by Eden Summers
“That’s the dining room.” He pointed a hand toward the darkened doorway across the hall. “And the bedrooms are that way.” He pointed to his right, and then turned to the left.
A few steps ahead was the start of a staircase leading into pitch black darkness. Her pussy clenched with the possibilities the limited visibility could hold. In the dark she wasn’t flawed. At least, she could continue to pretend, anyway.
A click sounded as he flicked on a light, and the illuminated staircase stole her excitement. He descended, taking her hopes for a non-masturbatory orgasm right along with him.
“You coming?”
She smothered her whimper of mourning and continued after him, trying not to concentrate on the muscles tightening the material of his shirt. He took another turn at the bottom of the staircase and hitched a thumb over his shoulder.
“Back there is the gym.”
She didn’t bother glancing in the direction he pointed. Gym. Muscles. Hot ‘n’ sweaty. No, thank you. Her mind had enough stimulation without seeing where he pumped iron.
“And over here is where I practice.”
He strode through a doorway, and turned on another light, bringing into view a huge, shiny, black drum kit in the corner of a large room.
“Nice,” she squeaked. Standby to self-destruct into a drooling, panting mess in five, four, three… It was only a drum kit. Not visual Viagra. It shouldn’t have had that big of an effect on her. Too bad her libido didn’t know that.
“It does the job.” He stopped at the side of his drums and rested his coffee on the floor.
Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.
He did.
His defined ass slid onto the stool behind the kit, and he produced two sticks from out of nowhere. He began absently twirling them in his hands, watching her, melting her panties. She focused elsewhere, away from the man testing her restraint, past the rippled foam soundproofing in scattered positions on the walls, over the framed, signed images of what she assumed were famous drummers, toward the small shelving system in the corner to her left. There were CDs behind the glass cabinet, more drumsticks, and on top of the structure was a docking station with an iPod. That was it. There was nothing else in the room to distract her from all the hyperventilating goodness of the man before her.
Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. She raised the mug to her lips, sipping away the frustration at not being able to drag Sean to bed. She detested her inability to continue flirting with him. If she did, her words would be nothing more than a cock tease. It was impossible for her to follow through with any innuendo. Wasn’t it? She was determined never to reveal her scars, so sex had to be out of the question. Or did it?
Christ, she was wavering like a flag in the wind.
She’d denied herself too long. Her libido was demanding the feel of a strong man’s body against hers. The brush of rough stubble and hard muscle. She wanted the thrill of passion and the height of ecstasy. She wanted adoration, no matter how fleeting.
“Wanna sit with me and I’ll show you how to play?”
She shot him a look. A scathing look. One that said I’m horny as a goat, don’t fuck with me.
He laughed. “You can sit on my lap—”
“And then you can tell me about the first thing that pops up, right?”
“Would I do that?” He waggled his brows, still twirling those damn sticks with ease, winding her tighter with each revolution.
“You promised.” She shot another pointed finger at him.
“What?” He held up his hands, the drumsticks stopping dead in their tracks. “Come on, Red. Come sit with me.”
Why was she even contemplating it? Why was she moving toward him? Why, oh why, oh why, was she caught in his gaze and unable to stop her feet from dragging her forward? She came up beside him, almost within reach, and released a silent moan at the extensive bulge in the crotch of his pants. Her lungs seized, and she fought to breathe. “You lied,” she grated over her dry throat.
“How’s that?” he murmured, doing a pretty shitty job of hiding the chuckle in his voice.
“Well, unless there’s another set of drumsticks in your pocket—”
“Drumsticks?” His laughter echoed into her chest, the vibrations making it necessary to squeeze her thighs together. He pointed the sticks at her, the rounded tip almost reaching her chest. “There’s a big difference, sweetheart. Huge.”
His smooth, deep voice was killing her. She was going to have to move. She was going to have to leave.
“Want me to prove it?”
Run. She slid out of reach, glaring. “Not funny. You promised no flirting or innuendo.”
“What?” He threw his hands up in exasperation and chuckled. “I can’t be honest now? You made reference to something popping up. I assure you, I’ve been hard as stone for over an hour now. My dick can’t pop up any more than it already has.”
Not cool. So, not cool.
“Let’s play a game then.” He chuckled through his words.
“If your next sentence contains the words hide the salami, I’m walking out that door to find my own way home.” She held in her own laughter and willed herself to stop looking at his devilish grin.
“Simmer down, Red. It’s all above board and PG rated.”
He said PG, but his tone and the look in his eyes said fuck-fest extravaganza, or maybe it was just her underappreciated hormones messing with her mind.
“I’m listening.” In honesty, she didn’t want to leave. He was a sight. A dreamy, mouth-drying sight she didn’t want to back away from. All she needed to do was stay out of his pheromone range.
“I’ll play five drum beats, and you have to tell me what song each of them are from.”
“Oh, come on. As if I’m going to have any correct answers. I love music, but I don’t break it down into instruments.”
“I’ll make it easy on you.”
I’ll also mesmerize you with my grin so you can’t say no. Damn him.
