There he goes again with that self-assured, masculine delivery, the one that makes me want to give him anything he asks for. “All right. Just one verse.” I do it. I sing softly along with his tune. I know the words. I’ve sung this song a thousand times and I sing it again. The music’s in me. This song, like they all do, inhabits me in a way that sort of takes over and makes me feel better than I do when I’m not singing. The notes weave themselves around the thick night air like smoke.
When I’ve finished the verse, I stop.
Elias is quiet for a few seconds. He’s watching me intently. Then he sits back and lets his muscled arms cradle his guitar. I feel a weird sense of jealousy, or something like it. I want to know what those arms feel like, warm and strong and carefully possessive. Slung casually with all their powerful promise, around me.
“Well, how about that,” he finally says. “Sadie sings.”
“I’m leaving as soon as I’ve earned enough to get myself a place in the city. Something small, it doesn’t matter. Then I’ll start auditioning. I’ve got a list of places to try.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all this. The topic couldn’t be more boring. But Elias Hayes blinks his thick, black lashes, watching me with smug amusement and … something more. A beguiled, hot fascination. His gaze is on my parted lips as I speak. I gently bite my lip and he watches my teeth as they sink gently into tender flesh. I’m afraid he’ll somehow notice that my panties are saturated. I try to fold my arms over my chest since my nipples are clearly visibly poking against the thin cotton on my nightie, but when I do this, the short skirt rides way up my thighs.
“You got a list of places to audition, do you?” he says softly, that light amusement playing at the corner of his sumptuous lips.
“Yes.” As heart-breakingly gorgeous as he is, his slightly-mocking arrogance is starting to rile me. “Anyway,” I say, and a light petulance has crept into my tone. He can mock me all he wants. I’ll show him, just like I’ll show everybody else. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about? Are we done here?”
He laughs lightly, his hot gaze holding mine. “No,” he says. “I don’t think we are done here, Sadie. Not at all. I think we’re just getting started. I’ve got some questions I want to ask you, see, and I’m not leavin’ until I get some answers.” Damn, the man is arrogant as all get out. His voice is deeper, and dark-edged when he says, “The thing is, after seeing you twice today …”
I feel myself blush scarlet at his mention of twice. He uses all that. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s smiling like this is the best fun he’s had all day.
“First of all,” he says, “I do, in fact, need a cleaner. The place hasn’t been lived in for over a year and it needs some attention. I want you to come work for me.”
“I …” I want to refuse him. It’s a terrible idea. Working for him will be dangerously … tempting. He knows this, too, damn him. He’s challenging me to refuse him and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. I can handle him. Sure I can. “I suppose I could.”
“You suppose you could.” He’s stopped smiling but it’s still there in his midnight-blue eyes. He’s leaned a little closer and he’s looking at me like he wants to eat me alive. I wish he would. I wish he would touch me, and cross a line.
“I might be able to,” I tell him. He’s exasperating me, among other things, and I think I might just be losing my grip on my own self-control.
“I want you to start tomorrow.”
“I … yeah. Okay.” I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. But a job is a job. He sure does seem like he has plenty of money. I might get the full twenty dollars an hour I was hoping for. After all, you don’t just go out and buy a thousand-acre ranch unless you’re financially secure, and, now that I look a little more closely, the guitar he’s holding is a nice one. Real nice. It’s probably worth a couple grand. Maybe even more.
“Good,” he says smugly. “Be at my place by ten, then. And don’t be late.”
It takes all the willpower I possess not to tell him to go where to stick his thousand acres, his fancy guitar and his cleaning job. He is the bossiest, most self-righteous person I’ve ever met, I’m sure of it. His gaze is on my mouth, like he’s thinking about kissing me. A pang of longing surges through me. I wonder what his wicked mouth, with those perfect lips, would feel like against mine. If he’d been gentle. Or if he’d hold me down and ravage me.
“You can walk over, right?” he asks, adding slowly, “since it’s just past your … swimming pond.”
