Anything But Mine

by Taryn Elliott

  If she just rose up onto her toes—or if she hadn’t flipped her heels off—she’d be able to reach him. She dug her fingertips into his belly. “I thought you didn’t play in the Winchester Falls sandbox.”

  “Exceptions can be made.” God, his breath was hot against her lips. She tilted her head, lining them up. He lightly brushed his lower lip against hers. Just a tiny taste. “You sure you want to travel down this road?”

  She swallowed. Yes. A thousand times yes. Even if it was just a kiss, but she heard herself say, “No.”

  “So you came here with the express purpose of playing with me?” He didn’t sound pissed. He just seemed resigned.

  She dragged her gaze away from his mouth and searched his eyes. There was a flash of pain there, but it was gone so fast she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it or not. “No.”

  “Then why did you come?” She tried to break free of him, but he held her hand tight to his belly, slowly sliding it lower. “All signs point to here.”

  The snap of his khaki shorts dug into the back of her hand. She closed her eyes at the obvious curve of the head of his cock under the material.

  Granny panties.

  No sex.

  Be strong.

  She dragged her knuckle down the length of him. Fuck the granny panties. She could slide them off and toss them under the piano before he saw what they looked like. And all of that would be inside her. She opened her eyes and absorbed the flex of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils as he sucked in a deep breath, and the ever changing green of his eyes. A face that had graced hundreds of magazines, dozens of billboards, and ten album covers. All of it was too much.

  Too much wine, too much want, too much stupidity.

  She dropped her chin to her chest, resting the top of her head against his muscular pecs. She brought her hand back up to his belly. “You have no idea how much I want to say yes. I don’t know if it’s the wine or the fact that you’re you, or if it’s more than that—and I can’t afford to figure it out.”

  He laid his palm over the back of her neck, then slowly sifted his fingers through the shorter hairs layered there. After a moment, he took a step back and his touch was gone.

  She kept her gaze on the carpet until the pattern blurred with the intensity of her stare. When she finally looked up he was across the room, his palms flat on the piano and the last of the bottle of his wine in his glass.

  “Gotta admit, this is the first time I’d rather be used.”

  Before she could say something else, church bells trilled out of Logan’s pocket. He took his glass and strode out of the room. She followed him and stopped in the center of his kitchen as he did normal things, like pull out the chicken and check it with a meat thermometer. A moment ago, she was ready to throw away a year’s worth of work for a chance to get her mouth on him.

  With a little space between them and the raspy music a mere whisper on the air, she was able to see just how dumb that would have been. Logan was the unattainable. And she would have been just another woman that warmed his bed for a few hours.

  As fun as those hours would be, she’d have to live with them. Work with him as the memory lingered between them, making for an awkward relationship. Even more awkward than this right now.

  And that was unacceptable.

  She marched to the fridge and took out the salad and some sort of homemade dressing in a bottle on the shelf above it. He hit a few buttons on the overhead microwave to cook something.

  Needing a task to keep her occupied, she took the salad to the table in the little cove off the kitchen. She fetched her glass from the music room and put her shoes back on. Heels made her feel more in control. Barefoot was way too intimate. And she was way too short to go around in her stocking feet with him anyway.

  On the second trip, she gathered the dishes he’d left on the counter for her. Setting the table was domestic and a little odd considering they’d only met each other that morning. Another quick shot of intimacy. But it was too late to back out now. And she’d had way too much wine to jump into her car and leave. Suck it up buttercup. You can have chicken and a salad with a world renowned rock star.

  Just because she’d had his posters on her walls as a teen didn’t mean a damn thing. He’d been a lanky twenty-something in one of the hottest alternative bands when she’d been in high school. All the King’s Men had soared to the top of the charts with one of her favorites to this day.

  “Tipping Mark” had been on every radio through that summer. That song had been her entry into music. She’d enjoyed music with her friends, but she’d never been obsessed with a band until that song and that album.

  But that boy had been a far cry from the man that was bustling around in his kitchen. Angry and full of heat, he’d blown her world apart with his darkly passionate lyrics. Twenty-three to her seventeen, he’d been the perfect conduit for her blooming sexuality.

  She lived in a household of academics who thought Mozart was too wild. She’d been dark poetry and angsty Brontë stories. By the time college started she’d grown away from All the King’s Men. Gone had been the angry kid with the achingly dark lyrics. In his place had been the newest poster boy for alternative rock. He’d kept the sexy guitars and band, but the lyrics changed.

  They became more of a broad strokes subject matter.

  Gone, were the intimate lyrics that ripped her heart out.

  Oh, she still sung along with his songs on the radio. She had no choice. He was everywhere and the songs were like little earworms. His voice was raspy sandpaper with velvet edges. Oddly similar to his speaking voice.

  A toe-curling bass with a gentleness that made her want to do stupid things. Like find out how his beard would feel against her inner thighs. Discover if his freckled lips were as creative as she imaged they were. Or to have those clear green eyes watch her as she went onto her knees for him.

  Dangerous thoughts.