She pondered her answer. If she declined, she’d regret it for the rest of her life. If she said yes, he was going to blow her away with his awesomeness. She’d be driven to have sex with him. He’d see her scars, judge her, think less of her, and she’d end the night hating herself even more than she already did.
“Fine. What do I get if I win?”
“Let’s make it something simple like—the satisfaction of knowing I think you’re pretty cool.”
She rolled her eyes. Wow. Great prize. Far better than an orgasm. “And if you win?”
He glanced at his watch. “Then you have to stay here with me—”
“No way.”
“—for an extra half-hour.”
Oh. Way to go jumping the gun, Melody. “All right. Just don’t make them too hard. They need to be popular songs.”
“Promise.” He started twirling again, running those wooden sticks in and out of his fingers like a magician.
She diverted her gaze, needing to concentrate, and stared at the soundproofing on the walls like a mental patient in need of asylum. The first tap against one of the hi-hats startled her, and she turned, unable to stop herself from watching as he rhythmically kept tap, tap, tapping in a fast rhythm against it.
He didn’t waver in tone or pace, just continued on the one hi-hat, tap tap tap tap tap tap.
“Is that it?” She stepped closer, frowning at him.
“Be patient.”
Seconds later, he hit two of the drums in front of him, twice, while his foot pressed hard against the pedal underneath, making a booming sound. Instantly she knew the beat; it was ingrained in her mind yet she couldn’t think of the accompanying lyrics to come up with the song title.
Dun-dun, danannahnananahnah. Dun-dun, danannahnananahnah.
In time, he went from working the hi-hat, to the big round drums and the pedal thingy. The same thing, over and over.
“Thunderstruck.” She almost yelled the answer and felt a burst of pride when he smiled ba
ck at her, tilting his head in acknowledgement.
Again, he started on the hi-hat, this time in a different rhythm. A few beats later he did that floor pedal thing, then added a drum beat up top while still working the hi-hat. She had no clue how he did it all. One hand going one way, while his other did something different, along with both feet working two different pedals on the floor.
Her thug had skills. And when the hell did he become her anything?
“I don’t know this one.” She shook her head, too confused from his gorgeousness, the way his muscles flexed, and the ease in which he played something that seemed extremely difficult.
He hit the cymbal, then continued to do another loop of what he’d just played. “You sure? Do you want to take a guess?”
Her only guess would be that this game sucked. She was going to lose. “No. I’m done.”
“Roxanne,” he sang the word, playing along in time. “You don’t have to put on the red light.”
Shock consumed her at the voice that almost perfectly matched pitch with the song. He was talented, and on such an intense scale that it took her half a life cycle to respond. “By the Police?” She scowled at him. “Oh, come on. You can’t pick songs that were made before I was born.”
He chuckled, cutting off the beat and leaving the room in silence. She wanted to lick him—his smile, his jawline, his muscles…or maybe just one in particular.
“Fine. I’ll pick something in your era.” He twirled the sticks. “And I’ll start later in the song so you get a better feel.”
Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam-bam crash.
This beat was harsh, dirty, with cymbals and a whole heap of pounding on the drums in front of him. The room vibrated, throbbed. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the heavy lines of concentration on his face. Like her, he became one with the music. He was the beat.
“I’ve got nothing.” She raised her voice over the banging and crashing. “I don’t know it.”
“Oh, come on, Red. Don’t let me down.”
He continued thumping those sticks, making her heart echo the fast tempo. She didn’t want to disappoint him, which was weird because impressing men had never been her thing. They could either take it or leave it. Yet now, she was frustrated with her inability to name the song.
“It sounds like cult music,” she yelled. “I don’t listen to that crap.”
The sound cut off, and her ears rang from the silence.
“Red, you’re killing me.” He clucked his tongue. “It’s Enter Sandman.” Her scrunched expression must’ve said it all because he quickly followed up with an aghast, “You know Metallica, right?”
She crossed her arms over her chest and raised a brow at him.
“You know Metallica, don’t you, pixie girl?” His tone was gruff now, his gaze tracking her.
She waited out the moment, wondering how long she could taunt him. Of course she’d heard of the band, but it wasn’t on her playlist.
“You don’t know Metallica?” he gasped. “Get out.” He pointed his sticks to the door, shaking his head in disgust. “You don’t belong here.”
She pressed her lips together to stop from grinning and shrugged her shoulder. Two could play this game. Turning on her sandal covered toes, she sauntered toward the door, adding an extra swing to her step.
“But if you leave, you lose.” Ba-bang ba-bang ba-bang ba-bang bang bang.
She paused, familiar with the famous beat. “Phil Collins.”
“Can you name the song, sweet cheeks?”
Sweet cheeks? She swung around to face him. “In the Air Tonight.”
He inclined his head, grinning at her like he’d won a prize. Had he? She was definitely lost to him.
“One more to go.” He began playing, this time watching her instead of the gear surrounding him.
The beat was gentle, slowly growing, building, becoming a heavy sound mixed with cymbals before softening again. It was nice, she supposed, not thuggish, or overbearing. It kind of told a story, even without the words. It wasn’t a song she knew, though.
She shook her head. “I guess you win. I don’t know this song.”