Oh, God. I’m blushing again. I’m still hoping that by some miracle he only just so happened to stumble across me at that very last second, after I’d finished … getting myself off. But somehow that seems just a little overly optimistic. So I decide to ask him point blank.
“How long had you been standing there?” I say, and it comes out half-shy, half wary.
“A while.” He’s smirking but this time the hint of his smile is more wolfish than amused. He moves his thigh so it rests lightly against my bare leg.
I feel the heat bloom on my cheeks but I’m too aroused to feel as embarrassed as maybe I should. His big, hard nearness is blowing my mind. His musclebound virility is affecting my body in ways I can’t control. There’s a little bead of sweat at the base of his throat. I want to lick him there like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. I want it so bad I almost do it.
“Which brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk to you about,” he says.
I look at his eyes, the dark-blue smolder, like violet embers. “Yeah?”
“Tomorrow, after we work up a sweat, we’re gonna go for a swim. Me and you.”
“I … ” It’s not a good idea. It’s a very, very bad idea. It’s an idea that the little caged wild animal in me had already thought about, before he even suggested it.
I’m about to protest but he leans closer. I can smell him and it’s better than I ever imagined: all hot sun and hot sin. “You know you want to,” he murmurs. Then he leans even closer, so his lush, full lips are close to mine. Just that promise, that near-touch of his mouth is the most erotic experience I’ve ever had. My lips part. My nipples are painfully sensitive. I want him to kiss me. The slippery throb between my legs flutters and clenches. I want him to bite me.
But he pulls away.
He stands up and slings the guitar strap over his shoulder. I can only stare at the size of him. He’s tall and broad and magnificent in his jeans and white t-shirt, his dark hair falling across his forehead in silky layers.
“See you tomorrow, Sadie.”
I watch as he walks off into the night humming the song I sang to him, his jeans hugging his body in ways I can’t even explain, and I’m reeling from the realization that, just like that, everything has changed.
If I thought I was fucked before she tip-toed out her window to sit next to me on the old bench under her oak tree … well, after that, I was fucking fucked. The moon illuminated her long hair in ribbons of gold and light blue. Her skin was lightly tanned and there was a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her lips were unbelievable. Full but not too full. Shaped like a perfect kiss. And when she smiled it actually felt painful, like my heart was breaking or some weird shit. I’m just about the least romantic person I know, but this was something else altogether. Lust, I’ll call it, even though that doesn’t sum it all up. I almost kissed her, but I knew if I tasted those pink lips it wouldn’t be enough. I’d need more, and I might end up ripping that skimpy, see-through nightgown to shreds. I could see the plush silhouette of her ludicrously-sweet body, her nipples poked up against the soft veil of her dress. I knew if I kissed her lips I wouldn’t be able to stop until I’d tasted every inch of her, until I’d sucked on those nipples and licked my way down to her damp, clinging panties.
I’d never been so hard in my life.
And then she started singing.
It was all I could do to keep my cool. Which is ridiculous. I always keep my cool. I’v
e never had a reason to not keep my cool.
Until now, apparently.
She sings like a goddamn angel. Even worse, like an angel with a taste for the devil.
And even worse – much, much worse – is that I can see that hunger in her. The same hunger I used to have, before I got my big break. Her eyes have that fire. Her mouth has that little pout of determination. All that, combined with her obvious talent: it’ll be enough. You can see the x-factor radiating off of her along with her stardust and her sweet, hot beauty.
I’m walking back to my house in the moonlight. I stop and sit by the pond for a while, sipping from a flask I pull from my back pocket. Watching the reflection of the moonlight on the water.
