Sheet Music

by Tibby Armstrong

  Ice clinked in his glass and he studied her while he sipped his drink.

  Her mind scurried to find a topic of conversation. What game was he playing, and should she be worried?

  “I’d say ‘fancy meeting you here’ but I think we both know it’s no coincidence, is it, Ms. Martin?” he asked, his accent caressing her ear like a lover’s hot tongue.

  She ignored him and gulped down the rest of her drink.

  Coward.

  “Another, please?” she queried the barkeep.

  “Same?”

  “Yes, please,” she answered with a voice that felt as dry as dust.

  “We’ll take them in my suite,” David interjected and rose from his seat to stand behind her.

  Kyra’s heart skipped a beat and she darted him a look that was meant to be acerbic, but ended with her feeling as if she were a deer caught in headlights. Turning to face him, she almost stammered.

  “Your suite?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that where you planned to wind up this evening? I say why not get down to it. Skip all the nonsense.”

  His eyes, sparkling-blue ice, froze her in place. His jaw formed a hard line from ear to chin that told her something besides granting her an interview or a dance in his sheets was on his mind. He was angry and trying to hide it with a pretense of passion. A little muscle beneath his right ear pulsed. Interview or no interview, she didn’t believe she wanted to be alone with him right now.

  She cleared her throat and looked around the room.

  “Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

  For the briefest moment she could see she’d surprised him, but the look was masked almost before she registered it. He smiled, and it wasn’t nice.

  “I’ve known for some time the press are nothing more than liars and whores.”

  Kyra sucked in a breath. She felt as if she’d been struck. Where did he get off forming assumptions about her and her profession when all she wanted to do was help him showcase his talent?

  “How dare you!” she sputtered.

  She stood, her hand itching to imprint itself on his Riviera-tanned face.

  “How dare I? How dare I, Ms. Martin?” he hissed. “Who paid to find out when I’d be down for drinks this evening? Who did you wear that dress to entice? Who did you flaunt your wares for this afternoon?”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he surprised her with a hand that ran down her arm and grasped her wrist to pull her to him. She looked up, ready to shout at him, to tell him where he could stick his misplaced English arrogance, but instead inhaled and stared at the lush mouth that was lowering inexorably toward her own.

  Just before he would have kissed her, he whispered against her lips, “So what’ll it be? Liar or whore?”

  Kyra gasped and pushed him away. The slap that rang through the bar hushed the patrons and brought a beefy man in a charcoal-gray suit to his feet.

  David looked down at her with triumph in his eyes.

  “Tsk,” he admonished and reached up a hand to stroke the blazing red mark on his cheek. “That’s no way to get an interview.”

  “Go. To. Hell,” she said through clenched teeth and grabbed her clutch before fleeing the bar.

  The ride up in the elevator was interminable. Tears blurred her vision and made it impossible to figure out the right way to put the old-fashioned key in the door. Kyra jerked the handle and rattled the oak with a force that should have had the floor attendant running to help her.

  “Insufferable, conceited prick,” she cursed and laid her forehead against the cool wood. Tears ran down her face and splashed onto her dress, spotting the fabric. Her shoulders shook as she wished the world would swallow her up and put her out of her misery.

  The trouble was, she knew he was right. She was willing to sell at the very least a piece of herself for this story. Even if her professional reputation weren’t on the line, Gil’s was. He might be the managing editor, but he was new to the position, and the publishers still watched his every move with a critical eye. Magazines ran on famously tight margins. As a full-timer, Gil could afford to screw up even less than she could.

  Kyra drew a deep breath and swiped a hand across her eyes at the same time the elevator chimed. Against her better judgment she glanced over her shoulder to see who might step off. Of course, it was him.

  She looked away and straightened her shoulders, attempting to go for calm and cool, the effect ruined when her shaking hand dropped the key on the floor. Scooping it up, she tried again. If she timed it right she could slam the door as he walked by.

  Upside down.

  Damn.

  She flipped the key the opposite way, the regal silver “R” on the fob mocking her haste. The lock turned and she stepped over the threshold. When she moved to close the door, his wide shoulders filled the frame and she stepped back.

  Apparently taking her retreat as an invitation, he entered and shut the door with a kick of his heel. One step forward and he framed her head with his hands on the entry wall.

  Kyra flattened her palms on the cool, smooth surface behind her and stared up at him in surprise. Her chest bellowed out with a hastily drawn breath. She didn’t know if she was going to scream or sigh, but he solved the dilemma for her when he dipped his face down to the place where her shoulder met her neck and nipped.

  Her hands came up in a flurry of movement to grasp his hair. Slanting her head to the side, she silently begged him to continue the trail of love bites up to her ear.

  His breath on her skin prompted a heady rush of desire that had her legs trembling beneath her. As if he sensed her growing weakness, he shored her up with a muscular thigh at her apex.

  She moaned and met him thrust for thrust, the friction flooding her pussy with heat and a heavy fullness.

  “Like that?” he growled, and she thought she would come from the sheer decadence of his voice in her ear.

  Her breath was a moist hiss. “Yes.”

