Emme laughed as though startled. “Thank you,” she said. “Though I’m not so sure about that ‘military assault’ thing …”
“It’s a compliment.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” She rolled her eyes, but Tom thought it was at herself and not at him. “Yeah, there’s plenty I’m bad at. U.S. history. I can’t remember who the Founding Fathers were or what they founded.” She grinned, and Tom found himself smiling in response. “Working at a real job. I was a receptionist for a while, but I hate talking to people on the phone, so sometimes I just wouldn’t answer it.”
“Kind of a job requirement.”
“Yeah, I got fired from that one. Let’s see … waiting tables. I once dropped an entire tray of gin and tonics on an eight-top. Luckily it was like their fifth round, so they didn’t really notice.” She ticked off the failures on her red-nailed fingers. “I took violin lessons for a while as a kid, but my mom made me quit because when I practiced it sounded like a dying moose. I can’t dance. And I’m hopeless at being sexy. Guys always seem to think of me as their baby sister.”
The thought of Emme as less than confident in anything felt like a punch to the solar plexus. That last statement was the one that floored him, but Tom ticked off her list in order. “I’m surprised you never tried to play the violin again. I bet if you picked it up now you’d learn fast.” Who tells a kid their practice sounds like a dying moose? He held up his own fingers in response. “Let me refute a few of these for you. One: anyone so drunk they don’t notice a gin and tonic being dumped on them obviously doesn’t need any more gin and tonics. I’m a bar owner, remember, so I’m the expert at this. We’ll chalk that one up to a service to society, not a failure.”
He held up a second finger. “Two: dancing is all about your partner and his lead. You’ve got to have a strong lead, especially if you’re a strong woman who normally leads. If your lead is good enough, you’ll dance well. I think we can safely say that you’re not a bad dancer, you’ve just been dancing with guys who don’t know what they’re doing.” The thought of holding Emme in his arms, directing her body with his—it was appealing, to be sure. So appealing that he readjusted his jeans unobtrusively and felt his face heat.
“As for number three … bad at being sexy.” He looked down at her, at the little downy hairs on the back of her neck that he wanted to kiss, the dip in and curl out of her waist and belly where he wanted to bury his face, the shape of her so warm and curved and inviting that sinking into her would feel like a hot, soft death. “I’ve watched you sing almost every night for the past two weeks. And I can tell you that no man in your audience ever sees you as a little sister. Unless they’ve got some serious Flowers in the Attic shit going on.”
Aw, hell. Might as well just throw yourself at her feet and beg her to let you kiss them, Tom thought. And then was mortified when all the blood in his body rushed straight to his dick.
Emme smiled very sweetly, but her incisors showed. “Thank you,” she said, then bit her lower lip, making him want to groan. “It’s not when I’m onstage that I’m crap at it. Then I’m Emme. It’s like Clark Kent and Superman. Lois Lane digs Superman, but she barely notices Clark Kent.”
“But isn’t Clark Kent the one who’s the costume?” Tom asked. He was having trouble catching his breath, and he didn’t think it was because of his smoking.
Emme sat up. She wrapped her arms around her knees. Bad sign. “Tom,” she started, then stopped again. She looked up at the sky for a moment. Tom felt his gaze follow hers, even when he didn’t want it to. He wondered if she thought that cloud looked like a banjo, too.
“It’s nice to hear you say that,” Emme said finally, and Tom’s heart fell down into his toes. Then she touched him, just one finger atop his, and all his attention focused on that one spot, the most alive part of him. She looked up at him, her eyes liquid and heavy-lidded. Bedroom eyes. Against-the-wall eyes. On-top-of-the-dining-table eyes. “Very nice to hear you say that, especially. But I know you may have an idea of me after what people said after Indelible Lines.”
I have no clue what you’re talking about, Tom thought, but kept his mouth shut.
“But I learned my lesson,” Emme continued. “I don’t get involved with coworkers. I’ve had to work hard to get here. I never want to go back to waiting tables or answering phones. This is what I’m good at, and I’m not willing to risk it.”