I hate being reminded of my former life, but she’s doing that, in a way that makes it less unbearable than usual. The truth is, I like the country. That’s the other reason I bought my new house. I grew up on a goddamn farm, after all, east of Knoxville. It wasn’t the farming life that drove me away, not at all. It was my bastard of a father and his drunken habits that made sure I’d want to put as much distance between me and him as humanly possible. I could handle the belt, the rage, even the cigarette burns. What I couldn’t handle was the way he treated my mother. I think she was almost relieved when she found out she didn’t have long to live. Finally, an out. I’d told her I could be her out. I’d quit school, get a job. I remember saying it to her: I’m gonna be a superstar one day, you’ll see. I’ll take care of you. She’d smiled like she believed me. But the cancer spread so quick. She was too sick to leave, even then.
The day we buried her was the worst. His rage had taken a turn. Grief had hardened the edges of it. He was a big son of a bitch and I think he would’ve killed me if I’d let him. But even at the age of fifteen I knew what I was destined for. I took off that night, with two black eyes, a mashed-up face and a couple of broken ribs. I still have a scar on the bridge of my nose where he broke it. All I had was the clothes on my back and a twenty dollar bill I’d stolen from his wallet. And the guitar my mother gave me for my fifteenth birthday, with money she’d saved by taking on sewing jobs. She sewed so much her fingers used to bleed.
I never saw him again. I read in the paper he died just over three years ago, right before my very first single came out. The bank took whatever was left of the farm. I wouldn’t have wanted his money anyway. By then, I didn’t need it. I spent three years living on the streets of Nashville, busking for food money, figuring out my style, my voice, my sound. I found a room in a boarding house in a low-rent neighborhood. I got a late-night gig in a bar on Thursdays and earned a little more. It was there that Vaughn found me. He was managing another band at the time and dropped them when I agreed to sign with him. Within a month, we’d landed a deal with a major recording company.
I never looked back.
She’s the one kicking up all these memories. With her run-down little house and her angel’s voice. I can relate to this girl more than she knows. It’s that link that bothers me almost more than the killer body, the honey-blond hair, the heart-breaking face. It’s that deeper current of understanding that grabs something in me that won’t let go.
The sky is pure azure. The sun’s hotter than ever. It’s five minutes to ten and I’m almost there. I’m at the pond now and I can see Elias’s house.
I think about what might happen later. I remember what he said, about the swim. The way he practically ordered me, his eyes all dark and intense. Just before he almost kissed me. You know you want to. Just thinking about that arrogant near-command brings a flush to my skin as I walk along. The one I’m starting to get used to, whenever I think about Elias Hayes.
I’m wearing jean shorts and a sky-blue tank top over Frannie’s white bikini. The only bathing suit I had was the one from school and there’s no way I was wearing that one. The thing looks like a full-bodied chastity belt. Frannie’s bikini is more than a little skimpy. There’s not much to it at all, just a few tiny triangles of material put together with stretchy string, but it’ll have to do. It hardly matters anyway. We might not even have time for swimming, or he might have changed his mind.
Besides, he’s already seen me. Naked. Moaning. Coming.
God.
It’s mortifying but I put it out of my mind. I’m at his house now. It’s on a hill: a huge, two-story villa. Considering it’s been vacant for a more than a year, it looks pretty good. The paint’s still clean-looking. He’s obviously had a gardener come and cut back the weeds that had begun to obscure the wide wrap-around porch. The air smells of hay and fresh-cut, sun-baked grass. But there’s no sign of a gardener now. There’s no sign of anyone.
I go up to the door. There’s a note taped to it.
Sadie,
Start wherever you want. Cleaning stuff’s inside. I’m in the barn. I’ll be back later so be ready for that swim.
E
Bossy, as usual. Then again, he is … my boss. Just the thought of that, weirdly, makes me aware of the soft warmth of my own body.
The sensitive tips of my breasts.
The light sheen of sweat on my skin from the heat of the day.
The fluttering, intimate pulse. There.
I open the screen door and step inside.
The house is beautiful. Dusty but still majestic. It’s about twice the size of our own house, and much fancier. Hazy sunlight filters in through big bay windows that look out towards the pond. The wood floors are smooth and there’s a large stone fireplace. The only piece of furniture is an old grand piano. It’s the kind of piano that makes you want to sit there and compose something. I imagine what the resonant, echoing acoustics in the huge, empty house would sound like.
