by DM Davis
His thumb swipes across my mouth—removing my lip gloss—his fingers tip my chin. “So beautiful,” he whispers before his mouth captures my gasp in an all-consuming kiss that is gentle, yet demanding.
Our quickening breaths mingle as our arms pull each other impossibly close. Mouths, teeth, tongues nip, suck, and explore.
Slow and then fervent.
Tender and then hard.
Blissful and then urgent.
His hand moves down my back, squeezing my ass as my hand glides up his shoulder, sinking into his hair. A gentle tug has him moaning into my mouth, grinding his hips against me.
“Bloody fucking hell,” he pants, pressing his forehead to mine. “Kisses to end all kisses.”
“You can say that again.”
“Bloody fucking hell, you kiss like a dream.”
I stiffen at a voice down the hall, bringing me back to reality. “What if someone sees us?”
“Then they’ll think I’m one lucky man.” His voice crackles with desire. He’s still holding me tightly. His breath sends chills along my body.
I slide away, releasing him reluctantly. His hands hold on until I’m out of reach. I give us both time to recover by slipping into the bathroom to fix my lips.
When I come out, he looks sheepish. “You alright?”
I touch his face, his barely-there whiskers tickling my palm. “I’m perfect.”
He clasps my hand. “Yes, yes you are.”
“Theo.” I shake my head, feeling the heat crawl up my neck.
“Come. Let me feed you.” Ignoring my blush, he leads us back to the party.
The haze of our kiss keeps my nerves at bay and the want strumming through my body.
Bloody fuckin hell is right. That was one hell of a kiss—mulligan or not.
“FIRST KISS?” I WHISPER IN HER ear as we fill our plates from the buffet.
“What?” She giggles, her mood much improved, and pops a cherry tomato in her delectable mouth.
“Twenty questions,” I remind her. “How old were you when you had your first kiss?”
She laughs again, her lightness of spirit warming my soul. “No do you have siblings? Are your parents still married? What do you do for a living? You jump right into first kiss territory?” she teases.
I feed her a grape, leaning in. “I could have asked your favourite sexual position.”
She coughs, nearly choking. “Shit.” I pat her back. “Sorry.” I guide her away from the crowd, abandoning our plates.
Her hand waves, brushing off my apology. “It’s okay,” she manages before taking a sip of water and clearing her throat. “You took me by surprise is all.”
“So?” I prompt, wanting her reply now that she’s recovered.
“What? First kiss or favourite sexual position?” She boldens and manages not to blush.
“Yes—either." I settle on, “Both.”
She peruses the room as she leans into my side. “Mark. I was fourteen.” Her voice quiets as if she’s freeing a long-held secret. Her eyes touch on me briefly before looking away. “He was older.”
My gut clenches, not liking the idea of another man touching her, even an innocent first kiss. I frown and narrow my eyes on her. Is she teasing me? “How much older?”
“Is that your next question?” The crook of her lips gives away her naughtiness as she moves past me.
I follow to refill our drinks, whispering to her back, “I think follow-up questions should be allowed.”
“A gimme?” she casts over her shoulder, handing the bartender her glass. “Ice water, please.”
“If that means a free question, then yes.” I slide in next to her, setting my glass on the bar. “For me as well. Thank you.”
With drinks in hand, I guide us through the main room, waiting patiently for a response.
“Seventeen,” she breathes in my ear as a colleague approaches, shaking my hand and then hers. He fawns all over my girl as I contemplate how I feel about her first kiss being three years older than her, nearly an adult. A man.
I barely pay attention as the conversation wraps up and we’re on the move again. I grip her waist, pulling her close, stopping our progress as my colleague steps away. “You’re saying your first kiss—when you were fourteen—was from a man nearly eighteen years old?”