Tom blew out a breath. “I can respect that,” he said. “Look, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I can’t help the fact that I think you’re pretty awesome.” Amazing. Gorgeous. Talented. Sexy as hell.
Emme grinned at him, but she didn’t blush. “Well, sure. I mean, it’s probably going to be difficult, being on tour with a guy who’s delusional, but as long as you promise to take your medicine on schedule …”
Tom fought the urge to roll her over and nuzzle her neck until she laughed. He pulled up a fistful of grass instead, making a big show of trying to toss it at her and failing.
Emme stopped him by putting her hand flat against his chest, her palm resting right over his sternum. His heart gave an answering thud, almost like it was trying to reach for her touch.
“My turn,” she said, and the sultry tone of her voice sent his imagination to beautiful and dirty places for a full minute before she added, “Now you have to tell me about your tattoo.”
Tom grimaced, all the lovely anticipation turning cold and congealed inside him. “I may need a drink for that.”
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t.”
Tom sat silently for a long time, looking down at his hands. The tattoo had been a reminder; still was. He’d always been drawn to the painting, but he wasn’t sure if he saw it as inspiring or heartbreaking. All he knew was that he’d seen it in a library book once when he was in high school, and hadn’t been able to get the image out of his mind, like a song that repeated itself over and over in his head; only this one he couldn’t just learn to play or whistle or hum or sing along until it went away.
“You know the piece, right?”
Emme nodded. “Picasso. The Old Guitarist.”
“Right. It’s from his blue period, which doesn’t just refer to color, you know? And maybe it’s just because of the name, but I’ve always pictured blues music as, well, blue.” Tom rubbed his forehead, feeling both frustrated and immensely stupid. “Anyway. This old man … he’s broken. But there must still be something left of him, because he’s still playing his guitar. He reminds me a lot of J.R. Had a shitty life, didn’t have a way to say it, but found a way when he played. And made it … I don’t know. Something he could deal with, something he could share. When J.R. died, I wanted to remember him, and this seemed to fit, because that was something he gave me. A way to say the things too complicated for words.”
The silence that followed that speech felt charged. Even the air grew thick and heavy, clouds pushing their way in front of the sun.
He was afraid to look over at Emme, worried that she’d be rolling her eyes or maybe backing away from the babbling maniac. He stared hard at a spot across the road where the horizon met the sky and concentrated on the clouds skidding behind the scraggly trees. He cleared his throat. “My turn. How’d you start playing with Dave and Guillermo?”
The tension between them eased a little when she replied. “I met Mo the day of my freshman orientation in college. He was sitting next to me in this huge auditorium during a presentation about … I don’t know, meal plans or something. He couldn’t stop drumming on his notebook. It was so distracting.” The corners of her mouth turned up a little. “He had bumper stickers for all these punk bands all over his notebook, and just to piss him off, I said something about punk being for amateurs who couldn’t play more than three chords. He followed me around for the rest of the day.”
Tom had no problem imagining that. He’d probably have used any excuse to follow her around, too. “And you became friends?”
E
mme snorted. “We ended up living in the same dorm. I couldn’t get rid of him. He just kept showing up outside my room at mealtimes like a lost puppy. But eat dinner with someone enough, and you either decide you hate them or they turn into family. He turned into family. Eventually I got him listening to something other than Social Distortion, and now here we are.”
“So what’s the story with Dave?”
Emme sighed. “We met in Intro to Music Theory. I guess you could say we were kind of rivals. Both really full of ourselves. But one night we were at this party in the dorm lobby, and he was playing guitar—you know how college guys do, when they think it’ll make them look sensitive and get them laid, and it’s obvious that’s what they’re doing?”
Tom hadn’t gone to college, but he’d seen enough students come through his bar to imagine it. “Yeah.”
