by Eden Bradley
“Seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up wherever you tell me to. Here. Your home.” An air of command in his voice even while he was giving her options. How did he do that?
“I didn’t say I was going.”
He smiled, a devastating flash of strong white teeth. “You didn’t say you weren’t.”
“Damn it, Cole,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest. She wanted to say no, but oh, the storm was coming.
He let out a low chuckle. “Still have to be a little mouthy before you give in. But you know I’ve always liked that about you.”
Oh, they were so not getting into the whole power exchange thing. She’d be lost.
“I can still say no.”
He only smiled, making her want him to kiss her again. And again. And damn it, he had her. For dinner, anyway.
She shook her head. “Okay. Okay. But I’ll meet you. Just tell me where.”
“Come on, Janie girl. You know I’m more of a gentleman than that. There is no way I’m not picking you up.”
She blew out a breath, dropped her arms and turned to grab a pen and a green sticky note from her teak desk. “This is my address.”
He glanced at the note. “Los Feliz. Cool, funky neighborhood. You close to Griffith Park?”
“Yes.”
“Nice.”
She raised her chin a few notches. “Yes. It is.”
He leaned in until she could feel his breath warm on her cheek, his voice low. “I understand you being defensive, finding it hard to trust even having a simple conversation with me. I get it, baby. But just for tonight, for what we had between us once, I need you to find a way to let me in. A little, at least.”
She nodded, unable to speak, his scent going through her like a live wire.
It had always been like this. He’d always had this effect on her—rendering her speechless simply by standing close to her. His touch was absolutely devastating. And his scent… God, no man had a right to smell that good.
Another shiver ran through her as she breathed him in. She would see him. She would be open to talking. But she would not let him make her head spin like the teenager who had fallen so hopelessly in love with him.
That’s a lie. You’ve never been able to resist him.
She wished it weren’t true. But that was the main reason she’d never faced him once the divorce papers were signed. Because she knew if she spent ten minutes alone with him—even after the drug and alcohol abuse, even after the nights she’d spent alone wondering where the hell he was, having him come home staggering at six in the morning—turning away from him would be impossible. She wasn’t sure she could do it again.
She was an idiot.
She nodded. “Seven o’clock.”
The storm was coming, all right. She had no idea what kind of damage it might leave in its wake, but she knew she wouldn’t survive it unscathed.
Chapter Two
Cole straddled his bike—his newest, a chopped Harley Sportster Iron 883. He’d had it painted in subtle but wicked-looking flat black—even the pipes—and added the fat Coker tires. A bad-ass ride and a smooth cruiser, perfect for the canyon roads. But today he’d take the shorter route back to his house in the Hollywood Hills. He had a lot to think about before he picked up Janie for dinner tonight.
Janie girl.
Christ, she looked amazing. All that wavy blond hair escaping the long, heavy braid she kept it in when she did yoga. He rubbed his fingers together, remembering the way her hair had felt between them. Remembering the way it looked spilling all over the pillows on his bed…
Her eyes were as green as ever. Green as new grass. Green as the pale light of faraway stars. And her body… She had never looked better, every slim curve visible in her yoga pants and tank top. He’d waited out that first year of his sobriety when it was recommended to steer clear of relationships, then a few more years to give her time to heal. Maybe to forgive him. And he’d done fairly well with it until he’d seen her at Sonny’s funeral. Oh hell—who was he kidding? He’d missed her with every fucking cell of his being the entire time. He’d felt so damn raw going there to see her today, but the minute he’d had his hands on her, everything had shifted and he’d gone rock hard. Couldn’t help it. She’d always done that to him, in a way no other woman had before or since.
Shaking his head, he snapped his black Outlaw half-helmet on and started the bike.
He cruised back down the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean view flying past, the salty wind in his face as the sun rose in the sky. It was going to be a beautiful spring day in La La Land, and for the first time in longer than he cared to remember he was going to enjoy it. Really enjoy it. Because he was seeing Janie tonight. His girl. His only girl ever.
He gunned the engine as he took a left and got onto the 10 East. Traffic was light this morning, which was good. He was anxious to get home and into his studio. There were lyrics in his head, and he knew the music would follow. It was the first time in months he’d been able to come up with something new. He’d been frozen. Burned out. Wanting the music to come, but his muse seemed to have left him. It had been even worse since they’d lost Sonny. These had been some pretty dark days. But the sun was shining again—and that song, that muse, was his Janie girl.
A melody was already beginning to wind its way through his head. A song for Janie. But it was the words that felt important. Only half formed, but still…
You are
The one I yearn for
The one I burn for
The one I live for
The one I’d die for
You are
The moon and the stars
To me…
She always had been. He had to get her back. If he only had a fucking half a chance at it… He had to try. Because this life he’d been living without her—seven long years—was unacceptable. Empty. Even the nearly six years he’d been clean and sober, doing service work with other addicts. He’d dated a bit—or maybe a lot—but he’d never been able to love another woman. He’d never been able to forget her.
