Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

There’s also a weird tension in the air between Adam and Davis. I don’t know exactly what it is, but it makes me nervous.I find myself watching Davis more closely. The post-show parties in the buses are getting wilder. Last night, while Adam was talking to the bar owner, I trailed Davis into TA’s bus. I don’t know what the capacity of that thing is, but there were wall-to-wall people.

I suppose that explained why so many of the partiers were various stages of nudity. Girls were down to their bras. Guys had their shirts off. A couple were having sex in the corner of the bunk where Ian and Rudd were sitting, sharing a joint.

Davis kept himself occupied by drinking. A lot. But that was better than him joining the crew in the front that were snorting lines of coke, passing out Molly, and chasing the pills down with shots of Jägermeister.

Davis was stiff and unhappy that I was there watching him, but I couldn’t leave. It didn’t get better when Adam showed up and the half-dressed girls tried to press up against him. To his credit, he ignored all the offers and spent the rest of the night by Davis and me. He probably felt the waves of tension and wanted to make sure the Olsen siblings didn’t get into a fight in front of all the fans.

When we finally left, Davis was drunk and I was weak from anxiety. As for Adam, I think he was confused. He tried to talk to me, but I didn’t have any energy for him. I stumbled into the back and threw myself on the bed.

On the positive side, I’m not stressing about Marrow any longer. Instead I’m filled with worry about Davis, about the band, and about my inconvenient attraction to Adam.

There’s a knock on the door. “Landry? You awake?” Adam says softly.

I shove my laptop to the side and hurry to the door. With a press of a button, the door slides open to reveal a sleepy Adam, wearing sweatpants and one of those tanks that are open on either side. Slices of his golden skin flash enticingly at me as he walks in.

He’s carrying a mat under his arms. “Do you mind if I do a few stretching exercises? I haven’t lifted in a couple of days and I think my muscles are atrophying.”

I stare at his biceps. “I hadn’t noticed,” I reply dumbly.

He flexes. I clench my jaw so it doesn’t drop open in lusty appreciation.

“Well, I can feel it. I’d do it between the bunks but I don’t want to wake anyone up.”

I step aside and wave a hand toward the couches. “Be my guest.”

I hurry over to grab my laptop off the table. He tosses the mat to the side and presses a button and the table slowly lowers to level with the floor.

The muscles in his back bunch as he flicks the mat open.

“You can sit on the couch if you want,” he offers. “Won’t bother me.”

I crawl onto the cushion and scoot over to the corner.

“You managing the boredom okay?” he says as he lowers himself to the ground. He places his hands in a diamond shape and begins a series of pushups. This is stretching?

“Yeah, I have my wo

rk.” I pat my laptop absently. I can’t take my eyes off his body. Since he’s face-down, I don’t have to. I take the opportunity to catalogue every muscle, every inch of exposed skin. Everything about him is impressive.

My tongue creeps out to lick a slow path along my lower lip. I’d give my entire seven-figure bank account to be able to touch him. Just once. My fingers curl against the top of my laptop.

Desire unfurls, heating my blood, quickening my heartbeat.

Beneath me, just inches away from my fingers, Adam’s body moves in one smooth and steady motion. Up and down. Up and down. I fantasize about my own frame—smaller, lighter, softer—positioned under his. I imagine that he touches me as he does his guitar—with reverence and knowing. I dream about him kissing me, his beautiful mouth forming my name instead of lyrics.

Need throbs at my neck, my wrists, between my legs. I draw a hand down my throat, pressing my fingertips against the wildly beating pulse point. I feel the echo of that pulse in my core. God, it’s been so long.

So long since I’ve felt the tender, intimate touch of anyone. I want Adam. I want him so much I’m afraid that it’s going to be the ruin of me.

I jump up and race out of the room.

“Landry?” he calls in bewilderment.

I slam the door to the bathroom shut and shove a hand down my pants. I lean against the bathroom door and touch myself, imagining that it’s Adam’s long, talented fingers instead of my own, working me until I have to bite my forearm to keep from crying out.

Shit. This is no good.

No good at all.