“You never answered my question,” I say to his chin. “How do you know?”
When he doesn’t speak, I glance up and find him grimacing. “What’s that look?” I’m half amused, half horrified. How does he know?
Rye scratches the side of his head, sending his thick hair up on end. “I’m trying to figure out how to answer without getting in trouble.”
“It had better be fast, or it’ll get worse.”
“I’d rather tell hot dog jokes.”
“I bet you would. No joy, Peterson. Talk.”
“Damn it,” he mutters under his breath. “Jax warned me never to bring up lady issues to a woman.”
“Good advice, given that you both have the delicacy of a bull in a china shop.”
“Yeah,” he admits then leans in a little. “But, really, Bren, is there a tactful way to talk about Aunt Flo?”
“True. Now, spill it.” I tweak his nipple, loving the way he yelps and rubs his chest with a scowl. It’s all show, since I didn’t pinch that hard. But it’s a good show, since I now can’t stop staring at his massive pecs. I want to be the one rubbing them.
Down girl. You can’t have sex.
“Evil pixie. I have a mind not to answer you.”
“Don’t make me pinch you again.” I wiggle my fingers in emphasis.
“Okay, okay. Put away the pincers.” Rye rests on his pillow, bringing his face closer to mine. His gaze slides over my features. It’s a lazy perusal as though he’s simply enjoying looking at me. When he speaks, his voice is gentle and unhurried. “Let’s put aside the fact that I can count, and it’s been a month since the last time she was around.”
“Ah. Right.”
He keeps talking as though I haven’t interrupted. “When evil Aunt Flo is about to come knocking at your door, you start switching from coffee regular to mocha lattes. You put your hair in a low, loose braid, which makes me think you get headaches.”
Dazed, I nod. “Feels like someone’s kicked my skull.”
“Poor baby.” Rye reaches out slowly. The tips of his fingers trace a small line along my temple then slide into my hair to stroke it. “You start favoring those pretty jersey dresses that skim your long body instead of those sexy tight skirts that hug your fine ass. Sophie once complained to everyone in the room that her womb feels like there’s a war being waged inside when she’s on the rag, so I’m guessing looser clothes are more comfortable.”
“You pay more attention than I thought,” I whisper thickly.
The blunt, callused tips of his fingers caress my jaw. “When are you going to believe me? I notice everything about you, Berry.”
I’m struck silent, little fissures forming around the edges of my heart. Would it be too much to ask for just one kiss? Probably. Definitely. I’d want more.
“Oh,” he says as if remembering something. “And you wear that vanilla and caramel cookie scent when dealing with Flo. Until the day it’s over, when you switch to celebratory lemon cake perfume. Both of which, by the way, drive me absolutely frantic to take a bite out of you.”
I swear I hear a crack inside my chest. “You…You notice my perfume selections?”
The corner of his mouth kicks up just a bit. “Pay attention, angel. I notice. Every. Thing.”
Somehow, he’s slipped his arm under my neck. His big hand splays wide between my shoulder blades as he eases me against him. I go willingly because it’s too good to deny. And though his biceps are nearly the size of my head, and rock hard, he makes a surprisingly comfortable pillow.
A sigh escapes me, and he slowly rubs my back and toys with the ends of my hair. This is definitely cuddle territory. We don’t do that, not without sex. But he feels familiar now. Familiar and good. Until he arrived, I’d been restless and unsettled. I can deny it all night long, but his presence, his touch, is what I needed.
“You were surprised when I told you I had my period last month,” I point out, still stuck on this whole revelation.
“I was distracted by an overwhelming case of lust and desperation.”
“Poor, Rye-Rye.” I nuzzle my cheek on the curve of his shoulder. He’s warm and solid and massaging my sore spots.
“You hurting?” His husky whisper gusts across the top of my head.
My hand finds his waist where his skin is like heated marble. “Not particularly. I took some painkillers before bed.”
“Good.” With an earthy sigh, his body relaxes into the bed. “Damn, this feels nice. That flight took forever. Two freaking stops. Got on in Chicago and, for some reason, the plane went to Atlanta then back out to LA. We were going backwards to get forwards. Where’s the sense in that?”