But I’m not here to sing or compose. I’m here to earn my ticket out of this one-horse town and make my way to big city lights.
I find the cleaning stuff Elias has left for me, in the kitchen. The kitchen, too, is huge, with granite counters, fancy new appliances and French doors that lead out to a cute outdoor dining area. So I start there. I open the French doors to let in what little breeze there might be. There’s a radio sitting on the counter so I turn it on. It’s already tuned to my favorite station so I turn it up a little. I tie my hair back into a ponytail, put on the rubber gloves and get to work, wiping the counters, cleaning the fridge, mopping the floors.
The song comes on: the one I’d heard yesterday in the car. It’s clearly a hit and you can see why. It’s catchy and soulful, touching that rare sweetspot between raw, talented zeal and commercial perfection. And that voice. That husked croon that hits me right where I live. I’m on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a soapy sponge. Strands of my hair have come loose from my ponytail. And damn this bikini; I’m practically falling out of my tank top. My short shorts feel too tight. The bikini bottoms have bunched up and are rubbing against me in a way that feels … good. As I scrub I sort of sway into the feeling, arching my back just a little. I’m sweating with exertion and getting all worked up over this damn song again. I don’t just feel hot, I feel hot. Like all my erogenous zones are on overdrive. I’m tempted to take off my clothes and work in my bikini but that would be ridiculous. The light, moistening swell of my … pussy is starting to throb in gentle pulses as I move.
Oh, God, this is crazy. The languid, rhythmic, slippery beat is gaining momentum.
And as I listen more closely to the song, I realize it: the voice sounds familiar. That dark, sexy rasp.
But no. It must just be a coincidence.
As I work and the beginnings of the sensuous rise tease me, I hum along to the tune.
I’m not the only one.
I realize Elias is standing there, singing softly along with me, watching me. I didn’t hear him come in. He’s leaning against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest, all six-foot-something of sun-burnished, sweat-shiny muscles, smoldering indigo eyes and messily-smoothed black hair. His masculinity sort of gleams and oozes, enveloping me in its inv
isible haze. He’s wearing a pair of black shorts and work boots. And nothing else.
I freeze but my body is alive with a strong, pulsing heartbeat, not just in my chest but between my legs. I can feel his presence right there. Where I’m sodden and swollen. Where the warm sweetness aches.
“Jesus Christ,” he drawls. “You are fucking beautiful.”
I’m a little taken aback by it. Not just by the crass forcefulness of the delivery, but the sentiment. He thinks I’m beautiful. Even though I feel far from it right about now. Which makes me wonder if he’s mocking me again. I can’t quite tell. I don’t hear a lot of swearing. But I like the way it sounds when Elias does it. It sounds aggressive.
God.
I feel like I’m about to combust, or melt into a puddle right here in front of him. I’m still on my hands and knees. My whole body feels supple and hot, simmering with that honeyed heat. Then I notice it: a huge, bulky, swollen ridge inside his shorts.
Oh my God. I’m going to die.
I’m going crazy. My heart’s racing. I stand up, somehow, and lean back against the coolness of the marble counter, holding onto it for support.
And I can’t believe what I’m thinking, but I can’t stop myself. He’s just to sexy for words. He’s so big. I want to feel him. I want to slide my hand over him. Touch my fingers to his ...
“Wow,” he says, his eyes scanning the kitchen surfaces. “Looks good.” He walks past me, close to me, as he goes to the fridge and opens it. “You want a drink?”
“Sure,” I manage.
He grabs two bottles of Budweiser, opens them and hands me one. I take it. I’ve never drunk a beer before but I don’t tell him this. I take a sip. It’s bitter and cold. I’m so thirsty I drink about a third of it in one go. Then I drink a little more. Elias smiles a little, sensing my unease, maybe. Misinterpreting it. “I don’t bite,” he says, then adds, his voice low, “Unless you ask me to.”
Hot Summer Lust Page 3