Sheepishly, she looks around the room, then slowly rises to her tiptoes, facing me. “I’m saying a seventeen-year-old man-child…” She’s so close our lips nearly touch, and her breath teases me more than her words. “Kissed me on the lips.” Her mouth presses to mine softly, scarcely moving. The hint of a moan escapes before she pulls back—a fraction. “A tender. Slow. Sensuous. Kiss.” Her lips land on mine again. My arms pull her closer. The world around us fades away. Her tongue—dear God, that sweet, decadent tongue—brushes the underside of my top lip, and I go rock hard. “His lips to mine. No tongue. Just sweet tenderness. As if…” She lowers herself, feet firmly on the floor, and steps back.
I’m in a haze—one she masterfully produced with her slow cadence, breathy voice, and sweet, sweet lips. “As if?” She needs to finish that thought.
Her hand brushes mine as she moves away. “As if…” She looks over her shoulder and shrugs. “He cared.”
As if he cared.
As if. He. Cared.
Why do those four words bother me so much? Capturing her hand in mine, we escape the main room and drift down a corridor. “As if he cared?”
She shrugs again, her eyes on the artwork on the walls instead of on me. “Your turn. First kiss.”
I’m not ready to move beyond her first kiss. “Mary. I was Six.” My response is succinct.
I open my mouth to question her further when she halts, her brows nearly disappearing in the mess of curls on her forehead. “Six?” she exclaims.
I step into her space, my hand caressing the curve of her neck, my thumb tracing the contour of her jaw. “It was puppy love. Her name was Mary. I stole a kiss—or two—before she tattled to her mum. Who, in turn, told my mum. And that was the end of that. I pined over her for a few weeks, but despite what my six-year-old heart felt, I did, in fact, survive her rejection.”
“Six is so young.”
My lips whisper across hers. “I learned early.”
“So early.”
I lean back enough to take in her astonished expression. Her bright eyes search mine with soul-wrenching intensity. “What do you see when you look at me?” An indulgent question to the woman who haunts my dreams, fills my thoughts, and surges my body into mating mode.
“Everything.” A mere whisper, like she didn’t mean to give it voice.
The philosopher in me wants to read so much into that one word. I want to read everything into it. Because when I look at her, I see my future.
I see everything, too.
A quick kiss on the cheek breaks the moment as I guide us back to the party. Her sigh of relief, confirming I made the right choice to silently accept her word for what I want it to mean and not dwell on it. Yet.
I find Marcus in a window-laden room, lightly fingering the keys of a baby grand piano. Guests are milling around, visiting, deep in conversation, oblivious to his covetous lust for this beautiful, melodic creature under his hand. “Do you play?”
His green eyes jump to mine as a warm smile spreads across his face. “Lauren.” He leans in, kissing my cheek as I move toward him. “Did Theo abandon you again?”
“No. Well…maybe.” I laugh. “Another professor wanted to talk shop.” Theo tried to get out of it, but in the end told me to find Marcus, and he’d come find me as soon as he was done.
“Come keep me company.” He sits on the piano bench, patting the seat, smirking. “I won’t bite, but I may make you sing.”
“No,” I chirp, sliding in beside him. “I don’t sing.”
“No?” He glances at me as his fingers move gracefully across the keys, strumming the melodic creature to life. “By the stricken look on your face, I’d say that’
s not entirely true.” The nameless tune quickly morphs into a classical song I recognize but can’t name. Mozart, maybe?
“You’re good.” My eyes follow his every movement. “Really good,” I whisper, not wanting to interfere with his concentration. But as I look up, his eyes are on me—studying me—as if I’m as complicated as the piano concerto he’s playing with such ease, like it’s Chopsticks.
“I’m a classically trained pianist. I’ve been playing since I was two, but I found the voice to be the instrument I truly love.” His eyes never break our connection. “You can sing. I hear the melody in your voice.”
I pause, contemplating if he’s serious. He is. “You’re such a liar.” I bump his shoulder. “You can’t tell how a person sings from their speaking voice.”
He nods on a smile. “Prove me wrong. Sing something with me.”