The outrage in his voice has my lips twitching.
“There were no nonstop flights?” Rye isn’t terrified of flying the way Scottie is, but he’s never liked it and refuses to fly unless it’s nonstop.
Rye stills for a breath, the muscles along his chest going tight. “Not any that would get me here tonight.”
I tense with him and suddenly we’re awkward again. “Tonight?”
He shifts a little as though he might bolt. But Rye is nothing if not stubborn. “It’s Tuesday. I get Tuesday.”
Because it’s our night.
With that, he turns, cocooning me in his arms. Snuggled under the covers, it’s our own little world. I’m content in a way I haven’t felt since childhood, which is weird since there’s nothing particularly chaste about being pressed against over six feet of naked male. And despite the fact that Rye is simply holding me, he’s clearly turned on. His erection presses into my belly with an insistent nudge as if to remind me what we’re really about. We only touch for sex; that’s the rule.
Except we’ve been slowly tossing all those rules out the window.
“I have my period, Rye.” I don’t know why I’m repeating myself. I don’t want the hugging to end.
But it doesn’t matter because Rye isn’t budging. He breathes in deeply and nuzzles the side of my head. “I don’t care. We’re doing this.”
“What?” It comes out in a loud squeak. “I’m telling you now, I am not into that.”
Rye pulls back enough to meet my gaze. A furrow runs between his eyes. “You don’t have to sound so disgusted.”
“And you don’t have to sound so insulted. I mean, I’m open-minded and all, but it’s my body and…and…ick.”
“Ick?” He huffs out an offended laugh. “Cuddling is gross to you?”
Blinking in shock, I stare at him. “Cuddling?”
“What did you think I was…” He freezes before a snort of amusement escapes him. “Why, Brenna James, I am shocked. Were you thinking—”
“Never mind what I was thinking,” I cut in hastily.
“No, no, I want to hear more about this alternative scenario.”
“Never. Mind. Rye.”
Chuckling, he pulls me close again. “You’re adorable.”
I burrow my flaming face in his chest. “I will pinch you.”
“I know. You’re very fierce.” Strong fingers massage my scalp. His touch pauses for a second. “Did you meet with Mr. Taco…Marshall yet?”
I bite back a smile at his slip. At least he’s trying to behave. Then my humor fades. “Yes. Yesterday and today.”
“Two days in a row,” he murmurs in a teasing tone, but there’s an underlying tension that he can’t hide.
“It’s a big company. Lots of people to meet.”
Rye keeps playing with my hair, but the movement is stiff, as though he has to work at maintaining the casual touch. “And? What did you think?” He says it so lightly, anyone who doesn’t know him well would assume he’s excited for me. But I know better. He’s trying not to be, but he’s worried.
Perversely, that makes me smile again. I touch the hollow of his throat, caressing the little divot there. He smells of stale plane air and warm, earthy Rye; there’s no other scent like him. I’d know it in the dark now—rich and deep yet crisp, like fine bittersweet c
hocolate. People’s natural scents don’t actually smell like foods or spices, but it’s the closest I can think of. He’s hot, melted chocolate to my senses.
“Bren?” he whispers, prompting.
I’m stalling. We both know this. My finger trails along his collarbone, and his skin prickles in its wake. “I liked what I saw,” I whisper back, watching his throat move convulsively on a hard swallow. I stroke the strong line of his neck. “They have so many accounts, actors, studios, musicians, athletes, even a few wineries. I could spread my wings. But I don’t know…”
He swallows again then presses his lips to the top of my head. He doesn’t kiss me but simply breathes deeply before talking, his voice muffled in my hair. “Never be afraid to fly, Bren. Even if it takes you from all you know.”
This man. My lids prickle with heat, the back of my throat clenching. I close my eyes and lean into him, my hand slipping around his neck. “Thank you.” When I feel him nod, I speak again. “I hate change. Whenever I think of leaving Kill John it feels like I’ll be losing a limb.”
