by Lee Piper
It’s not until both hands are done, the nail polish is dry, and I’ve finished giving her a light massage that I realize my one-sided monologue lasted almost an hour. Glancing out the window, it’s clear the sun is higher, doing its best to penetrate the branches of the decaying, knotted tree. I don’t like its chances but am heartened by its attempt.
So, after tucking the blanket beneath Mom’s chin, I stand and smile sadly. “Love you.”
I spend the next few moments straightening her room. I set some crystals to charge in the sunshine, add essential oil to her electric burner, and freshen the small bunch of Californian lilacs sitting in a plastic vase beneath her ocean print. I check to make sure she’s got enough herbal tea and am satisfied that her collection of reiki gemstones are still emitting positive energy.
Content, I nod.
Until the back of my neck tingles with familiar awareness.
Zeke.
I’d done such a good job of ignoring him, I forgot he was there. But not anymore. There’s a brooding vibration in the air and it’s messing with the waves of serenity emitted by the crystals. Even they don’t stand a chance against him. Holy Hera. If natural molecules can’t compete with his virile presence, what hope do I have?
Negative thoughts aren’t going to get me anywhere. I need to be strong, resolute, unaffected. I need distance.
My fortifying pep talk gives me the strength I need to face Zeke. I even raise my chin, disregarding how freaking delectable he looks leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and eyes trained on me.
“I’m ready. Let’s go,” I state.
Thankfully, as I approach Zeke, my steps are sure and don’t falter once. He watches carefully, his expression blank. But I don’t buy it. I’m almost certain he senses my resolve to end our relationship, and, knowing him, he’s trying to figure out a way to negate my newfound tenacity with a special brand of pigheadedness. Ironic, considering he was the one who didn’t want a relationship in the first place.
But I’m determined. Heck, I even make it down the hallway, past Jeanette’s now empty desk, and into the parking lot without going back on my decision. I keep my hands, arms, and legs to myself, which is pretty damn admirable in my book.
Until he ruins it.
Just as I’m about to open the car door, Zeke’s giant body presses into my back, pushing me against the warm steel. My hands dart out, catching me before I’m crushed. I hate that I like the feeling.
Two large palms brace on either side of mine; they’re twice the size and three times as strong. I watch them, mesmerized, and frustrated because I’m mesmerized. It’s a puzzle I have no time to piece together. His broad chest blankets my shoulders, and his hips thrust against my lower back. If I wiggle my ass, he’d harden.
I’m not going to wiggle my ass.
“Stop it,” a deep voice growls in my ear.
Okay, maybe a little.
“Swear to fucking God, siren. If you rub against me one more time, I’m gonna take you right here in this parking lot. We’ll give the residents a real good show. They’ll be begging for a double dose of Viagra by the time I’m through with you.”
“You wouldn’t,” I whisper, clenching my thighs together to ease the sudden ache, my body screaming anarchy at my mind.
“Try me.”
The possibility of a public indecency charge prevents me from doing just that. Not that I want to have sex in front of old people, and I definitely don’t want to have it with Zeke. I mean, I do. An elemental part of him calls to an essential part of me, and no matter how much I try to block it out, it’s there—a fundamental truth. However, I promised myself I’d stay away and focus on the bigger picture, so that’s what I’m going to do.
Soon.
Very soon.
Why does he have to feel so good?
Glancing over my shoulder, I take in his clenched jaw, his warning stare, and the deep grooves between his brows. “You’re angry,” I murmur, once again drawn to the storm in his eyes.
“Damn fucking straight I’m angry. You’re pulling away from me.” His head lowers, and his warm breath whispers across my skin. I shiver. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours needs to stop, you hear me? Stop.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you motherfucking can.”
Closing my eyes, I attempt to block out his direct stare, the way he sees straight through me. “You don’t understand—”
My eyes dart open as I’m spun around and once again pushed against the car. “What the hell?”
