One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3)

by Ainslie Paton

  Time to tell him he’d always been her one.

  “It is faintly disgusting how into you I am,” he said, fingers tapping a beat between her breasts, down her sternum and onto her stomach. “Are you cool with that?”

  “For a foul-mouthed rocker, you’ve got some good old-fashioned courtesy in your DNA. It’s faintly disgusting how turned on I am by that.”

  “I’ll own the bad language. But you know I’m good at doing other things with my mouth.”

  She traced the vibrant green feathers on his shoulder. “You talk a good story.”

  He leaned over and sealed his lips over hers and her limbs lost contact with the crucial bits of muscle and cartilage that held them together as she softened into goop. He kissed like he was trained in it as an art form and had mastered shades of dark and light, could kiss storms and whimsy and switch between them with the most unexpectedly elegant strokes.

  She was utterly undone by his ability to open his heart and humbled by his honesty. She was terrified of admitting her lie. She clung to him like the headstrong, know-it-all, too-smart-for-her-own-good teenager she’d been, assuming she could have everything she wanted without understanding the limits.

  With his fingers sliding under the elastic of her pants, Grip said, “Want to see the music room?”

  She’d go anywhere, see anything with him. “Yes, please.”

  He brought his lips back to hers and spoke against them. “I want to show you what else I can do with my mouth and a piano.”

  “Will you play something for me?”

  His answer was to slip his middle finger into her vulva. “I’ve got one particular thing in mind.”

  A well-placed finger and he robbed her of her wits. She’d have howled at the injustice of losing the contact if she didn’t think he had something else incredible planned.

  He didn’t give her time to find her bra or put the T-shirt on “You won’t need it,” he said. “The plan is music room, then hot tub, sex till you’re too sore for more, then bed.”

  Not in her most detailed sex fantasies had a dream lover said anything as delectable as that, after he’d cooked her dinner and given her orgasms all afternoon.

  The music room was on the lower floor. It had the same wide-windowed view of the sea but no balcony. The walls that weren’t thick tempered glass were padded with soundproofing, as was the ceiling. There were two drum kits, one looking more beaten up than the other, and a grand piano. It was hot pink with dramatic swirls of yellow painted across it.

  “That’s Florence,” he said.

  “You named your piano.”

  “After the woman who custom made her for me.”

  “Aren’t they usually black?”

  “Mine are usually third- or fourth-hand shabby uprights with dinky sound and stuck peddles. This is my dream piano. Elton John’s Rocket Man meets 70s Surf Princess. She rocks.”

  “I would love to hear you play.”

  He pulled her into his arms. “I never play for an audience. I was surprised you knew I played at all.”

  He’d played for an audience once. She’d been there. Early in her obsession with him, lurking in the shadows of a near-empty pub, nursing the one drink she could afford at happy hour prices. A shabby piano like he’d described. He’d played it before helping the stagehand move it away to make room for his drum kit, standing over it and massaging something so achingly sweet from it that she’d spent hours online trying to identify it. Debussy’s “Prelude from Suite Bergamasque.”

  Not what you expected to hear from a member of a rock band.

  It was the stagehand who told her Grip could’ve been a concert pianist. He’d been amazed the old piano could make sounds like that and had asked in wonder and been sworn to secrecy, but not the kind of secrecy that a boob flash from a willing goth girl couldn’t break.

  Once she identified the Debussy, she went searching for other evidence and found it buried in the archives of his music school’s website. As a Conservatorium scholarship student, he’d won prize after prize and appeared destined for the concert hall, not sweaty pubs.

  At some point he’d swapped his passion from keyboard to drumsticks, which must’ve pissed a lot of people off. That was when his position at the top of her list of talented drummers to sleep with had been cemented. Her little drummer boy was deep, and this was the first chance she’d had to explore his decisions.

  “It’s in your school music academy records.” It was still there, just buried a little further now if anyone else cared to hunt for it.

  “Hah,” he said. “You did dig. It’s no secret I play, but other than my family, you might be the only person around who knows I play well.”

  “What made you give it up?”

  He spun her around so she faced Florence. “I didn’t give it up. I just never saw myself wearing a tux and playing in an orchestra for the over-fifties crowd for the rest of my life. You will break my heart if you say something about it being a waste, Mena.”

  The frustration in his voice told her he’d heard that sentiment a lot. “Your parents?”

  “Nope. They only wanted me to be happy and I wasn’t back then. I didn’t fit in with the serious music crowd.” He spun her again to face the drum kits. “That’s my fun time. I get juiced playing for stadium crowds same as I did for pub crowds. I get shitty with people who think I threw a respectable career away to hit things.”

  She’d imagined all kinds of catastrophes from injury to a secret tragic love story that left him incapable of playing again.

  “Did you ever think about being a new Elton John? You have the stage presence.”

  He rested his chin on the top of her head, arms banding her close. “Not a good enough vocalist to pull that off.”

  That might be a fair assessment. She didn’t have the skill to judge that. “Never wanted to add a keyboard to Lost Property’s sound?” Which was a more obvious direction.

  “Comes up once every decade. It’d be up to me to push for it.”