  Was it because she could still see that twenty-three year old boy under the facade of the world weary man? Or was it because the man seemed to have all that anger and loss in his eyes again? The way he’d looked at her in the music room would haunt her for a long time.

  Like he was starving.

  Like he was a wrecking ball.

  Like he hated her.

  The dull clunk of plates being placed on the table dragged her back into the moment.

  Wow. Definitely no more wine tonight.

  “It looks amazing.” She turned on her best smile. She’d eat whatever he cooked her if it killed her. Anything could be masked with enough salad dressing.

  “Mrs. Nelson, my housekeeper, taught me how to cook. She told me I needed marketable skills in case the music thing didn’t work out.”

  Bella laughed. “Isn’t that usually just to impress a lady?”

  “The ladies I know don’t eat.”

  She sat down and lifted her plate. “This lady does.”

  “Good to know.” He served her a large portion of chicken and something that looked like a sweet potato under all the brown sugar and butter. So many calories.

  There are all sorts of ways to burn them off.

  So, she was going to need to roll Bad Bella in a rug, wrap her in duct tape and toss her into the river. Because that wasn’t happening. Her calories were going to just going to have to be worked off the hard way. With her evil workout videos.

  She lifted her silverware and took the plunge. A moment later the smoky oriental flavor and perfectly cooked chicken made her look up at him. “Wow.”

  “I know, right?” He lifted his wine glass. “To Mrs. Nelson.”

  She clinked her glass with his. “To Mrs. Nelson.” She took another bite, then moved onto the sweet potato of carb death—which was just as divine—and swished her wine glass as she chewed and swallowed. “Okay, tell me about this plan of yours.”

  His shoulders relaxed as he sliced and ate with all the grace and manners of an embassy table. She hadn’t exactly been expecting him to hunch over h
is plate and use his hands, but the impeccable table skills actually gave her a few flashbacks to dinners at home.

  “I’ve been calling in a few favors. Friends that are willing to come in and sing or play. Lindsey York and Johnny Cage already agreed to come in early and do the extra shows. Lindz will be here for rehearsals tomorrow night.”

  Bella sat back in her chair. “Really?”

  “Yeah. They want the exposure. My assistant will do a social media blast and special ticket sales. All proceeds to the King Foundation. I’ll cover whatever costs come up with the last minute tickets. And my manager will likely have my ass for it, but it’ll be worth it for the kids.”

  Her head spun with plans. Maybe the extra shows would actually be good for the town. Increasing the musical bill would bring in more people. “Security is going to be a mess.”

  “I’ll cover—”

  “Yes, so you’ve said. But can we get the security on such short notice, that’s the question?”

  “I know a firm in the city. They’re discreet and flexible.”

  “All right. I’ll leave it in your capable hands.” She picked up her knife. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  He grinned. “I knew we’d make this work.”

  She sighed. “I don’t really have a choice in the matter.”

  “It’s going to be great.”

  “I’ve heard that a few times—usually just before disaster strikes.”

  Logan laughed and took another bite of chicken. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Generally in the books I read.”

  He lifted her bottle of wine and refilled her glass.

  She was too slow to stop him from pouring. “I don’t—”

  “Might as well finish it.”

  “You’re not the one that has to drive home.”

  “You can crash here if you’re worried about it.”

  She paused with her fork to her mouth. “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve got four extra bedrooms upstairs. The guys always stay here when we record.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize you do your real recording here.”

  “Studio space is hellishly expensive. I figured it would be better to just have my own spot where I can record as long and as late as I want.”

  She looked down at her plate, surprised to see she’d finished everything, including two helpings of salad. Her bottle of wine was long dead.

  They discussed the three different nights and the other musicians he’d invited that had yet to get back to him. He’d listed some famous, some on their way to famous, and still others that had been around for as long as she could remember. His eyes lit and his hands became animated as he explained just what he wanted to do.

  An hour later she’d ended up drinking the better part of another bottle of wine from his extensive wine fridge.

  “You look beat, Izzy.”

  She traced her fingertip around the lip of the glass. “Gee, thanks.”

  He crossed his arms on the table and rested his chin on his stacked arms. “Doesn’t make you any less hot.” His eyelids were heavy with a bit more than she’d had to drink. He didn’t seem overly drunk though. Just this side of sleepy and relaxed.

  “You’re the one that looks like he could sleep on the table.”

  “Oh, I have.”

  “This does not surprise me.”

  He started yawning and pressed his forehead to his arms to cover it.

  “Now who looks like the tired one?”

  “I think I’ve forgotten how to sleep.”

  “Aww, the perpetual party boy doesn’t have an off switch?”

  “Something like that.” He smiled, but it was the fake one. The easy one that was supposed to reach his eyes and yet didn’t. But he wasn’t her friend, wasn’t her lover, and surely wasn’t her problem. So why did she want to smooth back the lock of hair that hung over his forehead and ask him what was wrong?

  Too much wine.

  Had to be.

  “Well, thanks to you, I have now had far too much wine for driving. Especially down your crazy roads.”