Zeke cups my face, his eyes burned caramel. “Explain it to me. Tell it to me real slow, so I can understand what changed in the last hour. Last I heard, this was a done deal, and now you want out?” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t happen that way. I’m not letting you go that easy.”
There’s a hint of something in his eyes, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s fear. And if I’m honest with myself, my own gaze probably mirrors it too. I grasp his hands, trying to stop him from touching me but somehow forcing him closer.
“We can’t keep doing this, Zeke,” I plead. “I need to focus on what’s best for Mom right now. I can’t let myself get distracted by you or anyone else.”
His knee pushes my legs apart while I bite back a groan. “This isn’t a casual fuck, little siren.”
Dampness pools between my thighs as I run my hands through his hair. “I know. Jesus, I know.”
He smirks. “You’re calling on a Christian god now?”
“Desperate times.” I smirk. “And it’s all your fault.” My nails dig in to his skin. He hisses. “Being with you makes me forget everything, everything. For the past few days I’ve barely thought about my own mother, and yeah, I was comatose for most of it, but the woman’s fucking dying. How selfish is that?”
Broken, I rest my forehead against his and take a deep breath. His fresh pine scent warms my insides. I want to savor it, delight in it for as long as I can. Because after that, I’m letting him go.
“We need to end this.” My heart hurts. It hurts so freaking much I can barely get the words out.
“No.”
“No?” My head whips back until my confused gaze lands on his determined one. “It wasn’t a question, so how can you reply with no?”
With slow, deliberate movements, Zeke’s palms skim my neck, the sides of my breasts, my ribs, and come to rest on my hips. He yanks me forward, the corner of his lips quirking at my soft gasp. “From where I’m standing, it’s simple. You’re mine, I’m yours. The. Motherfucking. End.”
“Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” I groan as he grinds against me. “Getting Mom out of that nursing home is my priority. She’s my sole focus.”
“Never said it wasn’t.”
“Then why are you still touching me? Why are you distracting me? Why won’t you let me go?”
“One, because you don’t want me to.” He nips my collarbone.
A fair point, but denial’s a beautiful place.
“Two, because I can’t.” He bites my shoulder.
And just when I thought my feelings were safe, he tampers with them a bit more.
“And three, being together and getting your mom out of this hellhole aren’t mutually exclusive.” Dipping his head, he licks my cleavage.
I open my mouth to argue but he rises to his full height and pins me with a direct stare. “Listen to me. You want to finish the recording? We’ll finish the goddamn recording. You want your mom someplace nice? We’ll find her a fucking nice place. But you’re not doing it alone. None of this ‘we need to end it’ bullshit is gonna fly. We’re in this together, you got that? Deal with it.”
“Deal with it,” I murmur, lost in his unwavering gaze. Lost in the steadfast certainty of a man who knows what he wants. How did someone so cold, so set on being alone, become the very person intent on keeping me close? How is it that he’s now drawing me in while it’s me trying to run away?
Strange.
&nbs
p; Zeke nods, pressing his hand against my heart. To my dismay, its erratic beat tells him everything I’ve tried to talk myself out of since first walking into the nursing home. Every lie, every falsehood, every half-truth fades with each resonant thump. It’s time for honesty, both with myself and the man who demands nothing less.
We belong together, the storm and the siren.
It’s pointless pretending any longer. The charged air is evidence our souls were destined to meet. All we can do now is accept that Fate holds our future in her grasp and trust in whatever she has planned. Problem is, she isn’t always kind.
For our sake, I hope she is.
Recording goes well. Really well, if I’m being honest. For the remainder of the day, I push all thoughts of Mom, the future, even Zeke to the back of my mind. I refuse to think of anything except rocking the hell out and doing a kickass job of it. It’s not easy, but I stay positive, focused, and play like the professional musician I am.
By early evening, we’ve recorded the guitar track for one and a half songs. Not bad, considering I was an emotional wreck this morning.
