’ll end up naked when the dance is over.
I sway my hips, subtly at first, allowing my soul to feel the music. Muscle memory kicks in, my body forgetting about the
years that have passed since I’ve danced. I move with more confidence, tuning everything else out as I lose myself in the erotic sound of Asher’s voice filling the room.
Approaching him, I run a lithe finger along his chest and collarbone before moving behind his chair. He attempts to glance over his shoulder, but I force his head forward. When I scrape my nails against his firm chest from behind, he throws his head back, a moan escaping his lips. Carnal. Wanton. Igniting.
As desperate as I am to keep feeling the warmth of his body on my fingertips, I remove my hands and circle to the front of his chair. I can see the raw need emanating from every pore, the fire in his eyes enough to light all of Las Vegas.
He reaches out, gripping my hip, pulling me closer. Giving him a playful look of admonishment, I take his hand, removing it. “No touching,” I murmur breathlessly.
“God, you’re going to kill me,” he groans as I straddle him, pulsing my hips against his waist. I jut out my chest, leaning closer so I’m a breath away.
His body tightens beneath me in all the right places, giving me an added boost of confidence, knowing I do this to him. That the sight and feel of me, even fully clothed, pushes him to the point of oblivion. There’s nothing so addictive. I now understand why some girls love stripping. I’d rolled my eyes when the woman teaching our class told us how powerful it made her feel, even when she felt she was losing control of everything else in her life. But the second she stepped into the club, she’d felt in charge, in control.
I hoist myself higher, my long, dark hair forming a curtain around us as I continue teasing and torturing. The frustration builds in his expression, and I can tell it’s taking every ounce of resolve he possesses not to touch me, not to grip my hips or squeeze my ass as he takes charge of my seduction.
My lips skim against his, and he cranes his head toward mine, chasing my kiss, but I don’t allow him to capture it just yet. Desperation blooms and grows, and I know he won’t be able to hold off much longer. I don’t think I will, either, the restraint I’ve had to exhibit until this point nearly making me combust.