“No.” My face heats as fear rises up. I can’t sing in front of these people.
His voice is soft in my ear. “They don’t know you. Half of these people wouldn’t know a good voice if it bit them on the ass. Besides, they’re not even paying attention. No one has even glanced our way since I started playing.”
I’m not sure that’s true. His playing is beautiful. How could they not take notice?
He bumps my shoulder. “I’ll start. Join in when you want. If you don’t know the words, I’ll help. I won’t leave you hanging. I promise.”
The song morphs into a pop tune. Before I can even fathom an answer, he starts singing. His voice—a rich tenor—fills my ears and wraps me in goosebumps. His words of being just a man are familiar, and when he reaches the chorus, I join in without forethought—fear set aside—sucked into his safety bubble. We sing “Stay with Me” by Sam Smith. His smile grows with each word I sing, his head shaking in disbelief, making my confidence grow. Slightly. I only join in on the chorus, enjoying every nuance of his voice as he sings each verse.
“You have a beautiful vibrato. Your voice is rich like hot chocolate with heavy cream—not water,” I share as he plays the last note and before he can say anything about my singing. I nearly close my eyes when I see his lips part to speak, fearful of what he’ll say. He’s a classically trained professor of music. What was I thinking?
“Not nearly as lush as yours.” His arm bands my shoulders, sheltering me from the praise of those around us, who, evidently, were paying attention. He squeezes and kisses my temple. “Beautiful.”
The reverence in his voice brings the sting of threatening tears. He sees. Nods. And quickly moves on.
“So, do you know ‘Beam Me Up’ by Pink?” He searches on his phone, bringing up the lyrics, and places it on the music rack before looking at me expectantly.
“I…know the song relatively well—to sing along with Pink—not well enough to sing it on my own.”
His smile is tender. “I’ll sing with you. We’re in this together.”
He’s sweet and gentle. He pushes, seeing my fear but not focusing on it. He simply starts to play and expects me to sing as if it’s the most natural thing for me to do—as if I’m not terrified and shaking in my proverbial boots.
If I hadn’t made it clear before, let me say it again: I really like Marcus. He’s a great friend to Theo and now to me. I imagine he rocks as a music teacher, err…professor, as well.
We make it through the last verse, just beginning the chorus when the room begins to heat and my skin sizzles with recognition.
Theo.
FINISHING MY CONVERSATION WITH PROFESSOR HOWELL, I set off in search of Lauren. As I leave the study and turn down another hall, Marcus’ singing meets my grateful ears. She must be with him.
The instant a female voice fills the air, it’s like a siren song calling to me. Pulling. Demanding my presence.
I step into the solarium and freeze. Behind the piano, Lauren sits next to Marcus. Bloody fucking hell, that voice—her voice. I should have known she would have the voice of an angel—one that calls to me, leading me home.
My fiery gaze meets hers.
Each stride brings me closer. The look of shock, perhaps fear, crossing her face has me clasping her shoulder, pivoting to stand directly behind her and pressing my lower body to her back in reassurance. I have no doubt she can feel the bulge in my slacks. She does that to me.
Her voice awakens my need to claim her—make her mine—in a way I haven’t felt before. Libido aside, this is a need to not only claim her heart but to shout from the rooftop that. She. Is. Mine. The woman and the voice belong with me. Pride swells at the notion and recollection that she did, in fact, agree to be mine—only not publicly as my inner caveman apparently desires.
My hand remains fixed on her shoulder, caressing gentle circles as she continues to sing in perfect harmony with Marcus. Jealousy should be pounding down my calm façade, but the fact that her shoulders relaxed the moment I touched her tells me she’s in tune with me, not Marcus. She may be singing with him, but her body is thrumming with want for me.
I feel her arousal as if her blood is pumping through my body.
The song ends. The growing crowd cheers their approval, but my girl stands on shaking legs and steps around the bench, backing into my embrace.
