‘A gigolo?’
I giggle. ‘I’m serious.’
‘Right.’
He moves his hand again, curling it around my ass, his fingers drumming against my flesh, stirring new heat.
‘The thing is, Ally...’
God, the way he says my name is so amazing.
‘It’s not about the fame. That’s incidental. If I’d only been able to be a busk on a corner, playing my songs, I’d have done that. It’s always been about the music.’
His passion—oh, how can I not respond to his passion? It is so sexy.
He leans over and kisses me, his fingers still pressing against my ass, our naked bodies hard against one another. But he separates from me suddenly and without warning, so the impact is intense and immediate.
‘I’m going to grab a quick shower.’
He stands, sexy and naked, and I watch him disappear through the door, sauntering through the lounge area of the suite. He bends and reaches for his jeans, lifting his phone out of the pocket.
He does something with it. I watch curiously. But it is the work of a moment. A quick text? A check on Twitter? Whatever... He is gone again, and a second later I hear the shower running.
I push back against the bed, breathing in the smell of him that still hangs in the air.
My fingertips run over my body without my knowledge, touching the skin that he has sensitised, that his lips have kissed, that his body has possessed.
I listen to the shower and impatience zips through me.
Impatience to see him again.
I push up, my body sore in the best possible way, and stroll through the hotel room. I pick up our clothes as I go, used to this now. Used to removing the signs of our passion almost as quickly as they appeared. I lay his jeans over the back of the sofa and place my negligee on top, then pad naked into the bathroom.
He’s humming, his body covered in shower gel foam, hot water steaming the glass, so that I see him without seeing all the glorious details of his body.
Hungrily, I move closer, listening, smiling, admiring.
His eyes are shut, and I can just make out his spiky lashes, all clumped and wet.
‘Hi.’ I prop my hip against the vanity unit, my smile widening as he opens his eyes and looks towards me.
‘Hey...’
‘Don’t stop.’
He arches a brow. ‘If you wanted to hear me sing you should have come tonight.’
‘Didn’t I just come?’ I tease.
He laughs, but starts singing again—louder, so beautiful. His voice is like warm caramel and sunshine, but it’s dusty too, with a depth and husk that makes my knees weak. There is no one like him. He channels the best of Bruno Mars, Ed Sheeran, Jason Mraz, and yet he is singularly unique.
‘I could listen to you sing all day.’
He pushes the glass shower door open and holds a hand out without breaking off the song. Thank God. I step in and he pulls me close, moving his hips as he sings. I can see the passion on his face. A passion for music. He creates worlds with his voice—the same way I do when I put pieces of art together. When I create a room. A feeling. A mood.
He sings on, holding me close. He’s looking straight a but I know that he’s seeing the song, feeling the words. It is beautiful, magical. Water streams over us. I don’t want to say or do anything that will break the moment. I watch him closely and my heart thumps hard against my ribs, my stomach swirls.
At the end of the song I lift up on tiptoes and kiss him.
Gently.
Gratefully.
His music is a gift and he gave that song to me.
Just me.
It is so much more special than if I’d seen him at the concert.
‘Now, why would I go stand with a heap of screaming fans when I get to listen to you in the shower?’
His grin is beautiful. ‘The acoustics in here are actually pretty fantastic.’
‘I’ll say...’
His fingers wander over my skin, and I sigh.
‘Okay, Ethan Ash. Dinner’s ready.’
He groans, rolling his hips. ‘But it’s so good in here...’
He’s right. Being in the shower with him, I am in a blissed-out state of nirvana. I cup his cheeks.
‘That’s true.’ I reach behind him and flick the taps off. ‘But I’ve cooked, and I never do that, so you kind of have to eat it.’
‘You’ve cooked?’ He’s fascinated by that. ‘Where?’