“You’ll never fully leave us,” he says gruffly. “We’ll always be there for you.”
“I know. It’s more that, when I imagine someone else taking over my job, guiding you all…I don’t like it. I hate it.”
A soft laugh rumbles in his chest. “You want it all.”
“Shouldn’t everybody?”
He laughs again and pulls me closer, until we’re pressed against each other. God, but he feels good, like the most perfect pillow—even if he’s all muscle. I sigh and try to quiet my brain. But I can’t. Because I can’t have it all. Change is coming. And I can’t fight the truth of that. Rye must feel my tension because he returns to stroking my back in delicious, slow circles.
“Go to sleep, Berry. It’s been a long day.”
I’d been struggling to sleep for hours, but his softly spoken words, the warmth of his touch, and the steady beat of his heart against my cheek all work to lull me into a state of languid comfort. My lids grow heavy, and my hand spreads wide over the hard swell of his chest. I could stay like this forever. But the girl inside, who’s constantly felt she had to prove herself worthy, won’t quiet. “You really came all this way just to sleep with me?”
There’s a beat of silence before he answers, his voice a whisper with an edge of surprise. “Yeah, I did.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rye
I wake with her hair on my face. All that glorious, silky, thick mass cascading over my cheeks, covering my nose. In truth, I’m smothered by it and am in danger of choking. Even so, I grin wide, as I gently brush the auburn strands away. She doesn’t wake but snuffles—I would never dare call it a snore—and wiggles her pert butt closer, grinding it against my increasingly interested dick.
I tell my dick to settle down, as we’re not getting any for a while. But that is surprisingly okay with me. I’m content with what I have in this moment: Brenna’s slim body cuddled up next to mine, the scented warmth of her skin, the utter peace of watching the rays of the sun stretch across the floor while holding her. After days of twitchy tension, I am relaxed.
It’s not the first time I’ve woken up in bed with someone. I’ve gone on occasional benders with different women, spending a couple of days just fucking. They were mostly hazy memories involving the high of performing, getting drunk, and getting lost in someone else for a while. There’s no shame in it. At least not for me. I had a good time with those women, and hopefully gave them one as well.
But those moments weren’t anything more than a bit of fun. It didn’t mean anything more to me. Or to them. In the back of my mind, there was always the knowledge that they were with me because of who I was, or maybe they just liked how I looked. But they didn’t know me. I didn’t know them.
I had no idea just sleeping with someone I have a connection with could be this good. It feels like solace. Like true rest. Right here, in the light of the morning, with Brenna James wrapped around me in blissful sleep, the world stops spinning.
I was thirteen years old when I heard the song that made me the man I am today. I had been obsessed with music my entire life; I listened to everything, from Chopin to Chuck Berry, Portishead to Patsy Cline. But it wasn’t until that rainy day, curled up on my bed, trying to ignore the sound of my parents fighting about yet another one of my dad’s infidelities, that I downloaded “Taste the Pain” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
It was a revelation.
I can’t even say it’s the Peppers’ best song or that it’s my favorite. But it was the first song I heard of theirs. I sat on my bed, staring up at a hairline crack on my ceiling as the music flowed over me. As Michael Peter Balzary—aka Flea, one of the best damn bass guitar players in the world—absolutely slayed. He didn’t simply provide a background rhythm, he dominated the song, owned it. Funktastic beats, hot slides of soul. It worked into my bones, reverberated through my heart.
I can play any instrument put in front of me. It isn’t a trick but simply a part of my essential makeup, like the color of my eyes or that I’m left-handed. But lying there that day, alone and confused, I realized the bass guitar offered something I’d been searching for—an outlet where I could bang out beats or strum taut melodies. I could let the rage, the pain, out in a way that would satisfy some critical need within.
For more than half my life, the bass guitar has been my world, my heart and soul. But I can no longer play it the way I want. Not with the same intensity and carefree joy. The knowledge hurts. It fills me with a gut-wrenching sorrow and choking fear. Change is terrifying when it isn’t your choice.