  “Good idea. Let me show you to a room.”

  She stood and gathered their glasses.

  “Leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Aren’t you going to bed?” She looked at her watch. “Or is this too early for you?”

  “Gotta do the locking up thing.”

  “Ahh, right.”

  She slipped her feet back into her shoes and followed him out of the kitchen and around the corner. The staircase was narrow with collages of pictures covering the wall. Landscapes in black and white, people she didn’t recognize, and instruments. So many instruments.

  When they got to the top of the staircase, she lost her breath. Moonlight bathed the entire upstairs in a soft silvery white. Huge potted plants with body-sized leaves were shoved between couches and chairs that could be classified as couches. Guitar cases, various sized drums, and a case filled with tambourines were jammed around all the greenery.

  She could only imagine what it would be like in the daytime. A sunroom in the middle of the upstairs. Or in this case, a moon room. A single guitar sat on one of the leather chairs. It looked like it had been through a lifetime of torture. Scrapes along the front, the fret worn through from the finish to bare wood in spots. A million stories probably lived inside of that guitar.

  “Izzy?”

  She turned, realizing he was already down the hall. “Sorry.”

  He was in shadow, save for a sliver of moonlight that had dented the darkness to highlight his cheekbones and bearded jawline. She was all alone with him in his house. The stupidity level of this was off the charts. Even with the ridiculous level of tension that ebbed and flowed between them, she didn’t have the least bit of fear about walking down a darkened hallway to him.

  What did that say about her?

  Not even too much wine should make that possible.

  He stood outside the third door down the hall. “Next one down is a guest bathroom.”

  She came up in front of him and rested her shoulder against the door jamb. He reached into the room, but she touched his arm. “No lights.”

  “You do make it difficult to be the good guy.”

  “Actually, I was trying to help. Maybe if I didn’t get a good look at the bed, then I wouldn’t have dumb ideas.” Because she wanted to let all the bad ideas out to play. Her belly quivered with the need to take short, panting breaths that ended in skin-to-skin contact.

  “All the stupid ideas start in the dark.” His voice was so low it was almost pure sandpaper. All of the velvet was gone.

  “Good thing we’re not stupid.”

  Sandalwood and vanilla were going on her list of avoids. They would be forever woven into thoughts of Logan. And in the dark, there was only the sounds of his breath and that incredibly distracting scent to concentrate on.

  She took a step into the bedroom and he suddenly gripped her arms. He pushed her into the door frame, his knee sliding between her thighs. She let out a strangled moan as his muscular body crowded her. His nose brushed against hers. Wine-scented breath fanned across her cheek then her lips.

  “You have no idea how badly I want to ask you to be stupid.”

  His lips were right there. All she had to do was lift her mouth and find his. To let go and fall into the chasm of pleasure he was offering. One word, one sound was all it would take.

  She pressed her forehead to his chin and breathed in his scent and heat trapped along his neck. Then she slipped away from him and into the bedroom. Every bit of warmth dissipated the moment she stepped away from him. She gripped the doorknob until her hand throbbed. “Good night, Logan.”

  He slapped his palm on the door. And for a moment, she thought he was going to push. One more offer and she’d cave. His bracelet charms scraped along the door as he dropped his hand. “Goodnight, Izzy.”

  And he was gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  He woke with
the sun searing his face and a tongue swiping up his cheek. “Get off.”

  “Get up, you lazy ass.”

  One hundred and ten pounds of Akita landed on his balls. Logan curled into himself and hoped like hell the squeak that came out wasn’t as awful as it sounded. “Jesus, Cody.”

  “My man missed you.” Zeke Stacey dropped onto the couch next to him in the atrium. Paws with gouging nails dug into his thigh as Cody turned around and dove onto Zeke’s lap. “That’s my good boy.” Zeke scrubbed his head and the dog’s leg thumped into the leather.

  Logan tried to get up, tripped over his guitar, hip checked the next chair and fell into it.

  “Smooth. No wonder you’re sleeping on the couch alone, Lo.”

  There had been much whisky after he’d left Izzy’s door. He’d made sure to put a sticky note on the front door with the code for the security system, then he’d found the bottom of the bottle. In fact, he wasn’t completely certain if he’d passed out last night or actually fell asleep. Masochist that he was, he’d stayed in the atrium, just down the hall from her.

  Had he been hoping she’d come out to find him?

  She’d closed the door in his face. You couldn’t get much more effective on the whole no thing than that. Thank fuck she’d been the one to say no. Last night he’d been so hard and aching so bad that he’d been ready to promise her anything. Beyond stupid.

  Izzy didn’t deserve to climb into his crazy, even if they’d enjoy a little sweaty one-on-one first. What then? He’d have to avoid her for the rest of his days? Or worse, try to become friends after they got horizontal? Or vertical. Or both. Because last night he’d been hard enough to pin her to every surface in his house and maybe a few outside.

  More than a few.

  He bowed his head and pushed that thought away.

  “Earth to Logan.” Zeke crouched in front of him, all blond surfer curls and as furry faced as his damn dog.