  When his hand came down to pluck at her breast in concert with the pressure of his leg, she knew she was lost. Pinpricks of light flashed behind her lids and she shuddered as she cried out.

  “Too easy,” he murmured and unzipped her dress with one deft tug. “You’ll have to wait for the next.”

  He pushed the dress from her shoulders and cool air met her nipples when he lifted her breasts up and over the edge of her demi. The contrasting heat of his lips had her whimpering and searching for another release. Each draw of his mouth and flick of his tongue made her beg. She’d always come easily, but with him she was like a powder keg primed to explode at the slightest touch.

  She was in nothing but her thigh-high stockings and black Manolo peep-toe knockoffs, her dress pooled at her feet while he remained fully clothed. She unclipped her hair and reached to tug up his shirt, but he captured both her wrists in one hand and stretched her arms over her head.

  “No,” he chided and she heard the soft slither of his zipper as he released himself from his trousers. He tore open a condom with his teeth, his eyes never leaving hers as he rolled it with a smooth flick of his wrist.

  His branding heat slid between her folds in a slick frottage that had her gasping for air. Each time the ridge of his cock grazed her clit, she shuddered and cried out.

  His laughter prompted despair. He had to let her come again.

  “Want something?” he asked with a dip of his head and a nip at her breast.

  “Fuck!” she shouted as both a plea and an epithet.

  “Certainly.”

  With a pull on her wrists, he positioned her just so. In one swift stroke he filled her to the hilt. The angle of their bodies wedged her clit up against his root and she felt a gush of warmth and heat prepare her to better accommodate his girth.

  He groaned and she couldn’t suppress a smile at the thought he was as affected by her as she by him.

  Still grasping her wrists in one hand, he palmed her bottom to hold her steady for a series of full-length thrusts that ended just shy
of the bundle of nerves that were crying out for one more touch. A hearty thump and she’d go over the edge, but he apparently wasn’t going to accommodate her.

  “Sadist,” she hissed, and he laughed.

  “You can come like this, with me inside of you and nothing else, can’t you?”

  Kyra mewled and shook her head. She’d always been a clit-stim girl. She needed the pressure to bring on her orgasms.

  “Well, let’s see if you can learn.”

  Releasing her wrists, he placed his other hand under her bottom and lifted her so she canted against the wall where he could look down to study their bodies where they joined.

  “Look how beautiful,” he prompted.

  She followed his gaze. Her Brazilian wax afforded an unobstructed view of the wide length of his blue-veined shaft as he withdrew the shining tip and achingly re-entered her after a delicious gaping pause.

  The wall supported Kyra’s shoulders and she rolled her head to the side, focusing her whole being on the stretching penetration. As she did so, she became aware of the way the head of his cock bumped past her engorged G-spot. With each thrust he paused there for an extra nudge.

  Without direct stimulation she could feel her clit throbbing in time to her pulse, and she wondered if that was how it felt to be a man with an erection. The taut bud of her sex was connected to every nerve in her body. Each stroke, each breath, brought more heat and fullness to that point until she knew one more movement of David’s hips would bring a shattering release.

  She sucked in her breath to cry out with her orgasm, but at that moment he left her. If he hadn’t been holding her up she would have crumpled to the ground.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  His voice came to her as if from a long tunnel, and he lifted her to cross the room.

  A pair of upholstered arm chairs framed a gas fireplace. He flicked on the fire with the touch of a button and Kyra found herself palms down, bent over the side of one chair, her hands holding her up with a grip on the opposite arm.

  “Now. Let’s fuck.”

  His normally crisp voice was husky with need and Kyra knew he’d take her hard and fast.

  The heat of his long fingers dug into her hips, pulling her back onto the tip of his cock. With the first stroke, his still-clothed abs thumped against the arch of her ass and his pants chaffed erotically against her skin.

  Kyra gasped at the pounding assault. The back entry didn’t provide the friction against her clit that she craved, but from her experience against the wall she knew David could bring her over without it.

  He fucked her with a flurry of movement that had every nerve in her body humming with sensation. From her breasts to her clit she was awash with little white thrills of electricity that had her keening in time with his rapid-fire strokes.

  “Yes!” he encouraged.

  When she came, she issued a drawn-out cry, arching her back so that her hair brushed just above her ass.

  She thought he would come too, but he resisted, continuing to pummel her long past what she would have thought possible. The prolonged arousal of her senses had her coming in repeating, crashing waves until she sobbed against each new crest. She attempted to move her hips away from him, dreading yet desiring another rending release.

  He pulled her hips upward so only her toes touched the ground and breached her with piston strokes that had her breasts slapping in time to the motion. When he came it was with one long stroke that lifted her fully from the floor.

  A protracted cry of mutual pleasure filled the air, and then the only sound was the ragged panting of their breathing. Kyra resisted the urge to swear in disbelief. That man could fuck. No wonder he was so arrogant.

  He collapsed over her and she bit down on a breathless laugh. It seemed David Tallis created music wherever he was, including between the metaphorical sheets. The question was, when it came to getting her interview, could she make him sing?