  “And you’re not tempted?”

  “Playing the piano is a head thing for me. I play it to peace out. I play drums from the heart and that’s my jam and what makes for a great performance.”

  He did everything from the heart. She turned to face him. Why didn’t he know that? “If I’m very good would you play Florence for me?”

  He grabbed her and dipped her over his arm. She hung suspended, her breasts pressed to his chest, her toes tipping the floor. “I’m way more interested in playing with you.”

  “That’s a dodge.”

  He dipped her lower, making her yelp and clutch him harder as her feet came off the ground. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Offer myself up to whichever of your many talents you want to put your heart into.”

  His grin did a number on her ability to breathe. “You can be my muse,” he said, before wrapping her closer and bringing her upright. “It’s an unpaid position but the benefits are good.”

  Her goth-self melted. Her grownup-self wasn’t far behind being mush.

  Being Grip’s muse meant lying on the top of Florence’s cool closed lid with her feet on the keyboard while he kissed his way along her inner thigh and asked her questions.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No.”

  “Are you comfortable?”

  The way she was positioned, he was face level with her vagina. If she’d been bared to him, she might not have been unable to put a sentence together.

  “I am unbelievably horny. I didn’t know my body could still make me feel insatiable.”

  He made a humming sound and lifted her feet, putting them down to a discordant sound in a wider position. “Insatiable smells good on you,” he said and pressed his face to her, sucking in a breath before taking the material of her undies in his teeth and tugging.

  A reflective attempt to close her knees was blocked by his shoulders. “You okay?” he said.

  His voice was rough with lust and she w
as high on being the cause of that. “I’m wet.” She groaned and laid an arm over her eyes. He had the lights low, but there was something about this that made her feel a swirling mix of vulnerable and desirable.

  He made a sound of agreement and his nose nudged against her vulva, making her gasp. His hands were wrapped around her ankles one moment and then pushing her thighs still wider the next. He mouthed her through the soaking fabric of her undies, making her body feel wound up and tight all over.

  She needed more, his hot tongue, his thick fingers. “Please.”

  “What do you need, pretty girl?”

  “You, I need you. I always need you.”

  One big hand slipped under her butt, urging her hips up, as he stood away from her knees, the other dragged her undies down her legs to the jangle of her feet shifting on the keyboard, leaving her bare and slick and vibrating with expectation.

  He didn’t make her wait; he didn’t show mercy. He cupped her butt to tilt her hips and licked through her folds, tongue flicking her clit, before he latched on and sucked. She’d have arched off the piano lid but for the big hand spread across her abdomen. She’d have come furiously had he not known it from her ragged breathing and backed off, rubbing his face with a prickle of light stubble on her hip, dragging his open mouth over her stomach.

  That’s how he tortured her, bringing her close and backing away. Conducting her reactions with his mouth and his firm, warm hands. It was beautiful and brutal, and she lost herself inside the music of it as he made her body his instrument and played her into a state of shuddering exaltation.

  When it was over, he climbed up beside her and flashed a smug grin. “Do you think you’ll be able to walk again?” She lifted a foot and put it down heavily on the keys, the sound of sexual exhaustion, making his smile get wider. “Did I break you?”

  He would if this kept on. He would break her into a million untrustworthy pieces. She should tell him now when they were soft towards each other, when there was a chance his reaction might not cool into anger, might go the other way entirely into surprised relief and gratitude.

  She pushed her fingers through his hair, words crowding in her head, queuing on her tongue until he said, “You’re extraordinary, Mena. I’m falling in love with you,” and she swallowed them like bitter poison she might choke on.

  EIGHTEEN

  Declarations of love definitely shouldn’t come when your woman was hard pressed catching her breath after you tongue-fucked and finger-banged her into the lid of your designer grand piano on your second night together. Fuuuck.

  Grip was drumbeats for a heart mad about Mena but he’d had to open his fat trap and scare the glow out of her.

  Letting his emotions ride all over his good sense wasn’t something he ever did. It wasn’t sensible how he felt about Mena.

  Like they were destined.

  And that was some A-class bullshit.

  He’d tried to brush over it with an invitation to chill in the spa and Mena had gone to use the bathroom and that was a long enough time ago that she might’ve packed her toothbrush and lit out of here like her beautiful arse was on fire.

  The water was balmy and the muscle tension he’d carried out of the music room onto the deck and into the spa had soaked out, but his head was a mess. He liked her; that wasn’t controversial. He could hear more and more of the sound of her, a composition of complex melodies. She was gorgeous and smart, and learning about her childhood had made him respect her ambition and success even more.

  Should’ve just played her a piece, you pretentious dipshit.

  He was about to get out, dry off and find his phone to see what kind of excuse she’d made to disappear when she arrived on the deck completely naked except for a pair of funky black-framed glasses that made his disappointed dick sit up and take notice.

  With her hair piled up in a cute do, the vibe was so much naughty librarian he embarrassed her by whistling loud enough with his fingers in his mouth that Barney the beagle next door started howling.

  He grinned at her. If she expected finesse and sophistication hanging around with him, she was flat out of luck.

