Lennon Reborn

by Scarlett Cole

  She looked around the room and began to laugh.

  The sound vibrated through him. He’d never understood why people listened to shit like wind chimes and panpipes to relax, but if he could bottle the sound of her to keep with him, he’d do it in a heartbeat. “I love your laugh,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ve told you that. It’s almost like you surprise yourself when you laugh like that.”

  “I just love you,” she said, the words full of confidence that he could feel all the way down to his toes in contrast to the shock on her face, as if she couldn’t believe she’d just told him her innermost secret.

  You don’t.

  You can’t.

  No one ever does.

  His heart tightened in his chest.

  You’re mistaken.

  You’re mine.

  You’re not.

  I wish I could love you like you deserve.

  Because fuck knew he wanted to . . . badly.

  The idea sent him into a tailspin. That she could be his and not get the love she deserved.

  I wish . . .

  I think I love you too.

  The words were stuck between his throat and his heart, or his head and his heart . . . fuck, he had no clue where they were stuck or why they wouldn’t come out. So he did the only thing that had ever worked. “You won’t in a minute,” he said as he unleashed the gold paint all down her back. Lennon dropped the bottle to the floor as she squirmed against him, and then with his hand ensured that the gold paint was smeared over her ass properly. God, the woman had such a fine ass on her.

  Georgia giggled and pressed herself more firmly up against him. Despite the crazy grin on her face, her eyes were unwaveringly focused on his. “That was sneaky.”

  Wetness seeped down his back, and he realized the little minx had let go of the black paint. He was thrust back to Christmas, when Pixie had made them all watch The Wizard of Oz. It was long, and old, but in the end the only things that had gotten Dorothy home were her belief and repeating what she wanted three times. Maybe if Georgia told him two more times that she loved him, he’d find home too.

  “Let me make love to you, Georgia,” he said before brushing his lips across hers. Even if his feelings were mixed up as fuck, he could show her physically just how much she meant. He took her hand and encouraged her to kneel before joining her on the canvas that was splattered with black and gold paint.

  Georgia reached for the red, and using the nozzle, she began to draw on his chest. He didn’t realize exactly what it was she was drawing until she began to fill in between the lines. A heart. She’d given him a heart, like the fucking Tin Man. The thought almost choked him . . . and if he didn’t stop thinking of The Wizard of Oz, he was going to stab himself in the eye.

  “You have a heart to give me, Lennon. It’s up to you to choose to do that,” she said as she slid her body against his.

  Taking the lead, he lowered the two of them to the canvas. He pulled her close and slid down her body until he came to a stop on his knees between her legs. The paint was edible, but that didn’t matter because none of it had made its way onto her perfect pussy yet. Her dark hair, streaked with flecks of gold paint, was spread out like a halo around her head. The sun chose that moment to come through the clouds, illuminating her. She had no idea how much she looked like an angel, and an angel was exactly what she was.

  Inspired, he bent down and kissed her intimately. Worshipping her with a new sense of reverence, he parted her lips and licked her. Her taste was addictive, would stay with him always. He wished he could force the words out. Words that would tell her how much she meant to him. But he needed more, so he buried his face between her legs and hoped she could read between the lines.

  Georgia gasped and gripped his hair at the same time she raised her knees to arch her back. He ran circles around her clit, stopping occasionally to suck it into his mouth. She squirmed beneath him, and he smiled. He had all fucking day, and this was the only way he wanted to spend it. With her. Making her laugh. Making her groan. Making her come apart. Making her happy.

  “Please, Lennon,” she begged. “I’m really close.” The last few words came out on a gasp.

  He added a finger, sliding inside her, the syrupy sweet flavor of the strawberry paint mixing with the taste of her. God, the way she clenched around him as she came was almost as endearing as the moan that followed. Gently, he brought her down, lessening the pressure of his tongue and sliding his finger from within the warmth of her.

  “You’re beautiful when you come, Georgia,” he said as he reached for the green paint. The canvas already held splattered shades of red and gold and black, colors he’d picked because they reminded him of the two of them, him dark, her sparkling and vibrant, colors he’d never quite look at in the same way again. He squeezed some of the paint onto the canvas on either side of Georgia. Then he threw the container to one side and added more of the other colors. If they were going to get messy, they might as well get really messy, and it was his job to ensure they covered the rest of the canvas.

  “Turn over,” he said gruffly as he ran his hand up and down his aching dick. When he saw her pert ass, he had half a mind to just lean forward and take her raw, to know what it would be like just once to come deep inside her and feel it, skin on skin. But he wouldn’t, not without her permission and all the other practicalities they’d have to take care of first. Instead he reached for the box of condoms he’d placed there the night before when she’d been using the washroom. He covered himself quickly. “Sometimes, I look at you and I don’t know what to say.”

  Georgia glanced over her shoulder to look at him. “You don’t have to say the words to me, Lennon. Everything you say to me, the way you touch me shows me you love me.”

  His eyes flashed open.

  Did he?

  Could he?

  It wasn’t meant to be possible.