“So he was surrounded by this gaggle of drunk girls who were totally falling for it, but he was playing sloppy frat boy fare. I knew he could do better. He knew he could do better, but I think he thought there wasn’t anyone there worth really playing for. So I dared him to try to play ‘Telegraph Road,’ which he said he’d only do if I played the piano part. Our dorm had this fantastic grand piano in the lobby. And I sat down, and we played. We played all fourteen minutes of that damn song. By the time it was over, his fan club had gotten bored and wandered off, but we just kept playing because it was so fun.”
“And you’ve played together happily ever after ever since?”
Emme grimaced. “Not always happily. He’s stood by me since the whole … well, through a lot of messes, but he hasn’t always liked it. You’ve got a sister, right? Sometimes I wonder if Dave sees me as this sister who screws things up that he has to try to fix. He can’t let go, I think. Of people he loves, and of control. It’s rough for him to let me be in charge.”
Tom nodded. “Sounds like you challenge him. That’s hard for some guys to take.”
“I miss it, you know? The part that just felt so … right. The part that kept us playing until the hall director had to come into the lobby and threaten to write us up if we didn’t knock it off. I’d lost it for a long time. I feel like we’ve gotten that back lately. At least I have.”
“I have, too,” Tom said.
Emme turned to face him, full on. “You’ve done that for me. Lately, I’ve sung because that’s all I’m good at. But you’ve made me remember how much I enjoy it, too.”
Tom felt his face turn warm. God, he was blushing like a teenager on a first date. “I’m honored,” he said, voice emerging dry and croaky. “You deserve to have joy. All the time.” He had to break their eye contact as he spoke, or he’d never get the words out, so he watched his hands, lying uselessly on his knees, instead.
Then, from somewhere to his right, he heard a husky, feminine voice mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, “Oh, fuck it,” right before he caught an armful of Emme.
It was like being in a car accident, just like when the van had veered off the road and into the ditch. His brain caught up with the sensations around him on a time delay. First he registered the warm weight of her atop him, then the thunk as the back of his head hit the ground. The scent of her fancy shampoo swamped his senses before he understood that she was kissing him.
Oh.
Her mouth was soft and warm against his, her tongue slipping out to trace his bottom lip. It felt like a dare. Tom groaned and parted his lips, letting her delve into his mouth to explore.
Emme lay stretched out on top of him, every part of her body connecting with his: breasts pressed to his chest through the thin fabric of her T-shirt, bellies expanding together when they breathed, her pelvis against his. Everywhere she touched him, he flared to life.
Tom wasn’t sure how they got there, but somehow his hands were on her back, rubbing up and down the valley above her ass and the rise of her body up toward her neck. His fingertips caught on the soft, thin material of her shirt. She felt just as soft as he’d thought, but solid, her weight on him the beautiful pressure that kept his electrified body planted firmly on the earth.
He thought he might drown in her kiss, the sinewy slide of her tongue against his, the taste of her in his mouth, her breath in his lungs. She tasted like Emme; there was no other way to describe her, whatever combination of soap and toothpaste and perfume and tea with honey and pheromones that made her uniquely her. Tom opened his mouth a little further, let his tongue touch hers just the slightest bit before backing away, but she followed him, sucking gently at his bottom lip.
He reached up and found the elastic band that held her hair back in its ponytail. Gently, he tugged it free so that her hair fell around their faces, a fine blonde curtain of Emme surrounding him with her smell, her presence sheltering him from the outside world. He ran his hand along the back of her head, cupping her skull, callused fingers catching on the strands. She responded by smiling against his mouth, and Tom thought he might float clean away.
“You smell so good,” he whispered against her lips. And he couldn’t even feel bad about it, because she responded with an even bigger smile.
Her mouth left his, then, making a tour of his jaw, her tongue scraping across his stubble, her teeth nipping at his chin. Tom stroked his fingers through her hair down to the juncture where her neck met her shoulder and traced figure eights along the hollow of her collarbone, feeling her skin ripple into goose bumps at his touch.