But here, with Brenna’s funny little snores buffeting my chest, it hits me with a calm certainty that music isn’t the entirety of my heart and soul. It no longer owns me completely. She’s there too, in my heart and soul. A touchstone in the darkness of uncertainty.
The truth of that overwhelms me, and I squeeze my eyes closed, press my lips to the top of her warm head, and just breathe. But it doesn’t help. There’s a hole opening up in my chest, getting wider and wider. Because this isn’t real. It’s stolen time.
Maybe I’m holding her too close or too tight because she stirs, flipping over to face me then letting out a small sigh as she stretches. I loosen my hold and watch her wake. Her lashes flutter, then her eyes open, revealing true amber irises flecked with gold. And I swear to God, sap that I’ve become around her, my damn heart clenches.
It takes a moment for her to focus, and I probably shouldn’t be lying here, staring, but I can’t help myself. She’s adorably mussed, soft and sleepy.
Given that I am staring, I don’t miss her slight confusion at seeing me. Maybe she doesn’t fully remember last night, or maybe she simply regrets letting me stay. It’s going to be awkward if she’s upset I’m here. Then she blinks again, her gaze growing clear. A small smile quirks the corners of her pink lips.
“Hey,” she says, her voice sandy with sleep.
Relief is a rush of air through my lungs. With the tip of my finger, I ease a strand of her hair away from her forehead. “Hey.”
Her palm is on my chest. I’m not certain she’s even aware of it. Her fingers drift over my pecs, stopping to toy with the silver bar piercing my nipple. Pleasure arrows through me, and I feel like purring. Yes, purring; I’d do it if I could.
I lean in, brush my lips over hers. Once. Twice. She sighs again, a soft sound that I feel all along my skin, and I pull back just enough to meet her gaze. “You want breakfast?”
“You making it?” she asks with an expression that is at once hopeful and doubtful.
I laugh lightly. “Of course.”
Her nose wrinkles as she peers at me. “You can cook? Because I have never seen it.”
“I can scramble eggs, dole out yogurt and fruit.” I kiss the tip of her nose, because I need that touch. “I can even blend up one of those health smoothies you seem to like.”
“They are quick and refreshing.”
My
lips skim the line of her jaw. “We don’t need to be quick today, Berry.”
She makes a noise like she’s trying not to laugh. Her hand keeps drifting over my chest, along my side. God, she smells good, not flowery or fruity but pure, heady pheromones that work like a drug to my system. I burrow my nose in the warm curve of her neck and breathe deep.
Brenna chuckles then, her fingers threading through my hair. “I’m so tired. I don’t want to move.”
“So don’t.” I curl further into her, cuddling close. I’ve decided: I fucking love cuddling. “We make our own rules here.”
She’s running the tips of her fingers along my scalp. It feels like heaven. “We do, huh?”
“Yep. Here, we’re free.” A nice fantasy. One I want to make real.
She murmurs something, her touch already slowing. Her body is melding with mine, warm and relaxed. And then we drift, talk of little things, laugh at inside jokes only we know. Like I said, heaven. It occurs to me that I should talk to her about why I’m really here. But I can’t. Right now, everything is perfect.
After a while, I make her breakfast then offer to take her on a drive. I keep a matte chrome Harley Fat Boy at the house. At first, I worry that Brenna might want a car, but, when I tell her about the bike, she gives an un-Brenna-like squeal of delight and puts on stellar ass-hugging jeans, a baby blue tee, and a pair of purple wicked-high heels. My tongue is likely hanging out, but it can’t be helped; I love dressed-down Brenna.
“Nice shirt,” is all I can manage. I’m not lying, though. It has all my favorite qualities: it’s small, tight, and on Brenna. The phrase “Earth Girls Are Easy” stretches across her chest. “Jax give you that?”
“How did you guess?” Brenna smiles, as she slips on a brown leather jacket—seriously, the woman always has clothing for every occasion at the ready.
I hand her a helmet. “Remember that Jeff Goldblum kick he went on during our last tour? Do you know how many times I had to see that movie?”
Exposed (VIP Book 4) Page 26