  “Short or long sighted.” How had he not noticed contacts? Too much pleasure in the act of kissing her; he’d closed his eyes to go deep into it.

  “I can’t see much up close.”

  “I like those on you.” The glasses, the hair, the blush, the wry smile.

  “They don’t count as clothes.” She eased in, sitting opposite him, bubbles hiding everything. “Ah, this is lovely.”

  He poured her a mimosa. Their toes tipped. It wasn’t enough contact. The water warm but the vibe between them a little chilled. He’d tell her he knew he was out of line, heat of the moment and all that. There was a reason they said never to trust declarations of love in the thick of making it. They were way OTT.

  She said, “Grip, I—” but he talked over her, “Mena, what I said before—” he stopped when her knee brushed his. It was just a smooth knee touching a hairy one underwater, but it made him lose the rest of the sentence. “What were you going to say?”

  “I, ah. What happened to Big Dave?” she asked. “I love knowing you had an imaginary friend. When did you stop believing in him?”

  “About the same time I stopped being afraid of killer pasta.”

  “And when was that?”

  He lowered his head, pretend embarrassment. “Pass.”

  Mena laughed and shifted to lean into him, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, her shoulder resting on his bicep. “How old were you when you had your first kiss?”

  “Twenty.” The age he was when the memory of kisses that hooked deep with Philly lingered.

  She tried to elbow him, a dull thud on his ribs. “No, really.”

  “First kiss. Eighteen. Last year of high school. Old by your standard.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Natalie Nguyen. Smartest girl in the year. Violinist. It was a dare.”

  “Yours?”

  Did Mena sound snippy? “Nat’s. She was uber ballsy.” Would she make another move to touch him?

  “Did you have sex?”

  Mena was still. Only the spa bubbles stirred. “That was a dare too, but it worked out just fine. We both knew enough not to get hurt and Nat had done research, so we had a very fun summer together.”

  “Your first girlfriend taught you how to have sex.”

  He’d not thought about it like that. The summer after exams finished had been one long lesson about what made sex good and how it could go bad.

  “Yeah. She did much better than Big Dave would’ve.”

  “Thank you, Natalie Nguyen. You’re a goddess.” Mena rested her head against his shoulder. Nat was lead violinist in an orchestra in Europe. A genuine goddess through and through. “If you weren’t a musician, what would you be?”

  He had to think about it. Took the opportunity to put his arm around Mena, press them closer together. “I’ve done a lot of other things. Builder’s laborer, brickie, shelf stacker at a supermarket, storeman in a warehouse. There were a lot of times I thought I’d have to do something else full-time. I’ve been so fucking lucky that I always had music.”

  Mena turned her face into his shoulder and kissed him. “Ever been crazy about anyone?” She put her finger against his lips. “I know this one already.” He kissed that finger and she pulled it away with a nose wrinkling smile. “That long ago goth girl.”

  And the woman who was with him now. He had to tell her he’d been out of line. That if this was something more than a hot infatuation, it needed time to take shape.

  “What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?” she asked.

  “Ah, what I said in the music room, it was—”

  “I’m falling in love with you too.”

  He gawped at her. That. What? She didn’t. No. Way too soon. He snapped his jaw closed. “It’s the endorphins. We’re high. You could be over me by morning.”

  “I could be.” Her out breath was
an audible swoosh. She shifted to sit across his thighs, making a wave slosh over the side. “If you snore in bed tonight, I’ll be over you before we get to sunrise.”

  “That’s more like it.” Take it easy, slugger. Slow it down. “I might snore up a symphony. Pleased to know you have a contingency plan.”

  She laughed. That was the right response. This was funny. The two of them, saying stupid things they didn’t mean because the sex was fantastic and the mood was right. “You just said that falling for me thing so I wouldn’t feel like a lovesick tragic, right?”

  She pushed her fingers through his hair. “Do you feel like a lovesick tragic?”

  He snorted. “No.” Yes. This conversation was making him more anxious than the actual love declaration, which was so natural he hadn’t considered it awkward until Mena had gotten tense and frosty. You couldn’t fall in love with someone so quickly with nothing but sweat and semen to stick you together.

  Could you?

  Nah. That was lust. And there was no lack of that between them. Except that’s how it was for Evie and Jay. Stuck on each other from the moment they met and wild with it. Absolute knuckleheads not to respect it, wasted years being apart. And Teela and Haydn. One dirty weekend was all it took for them to know they’d found a mate for life, and they’d had mad realistic barriers to making it together.

  Lightning striking twice.

  Three times a charm?

  Not bloody likely. “This thing with us.” He brought her hand to his chest, held it over his heart, unsure how to go on.

  “Let’s not name it.”

  “Yeah, fair call.” Made life easier. Made him feel twitchy, so what was that about? What if Mena was the one for him and he didn’t pay enough attention, let her slip away before he knew what kind of music they could make together. He’d done that once before. Swore he’d never do it again, but he’d never been tested since.

  Motherfuck.

  This was a test.

  And he needed to ace it. Meanwhile, he needed to square something with her. “What I said before about giving up the piano. That’s only half of it.”