Zeke’s impressed too. He doesn’t say anything—like usual whenever he’s seated behind the console, he’s all business—but I only had to repeat the final riff thirteen times, and after layering it on top of what the boys had already done, he nods, his eyes bright.
“Good,” he murmurs.
While relaxing on the sofa in the production room, I tap my bare foot in time with the music. There’s something about being immersed in creativity that makes my world feel brighter, richer somehow. It’s like I’m contributing to someone else’s eventual happiness, and that thought makes me proud.
“This is amazing, Zeke. I love what you’ve done with the timing. The post-chorus sounds are much slower now. It’s great.”
“More depth that way.”
After resting weary hands above my head, I close my eyes and surrender to the unique, intricate sounds. Drake’s vocals are epic, his range, pitch, and raw emotion better than ever before. Reid’s drumming is out of control, the off beats mixed with the brutal rhythm of his snare heightened after some postproduction fine tuning. I’m glad for it. I want the whole world to recognize how talented he is. When the guitar kicks in, a smile spreads across my face. The notes are dirty, yet crisp, the chords increasing in complexity as the song progresses, peaking at the solo midway through.
On. Point.
Grinning, I open my eyes to find Zeke staring at me.
“I’m taking you out,” his deep voice rumbles. “I’m gonna feed you, then I’m gonna fuck you.”
It’s impossible to control my body’s reaction to his blunt declaration and searing gaze. My nipples harden, the friction of my lace bra against them causing heat to swarm my stomach. I shift in my seat. “Um, what?”
He stands, strong thighs filling out his jeans to mouthwatering perfection. I check the corner of my mouth to make sure there’s no drool. All good.
“You’ve hardly eaten all day, so we’re going out.” Zeke gestures to the door. “Let’s go.”
His words slowly filter through my lust-riddled brain, causing me to scramble upright. “Zeke, we can’t go out. There could be paparazzi. We need to keep a low profile until after the recording is finished. The last thing we want is for someone to get wind of the fact we’re together. It could mess up everything.”
Striding toward me, he stops not even a foot away. From where I’m positioned on the couch, his cock is at eye level. I swallow, then glance away.
“Won’t be paparazzi where I’m taking you.” Zeke holds out his hand. “Come with me.”
Undecided, I gaze at his fingers, then his cock, then his fingers again. To be fair, both could get me into trouble.
Do I want trouble?
Focus, Wil.
“Willow,” he warns. “If you don’t stand in the next three seconds, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry your fine ass out of here.”
My eyes dart to his face. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Three,” he growls.
I glare at him.
“Two.”
I cross my arms.
“One.”
When he moves forward, I jump to my feet. “Okay, okay! But you’ve got to promise we won’t end up on some trashy celebrity gossip site tomorrow morning. The boys would disown me if my picture is plastered under the heading ‘Guitarist Sleeps Her Way to Stardom.’”
“I’m not on the paparazzi’s radar.”
Hands on hips, I narrow my eyes. “You’re one of the best music producers in the world and you’re dating the guitarist whose band won Rising Star. Trust me, you’re on their radar.”
Zeke lifts my chin. “Can’t control what other people do, but I sure as fuck can deal with the aftermath.”
“Key word being after.”
He shrugs. “Not gonna spend my life worrying about people who don’t mean shit to me.” His thumb flits across my cheek. “Are you?”
I sigh. Zeke’s right. It’s useless wasting energy freaking out over people I’ve never met and events that might never happen. If he assures me there won’t be paparazzi where he’s taking me, then I need to trust in his word. Besides, I might as well celebrate a killer recording by eating out; I’m starving.
“Fine,” I huff, my stomach choosing that very moment to grumble. “But I’m taking a shower first. I’m all sweaty.”
Zeke smirks, and it’s so damn sexy I barely resist the urge to strip him naked with my teeth. He trails his index finger down my neck, across my collarbone, and dips it deep into my cleavage. After swiping upward, Zeke puts his finger in his mouth, groaning softly. “Fuck, you taste good.”