He got off the freeway at La Brea, following it north until he hooked a left on Hollywood Boulevard, then a right up into Nichols Canyon as it wove into the Hills.
He found he couldn’t get the words out of his head.
You are…the moon and the stars to me…
Yeah—had to get into the studio, try to pull it together on the piano, which was where he wrote best. It was his brother, Chase, who could write on guitar—Cole always had to go old-school.
He finally pulled up in front of his modern white stucco and glass house and pressed the button on his keychain that opened one of the three wide doors. The huge garage housed his only car—a black Cadillac Escalade—and his prize collection of motorcycles: his current ride, his Harley Fatboy painted in bronze with silver flames, the 1949 Panhead in Caribbean Blue he’d wanted since he’d first seen one like it in the film Easy Rider; the vintage Indian in maroon and cream—a classic; and his one speed bike—a new black and silver BMW F800 GT. The bikes took up a lot of space, but he loved every one of them. The only thing he’d ever loved more than motorcycles was music.
And Janie.
He pulled in and shut the bike down, swung his leg over and unstrapped the helmet in one practiced move. Hanging the helmet on a rack by the door that led into the house, he took the stairs that led down to his studio, breathing in the scent of the eucalyptus trees that grew all over the hillside. He loved that smell. It calmed him. And he needed to calm the fuck down. He needed to write this song. And then he needed to scratch the itch that had been plaguing his body since the moment he’d set eyes on her.
But the music first. He’d let the raging lust and the equally raging emotions drive the music. Too bad there was no time to get this one on the album the band was nearly finished with. But it was for her,
and right now the album didn’t matter. None of it did. Only Janie’s song. If he could get it right he’d play it for her, let her know how strong the love was, still. Always. The only thing that could bring him to his knees these days was his girl.
Janie.
If he could get this song right, maybe it could bring them back together. Not only together, but together the way they had been before he’d screwed it all up.
Why did music always feel like it could condemn him, or be some sort of benediction? A musician’s superstitious mind. But it felt like the truth.
When it was just right he’d play it for her, and ask her to come back to him again. To live with him. To be his.
It was too warm in the small room that held his baby grand piano—the same one he’d been pounding on for ten years—a small brown leather loveseat, the mixing board, the built-in desk that held his computer and two monitors. Two of Chase’s guitars were there: one of his Fenders and a beautiful acoustic from Spain he’d had custom made. His bookshelf held notepads, sheet music, copies of Rolling Stone Magazine and Variety, small percussion instruments he’d picked up in the band’s travels all over the world. His band Ink & Iron had really hit success three years ago on their small indie label, and he knew damn well it was only his sobriety that had allowed it to happen. Music had given him a second chance.
Would she?
He stripped his shirt over his head, the cotton fabric tangling for a moment in the long silver chain he wore around his neck. The chain held three mementos—a dog tag for his friend, Rich, whose death years earlier had been his wake-up call to get sober, another tag he’d just had made for Sonny, and his own, a five-year sobriety chip. He tugged and managed to get untangled and flung the shirt on the loveseat.
For the next three hours he worked on the song, but something wouldn’t jibe. He kept writing down the notes, the lyrics, singing without the piano, trying to pull the magic from his brain. But he was stuck. It was close—so damn close with the whole song on the tip of his tongue. But he knew what was wrong, what was holding him back.
Janie.
He couldn’t finish the song until he knew she would give him the chance to win her back, until she at least opened that door. And when he did finish it, this would be his gift to her.
His would be her coming back to his sorry, fucked-up ass against her better judgment.
She would never be sorry again. He’d make sure of it.
He pushed away from the piano and stood looking out the window at the view he’d paid an insane amount for. If he’d only known back in the day that he’d see this measure of success, that he’d be living like this, he would have… But no. He still would have partied like the wanna-be musician he was. As he’d told Janie, he’d been young and stupid, and the music industry did that shit to people. He hadn’t been strong enough to handle it. He’d lost his friends, his pride. He’d nearly lost his soul. And he’d lost his wife over it.
But he had another chance now. Maybe.
Janie.
He’d touched her that morning. His fingers flexed instinctively, his fingertips still buzzing as if her skin were mere inches away even now.
So damn beautiful. The most beautiful woman he’d ever known. No groupie or porn star or model could ever compare. He wasn’t interested. He only wanted her.
His cell rang and he picked it up. It was Jaden, Ink & Iron’s drummer.
“Hey, little drummer boy.”
“Hey, deluded rock god.”
“Fuck you, Jaden.”
“Fuck you too, Cole.”
He grinned. “What’s up?”
“Just checking on you, bud. Wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“Doing okay. I went to see Janie.”
Jaden let out a long, low whistle. “Brave man. How did it go? Or should I ask?”
