Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“I’m not falling for your tricks. I can tell you’re delirious.”
“How can I not be? I reunited with my high school crush, who happens to be an amazing musician, though he never plays for me.” He laughs, the sound rumbling around the abs I’m currently straddling, causing me to wiggle because it feels so good.
“Drums aren’t usually the woo-a-girl instrument, but I’ll play for you. I also play bass guitar. I clearly chose the wrong instruments to get the girls or the glory.”
“It was never about your talent, babe. You got the girl anyway.”
Running his hands up my back, he pulls me down and kisses my neck. He tilts to catch my eyes, and says, “I did indeed.”
“Correction. It was never about your musical talent. As for your tongue—Ah!” He flips me to the bed and crashes his lips into mine. Reaching between us, I position myself at his tip, rocking to inspire him.
With our mouths attached, caressing tongues, and our hands roaming each other’s bodies, he starts a slow back and forth. This time, we don’t just have sex. We make love.
One a.m. isn’t the hour I expected to have a private concert with Shane drumming to tracks of guitars of their recent songs. Since the studio is across the hall from his bedroom, the commute was easy at this hour.
Concert posters for Faris Wheel hang on the walls, but there are no frames, only padding to keep it soundproof from the rest of the house. The two Grammys are in a case directly in front of him. Inspiration? Motivation? Maybe both, but it makes me proud as hell as I sit for a personal drum solo.
Wrapped up in one of his long-sleeved T-shirts that has me drowning in cotton fabric, I sit in a black velvet chair in the corner with my legs tucked under me, mesmerized by his talent.
Closing his eyes, Shane loses himself in the music, letting the rhythm take over. When he opens them, the drums are loud and hit with a passion that seems to come from deep inside him, like there is no other option for him. But the way he weaves the melody in with the ear-catching beats has me astounded.
I could never deny my sexual attraction to him, and seeing him shirtless with sweat running down his forehead, the muscles in his arms and abs flexing, is making it even harder at this moment.
He puts all of himself into the song—body and soul. I can imagine he does this and more during a live performance. The sticks are dropped into a pocket hanging from what I learned is a snare drum earlier when he taught me a few paradiddles. “Are you tired?” he asks, rubbing his shoulder.
“I’m getting there, but I’m good to hang out a little longer if you want to play some more.”
Spinning off his stool, he stands. “No,” he replies, heading for the door. “I’m going to shower and then crash.” His mood has shifted in the past hour or so since we came into his studio. It’s late, and I’m sure he’s exhausted, especially after that workout on the drum kit. I could barely keep my eyes open when he was inspired to play.
“Oh.” I stand, coming toward him. “Alright. You can crash after playing like that?”
“Yep.” He hits the switch behind me and closes the door to the room. “I had to learn that trick years ago if I wanted to sleep while on tour. I could fall asleep in the middle of an arena. Tours are loud and chaotic. We had to get sleep when and where we could the first couple of years we toured. One of us was stuck driving while the others hunkered in the back of a Suburban.” We enter the bedroom, and he chuckles to himself. “I used to sleep in a sleeping bag wedged between the bass drum and a bag of cables.”
“Now look at you with this glorious bed to sleep in.”
Wrapping his right arm around my waist, he pulls me to him. “It’s not the bed I look forward to sleeping in. It’s having you here.” He takes a breath that appears to sober him. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Craving the closeness, I hold him to me. His heat is intense after that workout, yet the sweat doesn’t bother me, not when I’m living my very whirlwind romance. “I’ll wait up for you.”
“You don’t have to.” He kisses the corner of my eye. “You look sleepy. Go to bed. I’ll be out shortly.”
I step back, but he pulls me in again, cradling my head. With his lips pressed to the top of it, he whispers, “I love you.”
His tone borders on a goodbye more than a good night. I look up, needing to see his eyes and hoping for insight into his feelings. I could ask a thousand questions, but I’m learning that doesn’t always get me the answers with him. I don’t want to read too much into something that can most likely be explained by the late hour.