“Sure you do.” He replayed an earlier sequence of beats, ba-bang ba-bang crash, ba-bang ba-bang crash. “Close your eyes and listen.”
She complied, swallowing over the vulnerability his request brought. She was naked to his perusal. Entirely exposed. Her body hummed with the image of him firmly planted in her mind. Her legs ached under his scrutiny, too. He was leading her, like a partner on the dance floor, his charm sinking under her ribs and into her chest. The beat didn’t even penetrate anymore. She was lost in the thought of him—how his skin would taste, how his mouth would take hers. Damn it. She had to have him.
The room fell silent, and she blinked her eyes open to find him staring back at her. His cockiness had faded; only the faint hint of a soft smile rested on his lips.
“You still don’t know it?”
Another shake of her head. She couldn’t speak, her throat was too dry.
“I thought for sure you’d know this one. It’s Fighting Against Attraction.”
“Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I still haven’t had a chance to listen to the track.”
He stood, his large frame filling the room as he approached, squeezing her insides into a tight ball of yearning. “Wanna listen now?” He quirked a brow and continued toward the iPod dock in the corner. “I’ve got it here.”
“Sure.” She’d come to his penthouse wanting to be his distraction, now all she needed was something to take her mind off wanting him so badly.
He played with the device in the corner, then pivoted and leaned against the wall, watching her. “I hope you like it.”
No pressure. She gave a soft smile as a guitar riff filled the air, and Mason Lynch’s unmistakable voice began to sing. How did you work your magic over me? I never wanted you under my skin.
Snap! The lyrics mimicked her thoughts, telling a story of attraction that wasn’t controlled or desired. The music was gentle, a delicate strum of guitars mixed with the basic beat Sean had been playing earlier.
She turned away and closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her. Dance moves played like a movie in her mind, flowing effortlessly with the tune, building in intensity along with the crescendo in the music. Then the chorus hit and she jolted with excitement. It was entirely different. Up-beat, fast paced, hard, heavy.
Get outta my mind. Steer clear of my heart.
I’m fighting this attraction, and it’s tearing me apart.
Lifts, flips, pushing, tugging. This dance would be epic in its beauty. She could already see the story unfolding before her eyes. The two of them were trying to seduce each other, dying to be the one to win the battle, yet hating their own desire at the same time.
So, in actuality, all she had to do was display her current feelings through dance. Awesome.
***
Sean watched, enthralled, as Red kicked off her sandals and relaxed into the sound of his music. Her shoulders jerked in sharp movements, hitting each of his beats. Her fingers twirled at her sides, as she pointed the toes of her right foot and trailed them in an intricate pattern.
She pivoted on one foot, swaying to the final bars of the song as she faced him. Her eyes were closed, her face such a peaceful mix of enjoyment and nirvana that he wanted to bridge the distance between them and kiss the love of music from her mouth.
“What do you think?”
The final riff sounded, and a smile widened the curve of her lips. “I can’t wait to get started.” She blinked her eyes open, now grinning with full force.
“Then start.” He pushed from the wall and leaned forward to press repeat on the iPod. “Show me what you’ve got.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “I don’t have anything at the moment, just a mass of thoughts and images running through my mind.”
“I don’t care.” He didn’t give a shit what she came up with. He wanted to see her
move, any way, anyhow. “Throw some ideas at me.”
Her smile wavered as she lowered her gaze to the floor. And there it was, her vulnerability returning to the forefront in Technicolor.
“Are you nervous because of me?” That had to be it. Every time they were close, or on the verge of touching, she changed. He didn’t like it. He wanted her confidence, and her head held high with her bright pixie smile beaming.
“Nervous? Because of you?” She let out a breath of laughter that wasn’t convincing in the slightest. “No. Not at all.”
He stalked toward her, noticing the change to her stance as he approached—the stiffening of her spine, the nervous twitch of her hand at her left thigh. Like hell, she wasn’t nervous.
“Then you won’t mind dancin’ with me.” He stopped a foot away, close enough to hear the slight hitch in her breath over the music. “Let me have it.” All of it.
“OK, then.” She shrugged and quirked her lips to the side as she looked him up and down in a calculating, entirely sterile manner. “Because the song not only showcases soft and sweet lyrics and tone, but also rough and hard, we have an innumerable amount of moves at our fingertips.”
She shuffled backward, then frowned and strode for the iPod. “Do you mind if I turn this off?”
“Not at all.” He didn’t care if she threw it against the wall.
“So…” His barefooted pixie shuffled toward him and placed her hands on her hips. “The song starts out strong, saying that he doesn’t want to be attracted to her. So in my mind, I see a woman walking up to you, seducing you with her proximity, until you can no longer fight the urge to touch her.”
She sauntered forward, playing the part of seductress, thrusting him right into the fantasy of the lyrics. He wanted Red. Clearly, she didn’t want him. He had to fight the attraction he had for her as she stopped before him. He had to curb the need to drag her into his arms and kiss the concentration from her lips.
Gently, she settled the tips of her fingers on his chest. She strode around him, blazing the trail of her touch to his bicep, then his shoulder blades, and all the way back around to his chest. He was on fire, the breath in his lungs heavy and congealing, his cock begging to be sated.