  Chapter Three

  The cooling sweat on David’s abs brought him slowly back to earth. He’d given Kyra a performance many women would have killed for. Step one accomplished. Now she should begin to crave him more than her story.

  He kissed the nape of her neck just below the clasp of her pearls and raised himself up.

  Tidying himself, he moved to the phone before glancing over his shoulder. “Hungry?” he asked.

  She’d kicked off her shoes and ensconced herself in the chair with her arms hugging her knees to her chest. Her hair fell in a riot of waves framing her flushed face. Green eyes, still glazed with passion, blinked once as if she were trying to register what he had said. After a moment she nodded and licked the pout of her lower lip.

  He picked up the receiver to call room service. Even as he ordered, he chuckled silently, congratulating himself on a job well done.

  “They’re delivering to my suite,” he said, and made his way into her bedroom.

  A laptop lay open on a table alongside a bookmarked Michael Bublé biography. He leafed through it and was unsurprised to see her named in the author’s acknowledgements. What took him aback, however, was the well-worn guitar case in the corner. He lifted the white hotel robe from the end of the bed and returned to the sitting room.

  “Shall we?”

  He smiled, letting the warmth of the expression reach his eyes.

  She stretched out a hand for her robe, but her eyes darted away as she took it.

  The afterglow was cooling and she was second-guessing herself, he surmised. She was off balance. Like a top, he could spin her now in whichever direction he chose, and right now that was in the direction of his suite. After their little display in the bar, Günter would come looking for him if he didn’t return soon.

  “I’m famished. You must be too,” he coaxed, walking to the door.

  Kyra strode to the fireplace and flicked it off. The squared set of her shoulders said she was convincing herself to go to his room in pursuit of her story. She would never admit she was going in pursuit of him.

  He bit down on a smile. She was easy to read and he liked that about her. No surprises. No regrets.

  She turned and verdant eyes framed with silken lashes pinned him where he stood. She smiled, a dimple gracing one cheek, and his heart tripped unexpectedly.

  It was his turn to lick his lips as he watched the graceful sway of her hips in the robe. She came to him barefoot, rose-pink toes peeking beneath the hem of the white terry.

  “Sure.” She shrugged and scooped the hotel key from where she had dropped it by the door.

  He jammed his fist in his pocket and pivoted away.

  Control. This was all about control. Whoever kept the ball would win the game. Plain and simple. He swallowed hard and didn’t dare look back to see if she followed.

  * * * * *

  Kyra could have smacked herself silly for lusting after David Tallis. What on earth had made her let him into her hotel room? Then into her body? She had just met the man, had slapped him not ten minutes before he was fucking her against a wall.

  What was it about him that made her throw caution to the wind every time she saw his face? Most successful performers had a magnetism, a je ne sais quoi that drew people to them. David had it in spades. He was like a real-life romance bad boy walking confidently before her down the carpeted corridor toward the elevator.

  Wait…the elevator?

  “David?”

  “Yes?” He didn’t turn to look at her as he answered.

  “Where are we going?”

  She couldn’t see his face but she heard the smile in his voice.

  “The Royal Suite.”

  “I thought…” She winced.

  “That you had booked the suite next to mine?”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted. Doing anything less would make her look like two times the idiot.

  “You did. One of the larger ones came available this morning and I took it.”

  “Oh.” The word felt dry and cheap against her tongue. “Look. This isn’
t a good idea. I should—”

  He stopped and turned, eyes snapping sensual heat, and she found her mouth devoid of moisture for an entirely different reason. She hadn’t anticipated the sudden movement and found herself stepping back a pace to preserve some distance between them.

  “Come. Eat. You have to eat.”

  She shuddered. His voice was telling her body exactly what kind of nourishment it lacked.

  He held a hand out to her and she took it against her better judgment. Her mind was not the part of her anatomy in control here, obviously, but whatever happened it couldn’t be worse than what they’d already done together.

  His palm was smooth and dry as his fingertips curled warmly around her chilled hand.

  “You’re cold,” he murmured, and took a key from his pocket to insert into the elevator panel.

  “Just a little,” she answered, wishing she could regain her emotional equilibrium.

  He pulled her into the elevator after him and wrapped his arms around her. Her face was tucked into the crook of his arm and his chin rested on top of her head.

  “We’ll have you fed and warmed in a jiff.”

  She listened to the beat of his heart, her ear to his chest. The careful rise and fall of his breath told her he was calm, completely in control. Somehow that scared her more than it comforted her, and she resisted the urge to step away from the protective circle of his arms.

  “I didn’t mean to sleep with you.” The words were out before she knew she’d said them.

  “You haven’t slept with me yet,” he teased.

  The rumble of his voice tickled her simmering arousal to a low boil and she curled her toes into the carpet.

  “You know what I mean,” she said, annoyed more with her body’s response than with his banal attempt at humor.

  “Yes, I do.”

  The reply was so succinct. Its tone told her all she needed to know—he would not hold her loose behavior against her. He was used to women falling at his feet. What a chore, being so sexy. Being him.

  He stepped away and she lifted her hand to press the button to go back to her floor. She’d be damned if she’d spend another minute with—