My mouth drops open. “You did not just do that.”
He winks.
“That’s so freaking hot. There must be something seriously wrong with me.”
“Nothing wrong with thinking your man licking sweat off your tits is hot.” Then, wrapping his hand around the back of my neck, he leads me from the room. “Let’s get out of here before I fuck you on my console.”
“What’s wrong with—”
Stopping, he spins me around until our gazes collide. Zeke’s expression holds every dark promise I’ve never had the courage to whisper deep into the night. “The first time I bury myself inside you ain’t gonna be in the production room. I’m gonna have you in my bed. You’ll be writhing underneath me, your skin flushed with heat and your cunt dripping from the orgasms my tongue’s already given you.” I gasp. He shifts closer. “When I thrust inside you, your pussy’s gonna clasp me so tight, you’ll give yourself a fucking cramp.” Leaning down, he bites my bottom lip, pulling at the plump skin before releasing it again. His hooded eyes take in the abused flesh. “That’s how it’s gonna be, little siren. It’ll be worth the wait, that’s a fucking promise.” Tucking some hair behind my ear, his gravelly voice rumbles, “Reckon you can wait till then?”
Swallow. Nod. Swallow again.
“Good girl.”
My insides melt. Why is it whenever he calls me that, I liquefy into a puddle of goo? Surely a woman who knows her own mind, who’s strong and independent would revolt against the endearment? I mean, I’m twenty-two for Apollo’s sake, not twelve. And yeah, he’s in his early thirties, so there’s a definite age gap, but we’re adults, damn it. Being called a good girl shouldn’t shoot sparks of excitement through my blood.
But it does.
Shaking my head, I clear the arousal-induced haze.
Zeke leads us through the exit, activates the alarm, and we walk in silence to the elevator. Moments later, we’re upstairs in his apartment and I beeline for the master en suite.
It doesn’t take long to shower. Thankfully, Zeke and I do it separately, otherwise it would have been an entirely different story. It does, however, take me an age to decide on what to wear. I’m not usually the type of girl who worries about my looks. I prefer to focus on internal happiness rather than seeking it from external praise.
But I have no idea where we’re going. Do I dress up, stay casual, find something in between?
After rummaging through my overnight bag for what feels like hours, I pull out a white bohemian dress I bought at a seaside bazaar last summer. It’s one of my favorites. The soft cotton drapes off both shoulders and cinches in at the waist before flaring into a full skirt. The dress is short, stopping midthigh, but the lace overlay makes it less stripper and more playful. I pair it with some gold sandals and a blue opal necklace Mom gave me for my eighteenth birthday. The sparkling gemstone hangs off a long chain, resting snugly between my breasts. Doesn’t hurt that it’s renowned for evoking love and passion either.
Once dressed, I head to the bathroom and coat my eyelashes in mascara. Deciding to hell with it, I add a touch of lip gloss as well. Since the humidity from the shower gave my auburn hair a soft wave, I decide to leave it down and wild. I take a step back and admire my reflection. “Looking good, Wil.”
I tuck my phone into an antique clutch, tip my shoulders back, and stride to the living room. Then stop.
“Sweet Eros,” I whisper, my voice evaporating into the air like droplets in the sun.
Zeke stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me. His black shirt stretches across broad shoulders and draws the eye down the line of his powerful torso. The sleeves are rolled up his forearms, exposing rippling muscles beneath, and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets. A black belt wraps around his narrow waist, fitted between the loops of charcoal suit pants that mold his ass to absolute perfection.
The man looks like a model, a dream, my fantasy.
He must notice the way the air changes, how it crackles with heat, because he turns to face me.
Blink.
Silence.
Growl.
Zeke’s eyes skim my body, his posture turning predatory. He treads toward me—step, step, step—until he’s close enough for me to breathe in his addicting scent. Cologne and Zeke. My favorite.