Unwritten (Woodlands 5)

My limbs stiffen and then shatter, the ecstasy exploding through my veins, taking me apart and leaving me a wonderful, replete, utterly satisfied wreck.

* * *

“What took you so long?” I ask as we lie in a sweaty heap in the middle of the bed. The comforter is on the floor and the sheets are pulled away from the mattress, but I don’t care. I’m too exhausted to care. I have only enough energy to trail my fingers across his chest.

“Your brother cornered me about a song he’s written. I couldn’t brush him off.”

“Was it crazy down there?” There seemed to be an endless stream of people in and out of Davis’s room.

“There were a lot of folks. Too many. I was glad to escape.” His arm curls, pulling me close enough for him to drop a kiss on the top of my head.

“Do you need to go back down?”

“No. Besides, I can’t. You destroyed me,” he teases.

“That bad?” It’s a joke. I mean it as one, but a kernel of uncertainty creeps in.

“Hardly. This is my smug-as-fuck voice. I knew we would be combustible the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Yeah?”

Adam runs one of his big palms over my back. He, too, can’t keep his hands to himself. That’s encouraging. “Couldn’t you tell? I stared at you for the last three songs.”

“I didn’t have my glasses on,” I admit with a pleased smile. “I was looking at the stage.”

He slaps his free hand against his chest in a sign of exaggerated hurt. “Don’t tell me that. I thought we were having a moment. I planned to write a song about it.”

I’m glad I can tuck my face into the side of his chest, because the idea of him writing a song about me melts every bone in my body, and I don’t want him to know that his joke is something I’d like way too much.

“Maybe I will anyway,” he murmurs.

“Sure,” I say with burning cheeks.

His body shakes as he chuckles. He knows. God, he knows how I’d like that. Of course he knows. He’s a musician. He’s gotten women into his bed all his life because they love his music, because they want him to immortalize them like John Legend did Chrissy Teigen.

“You know if I write a song about how amazing you are, I’m allowed to do anything I want.”

My smile immediately turns to a frown. I shoot upright. “Like what? Cheating?”

He looks dismayed. “No. No. I meant like leaving my wet towels on the bathroom floor or drinking milk out of the carton.”

“That’s barbaric.” My heart rate slowly returns to normal. “Drinking milk from the carton,” I clarify.

“I know. I was an only child and grew up spoiled rotten.” He sits up and slides an arm around my waist. “I have bad habits.” He rubs his nose against my cheek. “I always like to get my way. I don’t like sharing.” He draws me down to the bed. “I’m not interested in any other women, Landry. Just you. Let me love you.”

I open my arms and my body and let him. I know he doesn’t mean love love. He means sex. Fucking. He’s a musician, after all. They live in the moment. They hook up on tour, because that’s just what they do.

Still, even if I only have him for a short time, it’ll be worth it.

Chapter Twenty-One

Landry

Tour Stop: San Antonio

“How long do we have until the bus leaves today?”

“About an hour,” Adam calls from the bathroom. Through the open door, I can see his tight butt as he uses his towel to scrub water from his hair.