  Lennon crawled along her body until he lined himself up against her opening and thrust forward in one clean move. Georgia groaned at the same time he did. He held some of his body weight above her but savored all the places their skin connected, his chest to her back, his legs to her thighs. She was so wet and ready for him that he could barely stand it. Thoughts of taking it slowly quickly evaporated as she clenched around him, all tightness and warmth.

  Georgia pushed back against him, and his hand began to slip, sending green paint sliding across the canvas. He raised himself to his knees as she did. And fuck if the change in angle didn’t bring him closer to the edge. With his hand on her shoulder, he thrust faster. It felt so incredibly good that his balls began to tighten, but he didn’t want to come facing away from her. Not today. He needed to see the woman he was with. He wanted to look into Georgia’s eyes.

  Quickly, he pulled out of her and flipped her onto her back. Her chest was a kaleidoscope of colors, and he ran his fingers down her sternum, through the valley between her breasts.

  “Lennon,” she said, pulling his gaze to her face. There was smear of gold under her right eye, a touch of red on her left cheek. And she was smiling as she opened her arms to him. “Come back to me,” she said as he braced his hand to the side of her head and allowed the rest of his weight to fall over her again.

  She took his dick in her hand and placed it at her opening. He’d wanted this. To face her as they made love, a wonderful place he’d thought he’d never get to. He shivered at the thought of what he was about to do.

  “Are you scared?” she asked gently.

  “Terrified,” he answered honestly.

  Georgia placed a hand on his cheek, and he turned his lips to it. “Do it, Lennon. Show me how much you love me, even if you don’t have words.”

  As the sun warmed the two of them, as it illuminated her, and the paint, and the love displayed in her eyes, he slid into her.

  He moved with slow and steady thrusts to drive them both insane. A deep and clean beat, the music buried in his heart.

  “Oh God, Lennon,” Georgia gasped
as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him tightly against her chest.

  Lennon’s head began to spin. He felt trapped. He felt liberated.

  “I love you,” she whispered against his ear.

  He felt loved.

  And it was the greatest, most terrifying feeling in the world.

  I love you too.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In the four days since she’d spent a fun-filled hour in the shower with Lennon trying to get the last traces of gold paint from places gold paint shouldn’t really end up, Georgia had done precisely four things of note.

  She’d worked four exceptionally long days at the hospital and taken two very early morning video calls with the hospital in Japan.

  She’d helped Lennon hang their artwork in the large family area of the upper floor of her apartment.

  She’d arranged a tentative date to fly to London.

  She’d given Lennon a key to her condo.

  It was Thursday, the longest of her clinic days, and she was relieved to be home. Before she saw Lennon, she wanted to jump in the shower and get cleaned up. She went to turn off the security alarm, but noticed it was already off. She thought she could smell something delicious cooking, possibly chicken. And was that that Buddy Rich’s “West Side Story Medley” playing upstairs?

  She heard the tap of a drumstick on a drum. Just one. She looked toward where the sound came from, the second level. Lennon had abandoned setting up the drums a week earlier, and concern had prevented her from pushing him to finish doing it.

  Quietly, she slipped out of her jacket and hung it in the closet. Creeping up the stairs in her own home was at best juvenile, but she wanted to catch Lennon at his drum kit. When she’d looked the band up online, the images of Lennon’s on-stage performances had depicted a cocky persona. While she hoped that his tinkering with his drum kit was a positive sign, she preferred the man she’d gotten to know over the last month.

  When she reached the landing, she caught sight of his reflection in the glass of a picture frame. His drum kit, completely set up now, was way bigger than she’d imagined, but she had the space. Lennon, drumstick in hand, was pretending to play. He looked spectacular, the raw energy she’d seen on the videos nothing compared to what he was like in real life. But he was pulling up on his stroke, preventing the stick from hitting the drum. And though his feet were moving, they were about six inches away from the pedals. The single beat she’d heard must have been an accident. Suddenly, he stood and kicked the stool across the room. He shoved his hand through his hair, frustration etched in the lines on his forehead and in the tightness in his jaw.

  At first, she considered doubling back, going downstairs to pretend she’d never seen him, but that wasn’t the relationship they were building. She took a deep breath and walked over to him, wrapping her hands around his waist to hold on tight. “You looked incredible,” she murmured against his chest.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “I set them up for you so you can have lessons.”

  Georgia looked up at him and stepped up on her toes to kiss him. “Why weren’t you playing? For real?” she asked. “I would have liked to hear that.”

  “I don’t play jazz,” he said. “Plus, wrong cymbals. Guess I’d need some old-school Zildjian K Series.” He shrugged. “And this drummer has wicked-fast hands.”

  “Those aren’t really answers. Why won’t you play?” she asked again.

  Lennon looked off toward the skyline, and she was afraid he wasn’t going to answer. And she didn’t want to push further. She stepped out of his touch, grabbed the stool, and wandered to the kit, picking the drumstick he had held up off the floor. She grabbed another from a pouch by what she assumed was the bass. Unable to resist, she hit the drum with the white top that was in the middle of the kit. Left, right, left, right. Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  “You know, when I designed that snare drum with Tama, I really didn’t envision a baby drummer like you stabbing at it.”