“I’ve got you,” I breathe into her ear, my arms wrapped around her waist. She’s shaking, maybe from the high of performing—even for this small audience—but my gut says it’s more out of fear.
“Where are you going? We’re just getting started.” Marcus reaches to pull her back down beside him.
“I think she’s had enough.” My tone warns Marcus not to push.
He’s not one to back down. He’s heard her voice. She’s fed his hunger for finding hidden talent. “Ah, maybe one more.” He clasps her hand. “Theo will join us.” He manages to get her to settle on the bench with that. “He’s quite talented, you know. Wait until you hear him sing.”
Arsehole.
Her wide eyes meet mine as I move to stand beside her. “You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to.” Though, God, I want to hear her sing again. I can’t deny that.
I’m torn. I want to get the hell out of here, take her away from whatever is making her uneasy, yet I want to stay right here and sing with her—for a year or two—until I feel I can breathe without her voice resonating in my ears.
Marcus pulls up another song on his phone, placing it on the piano.
“You don’t have to,” I reiterate. She needs to choose, for my choices are all selfish: hear her sing or sequester her alone. I win either way.
“What song?” She’s speaking to Marcus, but her eyes stay locked with mine, pleading.
Guilt tugs at me. I should get her out of here. She wants me to rescue her. But I can’t bring myself to move. One more song. Then, I’ll save her.
“I was thinking we’d liven things up. How about ‘Home’ by Philip Philips?” Marcus suggests.
Her slow blink breaks our silent communication. “Home?” She turns to him, smiling. “I like that song.”
But what I heard is I can hide in that song. She doesn’t realize there’s no hiding her gift. She can sing an upbeat, fast song, but her voice will still slay it and anyone within hearing distance.
The heat bouncing around Theo’s car has nothing to do with the car’s heater.
It’s him. It’s me. Together we’re combustible—but something has changed.
“Tell me what scared you.” His hand has barely left mine since I stood up from the piano bench to say our goodbyes.
I ignore his question—buying time—knowing full well he won’t let it go. “What did Marcus mean, you should bring me on Tuesday?”
His hand tightens gently, but enough for me to meet his steely gaze. “He wants me to bring you to our music group next week.”
“Music group?”
His eyes return to the road then flash to me. “Why were you scared?” His intensity is palpable.
I take a fortifying breath. “I don’t like to be the center of attention. It unnerves m
e.”
He nods once. “With a voice like yours it would be impossible to not draw attention.”
Voice like mine? Ear-splittingly painful—make your eardrums bleed—or decent and okay to listen to? I have no idea what he thinks of my singing.
I pull away, shifting to look out the passenger window. “Did I embarrass you?”
“Is that what you think?” The bite of his incredulous tone makes me flinch.
“I don’t want to cause trouble for you.”
“Bloody hell, you do. You really think that.” He mutters under his breath as he makes the turn into my apartment complex.
“That’s not an answer,” I challenge, opening my door before he even puts the car in park.
“Fuck.” I hear before I shut the door, hurrying to my apartment.
I need to get inside. Tears threaten, and I refuse to cry in front of him.
“Wait!” More cursing as he rushes toward me, his feet pounding the pavement. “Goddammit.” His body encompasses mine from behind. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s false.”
“I need to get inside.” My voice is shaking nearly as badly as my hands.
“Here.” His hand wraps around the keys. “Let me.” His soothing tone wafts across my ear, his body still blanketing mine.
He opens the door and guides me inside, tucked against his chest. His lips graze my hair as he locks up and sets the alarm. “Jesus, you’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.” I pull away, but his strong arms limit my retreat.
“You’re anything but fine.” He pulls me square in his arms. “But you will be.”
His chin rests on my head. The thud of his heart resonates in my ear, and the ease of his breathing invites calm. “I don’t need coddling.” I resist.
In the blink of an eye, he steps back, leaving me wretched. I hug myself, trying to lessen the loss of his touch.
