One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One 3)

His voice was rough with lust and she w

as high on being the cause of that. “I’m wet.” She groaned and laid an arm over her eyes. He had the lights low, but there was something about this that made her feel a swirling mix of vulnerable and desirable.

He made a sound of agreement and his nose nudged against her vulva, making her gasp. His hands were wrapped around her ankles one moment and then pushing her thighs still wider the next. He mouthed her through the soaking fabric of her undies, making her body feel wound up and tight all over.

She needed more, his hot tongue, his thick fingers. “Please.”

“What do you need, pretty girl?”

“You, I need you. I always need you.”

One big hand slipped under her butt, urging her hips up, as he stood away from her knees, the other dragged her undies down her legs to the jangle of her feet shifting on the keyboard, leaving her bare and slick and vibrating with expectation.

He didn’t make her wait; he didn’t show mercy. He cupped her butt to tilt her hips and licked through her folds, tongue flicking her clit, before he latched on and sucked. She’d have arched off the piano lid but for the big hand spread across her abdomen. She’d have come furiously had he not known it from her ragged breathing and backed off, rubbing his face with a prickle of light stubble on her hip, dragging his open mouth over her stomach.

That’s how he tortured her, bringing her close and backing away. Conducting her reactions with his mouth and his firm, warm hands. It was beautiful and brutal, and she lost herself inside the music of it as he made her body his instrument and played her into a state of shuddering exaltation.

When it was over, he climbed up beside her and flashed a smug grin. “Do you think you’ll be able to walk again?” She lifted a foot and put it down heavily on the keys, the sound of sexual exhaustion, making his smile get wider. “Did I break you?”

He would if this kept on. He would break her into a million untrustworthy pieces. She should tell him now when they were soft towards each other, when there was a chance his reaction might not cool into anger, might go the other way entirely into surprised relief and gratitude.

She pushed her fingers through his hair, words crowding in her head, queuing on her tongue until he said, “You’re extraordinary, Mena. I’m falling in love with you,” and she swallowed them like bitter poison she might choke on.

EIGHTEEN

Declarations of love definitely shouldn’t come when your woman was hard pressed catching her breath after you tongue-fucked and finger-banged her into the lid of your designer grand piano on your second night together. Fuuuck.

Grip was drumbeats for a heart mad about Mena but he’d had to open his fat trap and scare the glow out of her.

Letting his emotions ride all over his good sense wasn’t something he ever did. It wasn’t sensible how he felt about Mena.

Like they were destined.

And that was some A-class bullshit.

He’d tried to brush over it with an invitation to chill in the spa and Mena had gone to use the bathroom and that was a long enough time ago that she might’ve packed her toothbrush and lit out of here like her beautiful arse was on fire.

The water was balmy and the muscle tension he’d carried out of the music room onto the deck and into the spa had soaked out, but his head was a mess. He liked her; that wasn’t controversial. He could hear more and more of the sound of her, a composition of complex melodies. She was gorgeous and smart, and learning about her childhood had made him respect her ambition and success even more.

Should’ve just played her a piece, you pretentious dipshit.

He was about to get out, dry off and find his phone to see what kind of excuse she’d made to disappear when she arrived on the deck completely naked except for a pair of funky black-framed glasses that made his disappointed dick sit up and take notice.

With her hair piled up in a cute do, the vibe was so much naughty librarian he embarrassed her by whistling loud enough with his fingers in his mouth that Barney the beagle next door started howling.

He grinned at her. If she expected finesse and sophistication hanging around with him, she was flat out of luck.

“Short or long sighted.” How had he not noticed contacts? Too much pleasure in the act of kissing her; he’d closed his eyes to go deep into it.

“I can’t see much up close.”

“I like those on you.” The glasses, the hair, the blush, the wry smile.

“They don’t count as clothes.” She eased in, sitting opposite him, bubbles hiding everything. “Ah, this is lovely.”

He poured her a mimosa. Their toes tipped. It wasn’t enough contact. The water warm but the vibe between them a little chilled. He’d tell her he knew he was out of line, heat of the moment and all that. There was a reason they said never to trust declarations of love in the thick of making it. They were way OTT.

She said, “Grip, I—” but he talked over her, “Mena, what I said before—” he stopped when her knee brushed his. It was just a smooth knee touching a hairy one underwater, but it made him lose the rest of the sentence. “What were you going to say?”