  Georgia turned and looked over at her shoulder. “Baby drummer?” she asked as she deliberately taunted him by hitting the drum in the exact same way two more times.

  Lennon winced.

  Next, she smashed the sticks into the cymbal-looking things, noticing that some of them moved and some of them didn’t. “This is fun,” she shouted over the ringing in her ears.

  A hand tightened on her shoulder. “Babe, stop. My kit deserves a bit of respect. Treat it like you would my cock. Like you want it but know you could break it, and you want it to last.” A smile that didn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes told her he was teasing.

  Georgia laughed, but then his words hit her. My kit. “I thought this was my kit now.”

  Lennon shook his head like he recognized his mistake. “It is your kit. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Never mind. Move out of the way,” he said as he pulled the stool closer to the snare and sat down. He reached for her hand. “Come here.”

  He tugged her onto his lap. “Baby drummer lesson one. This . . . is a snare. What makes a snare drum is the rattle of the metal on the bottom head,” he said, pointing to the underside of the drum. “That’s called a snare. And when we hit it, we don’t stab or poke it.” He took the stick from her hand. “We strike it straight on, like this.” He tapped the drum, then did it again. Georgia studied the way the stick looked like it was almost parallel to the drum but not quite, the drum angled ever so slightly toward her. The sound was crisp and clear.

  “My turn,” she said, excited that she’d heard him play for real. She aimed for the center of the drum, trying to keep the stick parallel, but she overcorrected and ended up hitting the metal thing around the outside instead.

  “Nice rimshot, Gia,” he teased as he corrected the angle of her arm.

  When she hit it this time, it sounded so much better, and she wiggled in excitement.

  “You know, I’ve never fucked a girl bent over my drum kit before, but you keep rubbing that perfect ass of yours in my lap, I might be tempted.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. “You know, I might just let you.”

  Lennon’s smile dropped. “You asked why I didn’t play the drums for real,” he said, tightening his arm around her waist. “I feel like I’m gonna puke at how horrible it’s going to sound.”

  She placed her forehead to his, ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Lennon.”

  “But sitting here, with you . . . I miss it. I fucking miss playing.”

  Georgia pressed her lips to his. “That must be really hard. I’d love to see it . . . I mean, I’ve seen videos on line.”

  “You googled me?” he asked, hugging her tightly.

  “Of course,” she said, and laughed as she stood up. She handed him the stick back. “Show me.”

  “Gia, angel, I can’t.”

  Georgia didn’t say a word. Just sat down on the large rug and waited.

  Lennon glared at her but finally shook his head and cursed. “Fine. But this is really going to suck.”

  Georgia smiled. “So, what if it does? It’s not like I’m going to record it and put it on the internet. If you miss it, Lennon, then play. Play for the sake of it.”

  He spent a moment playing around with the position of the stool, and then thumped the foot pedal that worked the bass. And another pedal that appeared to work two cymbals that hit each other. But it was when he added in the stick that his face came alive. It wasn’t the jazz they were listening to, it was something much . . . damn, she didn’t know correct terminology, but it felt heavier, darker . . . dangerous even. It reminded her of “broken time,” the jazz drumming style popular during the fifties and sixties that involved erratic changes to rhythms. Lennon looked just like the rock star she’d seen on the internet. And geez, did it make her all kinds of hot for him.

  “You look incredible,” she said, and Lennon turned and winked at her.

  “It sou
nds like shit, though,” he said.

  Georgia leaned back on her elbows. “Not to me, it doesn’t.”

  “That’s because you don’t know how I used to sound. And half of the sound is missing.”

  His residual limb acted as if it were still playing, reaching out for the left side of his kit, and she wondered what impact a fantastic prosthetic would have. It was time she told him about Robson.

  “I have a confession to make. A friend of mine is one of the world’s best at creating prosthetics. He’s in England. I asked if he’d see you.”

  Lennon continued to play, but his beat slowed. “And?” he asked, and she was so relieved to hear curiosity in his tone.

  “He’ll see us whenever we can get there.”

  Lennon stopped playing. “Us?”

  Georgia stood and walked over to him, offering him her hand. “You didn’t think I’d let you go on your own, did you?”

  He took it and pulled her back into his lap as he swallowed deeply.

  “Gia, I . . .” He sighed and pressed his lips to her neck. “Okay.”

  A ripple of excitement washed over her. “Okay?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  They sat in silence for a little while before a sound like a buzzer came from Lennon’s pocket. “Dinner,” he said as he stood and placed her on the floor.

  She couldn’t help but grin.

  “What’s that smile for?” he asked as he took her hand and led her downstairs.

  “I was just thinking how I love the way you manhandle me.” Though she knew some people might think it sounded shallow, she loved his size and loved that he’d become more physical in the way he touched her as his strength returned.

  Lennon stopped on the stairs and turned around. Georgia nearly walked straight into him. Because he was a step lower, it was easier to put her arms around his neck. “I love the way I manhandle you, too,” he mumbled against her lips. “But,” he said, as he turned to lead them back down the stairs, “as much as I like the idea of manhandling you right now, the chicken is going to burn if I leave it in the oven any longer.”