“She wasn’t thrilled to see me at first, but we worked it out. She’s having dinner with me tonight.”
“Wow. Sorry, but I would not have put money on that long shot. You must have some damn smooth moves, my man.”
“Maybe.” He got up and paced the little patch of bare floor in the studio. “Or maybe she knows as well as I do that we belong together.”
“That kind of lyric is why we have such a healthy female following. Look, the last thing I wanna do is rain on your love parade, Cole, but it might take some work for her to get over what happened with you two. Well, with you. To her.”
His drummer wasn’t known for his subtlety. “Yeah, I know. But it’s Janie, you know? If I’m not willing to work for her…”
“Yeah, I get it. Do your thing. Let me know if you want to get all bromance about it and talk about your feelings and shit.”
“Fuck you, Jaden.”
“So you said. I’m comfortable enough in my own skin to be flattered, but other guys are not this cool.”
“Oh, really fuck you, Jaden.”
His friend laughed. “Later, bud.”
He hit the End button and tossed his cell onto the desk, then looked over at the piano.
He could either hang in the studio some more beating his head against the writer’s block, or he could go upstairs and get in the shower and stroke off some of the tension in his body.
Tension about Janie.
Those long, lean legs and her perfect, heart-shaped ass…
He’d spanked that gorgeous ass, and she’d loved it. He’d tied her up, played her with hot wax… Was she was still into the kink, or had that been nothing more for her than the explorations of sexually charged youth? No—he knew enough about BDSM and the power dynamic these days to look back and recognize that what they’d had was the real thing. The dynamic had been sizzling hot and the connection when they played hard had been intense. Amazing. That was something no one could ever forget.
He remembered.
He remembered her tied up with the long scarves she wore around her neck, on her knees on the bed, hands behind her back, every line of her bound body perfection. The way she gave herself over to him in those moments was flawless.
His cock was growing harder as he made his way up the stairs, one hand on the rising bulge in his jeans.
Ah, Janie…
He moved through the living room, with its free-standing stone fireplace and the enormous window overlooking Hollywood. Down the hallway and through the master bedroom until he reached the bathroom.
Kicking his way out of his big black boots and his jeans, he tossed them over the edge of the round bathtub that stood in the center of the bathroom under a skylight. This room was a hedonist’s delight, but all he cared about right now was getting naked into the shower with his girl on his mind.
He stepped into the enormous pale slate and glass enclosure, which was fully equipped with multiple showerheads and body sprayers. He turned on the tap, leaving the water a little cool. Stepping under the spray, he grabbed the bar of sandalwood-scented soap and lathered up his chest, making himself wait before touching his hardening cock.
Janie on her back, her hands clenching the sheets while he dripped hot wax onto her gorgeous breasts, her pink nipples darkening, hardening…
Oh, yeah.
She loved the wax. Loved a little pain. Loved being taken over. All he had to do was press on the back of her neck and she responded immediately. Usually so in control of things, she went right down when they were in those roles. So fucking sexy.
Janie’s eyes going glassy with desire and submission as he buried his hand in her hair and pulled.
Finally, he lowered his hand and began to soap his rock-hard cock.
“Oh, fucking yeah…”
He leaned against the wall of the shower as pleasure poured through his system like liquid heat.
Setting the soap back in the alcove, he began a gentle, even stroke, teasing himself. Up and down, nice and slow.
Janie loved to give him head that way—teasing him, drawing her mouth from stem to head, pausing there, letting his pleasure hang, waiting. Sometimes he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t wait, and he’d pull his cock from her mouth, grab her and push her down on the bed or the floor or the table—wherever they happened to be—and just take her. She’d get so damn excited her pussy would be soaking wet, tight and fine and grasping his plunging cock.
“Ah…”
He stroked harder, his hand sliding up and down his shaft, avoiding the head so he wouldn’t come too fast.
Janie.
She was his ultimate fantasy girl. So. Fucking. Perfect.
Pleasure coiled tight in his belly as he arched into his fisted hand, his climax hovering.
Had to be inside her again. To know her that way.
To know her again.
He had to get her back. Had to.
Something in his chest twisted, and he let his cock go.
Damn it.
He didn’t want to stop, but he didn’t want to come—he couldn’t. Not without her in his arms. This was for her and he wouldn’t waste it in his own hands. He had more control over his desires than that. These last years of sobriety had proven it. If they were ever going to get back to the intense levels of intimacy that came with the power play they’d both once loved so much, if she was ever going to trust him that much again, then he was going to have to prove it to himself. So he could prove it to her.
He let the cool water run over his head, then shook it hard, shook the water out of his eyes as he bit his orgasm back. A few minutes of Tantric breathing calmed him down enough to breathe normally again, and he picked up the shampoo bottle.
This wasn’t going to get him anywhere, rubbing one off in the shower over Janie. He had to stay focused. Because she was it, the only one for him. And he damn well would get her back.
It was time.
Chapter Three
