Easy Melody (Boudreaux 3)

“What else is down here?”

“A guest room and bathroom that I haven’t touched yet,” he says as he leads me to them, and I can just picture the room in my head when it’s finished. Widen the window, add a stand-up shower where a broken claw foot tub was.

It’s simply amazing.

Next, he leads me upstairs.

“How many bedrooms are up here?” I ask as I watch his ass, not two feet away from my face, and it suddenly occurs to me that this was his view the other night when I led him up to the roof at the bar.

Thank God I was wearing the shorts that show off my ass nicely.

“Six,” he replies. “Four bathrooms. But I’m going to make it four bedrooms. The master is small, with no closet to speak of, so I’m going to open it up to the bedrooms on either side of it, add a closet and make the bathroom bigger.”

I’m moving ahead of him now, opening doors, exploring the second floor like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Is there a third floor?”

“It’s attic space, or was.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I was thinking theater room and game room.”

I grin, nodding. “That would be so great.”

“You approve?”

“I do. Not that it’s mine to approve of, but yes, I love it. What’s in the room behind you?”

“My room,” he says simply, then cradles my face in his hands and looks me dead in the eyes. “And if we go in there, we’re not coming out until morning.”

Thank God.

“What if I get thirsty?” I whisper, watching his lips as they quirk up into a half smile.

“Unless you’re thirsty,” he amends. “Callie, I want you in my bed, naked and moaning beneath me, but I’m not one for rushing things.”

Hearing those words, in that growly sexy voice of his, has my panties soaked.

If I wore panties. Which I don’t.

“I don’t feel rushed,” I reply and push my hands under his shirt. His skin is smooth and warm under my fingers, and all I can think is, give me more.

“I didn’t bring condoms,” I whisper.

“I have that covered,” he whispers back.

He brushes his fingertips down my face, then he pushes his fingers into my hair at the back of my head and tips his forehead against mine. “I’m going to fuck you like no one else ever has.”

I simply smile, reach behind him and open the door, and walk in with him, our bodies almost touching, our lips only millimeters apart. We’re already panting. His eyes are blazing, and I couldn’t look away from them if I tried.

“Wanna look around?” he asks.

“Later.” I guide his shirt up over his head and drop it to the floor, then take my sweet time letting my hands graze over his muscled torso. “I’d rather check you out for now.”

“Not complaining here, darlin’,” he drawls. So, when he’s turned on, his accent is about twenty times stronger.

So noted.

His hands are balled into fists at his side and he simply watches me as I explore him, tracing a tattoo on his shoulder with my fingertip, then dipping into the crevices of his biceps.

God, he’s ripped.

“How does a musician stay in such good shape?” I whisper.

“Martial arts,” he replies. “I’m having a hard time not touching you right now, sugar.”

“I never said you couldn’t touch me,” I reply and place an open-mouthed kiss over his left pec and down to his stomach. “Your abs should be illegal.”

“I’ll call the cops.”

I grin, then lick a circle around his navel and down the faintest trail of hair that disappears into his jeans.

“I thought these were a myth,” I say as I trace the V in his hips with my fingers, and suddenly, I’m lifted into the air and being carried to the bed. “Didn’t like that?”

“I want a turn,” he replies. All humor is gone from his voice, but the heat hasn’t left his eyes. “I need to get you naked.”

He sits me on the bed and lifts my blouse over my head. Since I’m eye-level with his cock, and I can see that it’s straining against his jeans, I reach up and unfasten them, then guide them down his hips.

“You don’t wear underwear either?”

“Either?”

I look up at him through my lashes and send him a coy grin. “Either.”

“That’s it.” We’re a tangle of fabric and limbs as we strip each other down, throwing clothes haphazardly around the room. Finally, we’re facing each other, completely naked, and I can’t take my eyes off of him.

“You know that movie with Emma Stone and Ryan Gossling, where he takes her home and she makes him take off his shirt, and she says he looks like he’s photoshopped?” Why am I talking so damn fast?

“I don’t know,” he replies, his eyes roaming over me, as if he doesn’t know what he should look at first.

“Well, you look like you’re photoshopped. Seriously, Declan, your body is…” I can’t finish the statement. I can only swallow and blink, and when my gaze finds his again, he’s advancing toward me. But rather than the mutual attack and scramble to make it go fast that I’m expecting, he guides me back on the bed, climbing over me, and rests his cock against my center as he covers me and brushes stray hairs from my face.

“You’re stunning.” His lips nibble mine while his eyes watch me. “I want to make you moan.” He kisses his way down my neck, to my collarbone. “Call out my name.” Takes my nipple into his mouth and tugs with his teeth. “Come so hard you don’t know what day it is.”