When her hand came up to cup his face, thumb tracing over his cheekbone, Tom sighed and turned his head toward her palm. He nuzzled into her hand, planting tiny sparking kisses along her fingertips, between her fingers, in the center of her palm.
“You’re pretty,” she breathed in his ear, her voice wicked and teasing. “Such gorgeous eyes. Such long lashes.”
“That’s my line,” he replied, sliding his hand down over her shoulder, along her side. He could feel the outline of her bra beneath the fabric of her shirt, a bright red arrow on the map of her body pointing his hands toward her breasts.
Tom couldn’t stop his gasp when she took his earlobe between her teeth. The tiny pain, the sense of correction he got from it, combined with her heat, her smell, the feel of her body pressed along his, shot all the blood in his body straight to his dick.
Emme hummed pleasure in his ear. “You like that?”
Tom cupped her face in his hands and pulled her back just far enough that he could look in her eyes. Her lips were swollen and red from kissing, her cheeks pink and splotchy with beardburn. “I like it,” he said. “I like you.” As he said it, he realized how true it was. He really liked Emme. Admired her. Respected her.
And wanted her so badly he was having crazy thoughts about all the things he’d let her do to him, if only he could have her for a little while. Things he’d only explored a little, before, but that he wanted to throw himself into now with all the force he’d thrown himself into learning to play guitar or managing his bar.
Tom’s hands shook when he reached for the hem of Emme’s T-shirt. When his hand found the bare skin of her back, right where it curved and dipped down into the waistband of her jeans, they both groaned. A sheen of sweat gilded her skin, and Tom turned his head toward her neck, opening his mouth against it, running his tongue along her jaw to capture her taste. She rocked her hips against his as he slid his hand around her ribs.
Just that slight rocking pressure against his straining dick set Tom on fire. Emme was a living flame, onstage and here in his arms, and he wanted her to consume him, burn him up, leave him nothing but ashes and then scatter him to the wind.
Emme pushed herself up, using Tom’s shoulders for leverage. She looked down at him, eyes wild and bright, tangled mane of hair falling around her shoulders, and deliberately ground her sex against his erection, slowly and explicitly.
Tom’s brain exploded and words fell out of his mouth. “Oh God, yeah,” he heard himself say. “Use me.”
The words must have sent her, too, because Emme’s head fell bac
k and her eyes slid closed, and she let out a low moan that made all the hairs on his arms stand on end.
Tom reached for her hips, pulling her a little closer. He couldn’t stop himself from thrusting up toward her, making her clench her fingers more tightly against his shoulders as he did. The hint of her fingernails through his shirt was enough to make him frantic, but he held himself back, waiting for her to set the pace she wanted. If he was right, she’d like that now, and maybe later, she’d demand it.
Emme lowered herself over him again, kissing his mouth slowly, like she was savoring his taste. When she pulled her lips from his, she didn’t move back; instead, she licked the corner of his mouth, rubbed her nose against his, breathing with him. She stopped moving, and he held still, every muscle in his body waiting for her to decide how she wanted him.
Then she pulled back, slid a hand through his hair, petting gently, and said, “We can’t do this.”
Tom heard the words, but his body hadn’t caught on. She swung her leg over him and landed on the grass, hands over her face. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Tom couldn’t make sense of what was happening; his heartbeat still throbbed in his dick, and his mouth still echoed with her kisses. He sat up, far too quickly, and the edges of the world fuzzed and faded for a second. By the time his hearing returned, Emme had moved on to complete self-flagellation.
“God, no wonder Dave doesn’t trust me. Leave me alone with you for thirty damn minutes and I’m rubbing on you like a cat in heat. What is my problem?”
Tom wasn’t sure what was more upsetting—her reaction to what had been, in his mind anyway, an absolutely gorgeous make-out session, or the fact that she seemed to think she’d somehow victimized him. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, still trying to clear his head of the foggy remnants of arousal clouding his judgment. “I like you. I think you like me. I’m a grownup.”
Have Mercy: A Loveswept Contemporary Erotic Romance Page 5