Say It Strong (Say You Love Me Book 2)

by Virna DePaul

  “We should go before it gets worse,” Liam said, leading me down the path away from Jimi. I looked back one last time at the rock legend’s final resting place, thinking how wonderful it must have been to have reached such a wide audience, to have been so deeply appreciated for what he loved to do most. There was nothing better.

  We jumped into the Porsche just in time to close it up before big raindrops began coming down. This was, by far, a harder rain than during last night’s show. Liam drove out of the cemetery, blasting the wipers at high speed, leaning forward on the steering wheel to peer out the windshield.

  “We should wait this out somewhere,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “I would tell you, but you would only think bad of me.”

  “Why would I?”

  “My grandparents’ house. It’s only ten minutes from here in Newcastle.”

  Oh. “Does anyone live there now?”

  “No, been empty for a while now. Most of their stuff is in storage, but my parents kept the house, hoping I would want to remodel it and maybe move in one day. It’s this great house, just sitting there empty.”

  If I told him it was okay to go, he might think I was open to having sex with him (which, let’s face it, I was), and if I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea, he might consider me Prude of the Year and forget talking to me anymore. Rosemary would want to know how I felt, what I wanted, and would tell me to ignore what Liam or anyone else thought. The truth was, I would’ve loved to go to the house with him and just see what happened. For all I knew, the rain might let up soon, and we’d be there a whole of five minutes.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “You sure? You’re not going to think the worst of me?”

  “I won’t, Liam. I promise.”

  “Damn. Need to try harder then.” He chuckled to himself, tearing out of first gear, second, third, and on up, back on the road to Newcastle.

  *

  When he’d said his grandparents’ house, I’d pictured a quaint little cottage with flowerbeds outside, maybe a big oak tree, and a cute little mailbox. I never expected to see this six-bedroom multilevel home on a lake with a dock and a boat shed to go with it.

  “My granddad was big into boating,” Liam explained, as though he could hear my thoughts.

  He pulled into the gravel driveway and waited for the rain to slow, but it only pounded harder. Liam cut the engine, and the Porsche went from lion to lamb in point-two seconds. As I thought about the possibilities that awaited us—whether we’d get hot in here, whether I was ready for more than a kiss, whether I would be able to satisfy a rock-slash-sex god who was used to being “serviced” by countless women, Liam turned to me, scooped my face into his hot hands, and waited.

  My breath hung suspended between us. I knew he was waiting for me to make a move again, that he wanted my permission, wanted the impulse to come from my side. Did I want this?

  I did.

  Every inch of me cried out for it, but I had to keep an eye on myself and make sure I didn’t go overboard or let only my emotions rule me.

  I reached up, and his warm lips pressed against mine. He opened his mouth, his tongue lining my lips, impatiently pushing farther in, sending me into a reeling tizzy. It was warm and chilly in the car all at once, and I knew, from the surge of hot wetness that flooded my panties, that I was, as Liam would say, motherfucking doomed.

  We kissed for a long time, fogging up the windows, feeling each other’s shoulders, arms, his hands grazing my breasts. I did nothing to stop him. Whether or not Liam Collier would hurt poor little Abby Chan in the future, I already knew I wanted to explore his talents.

  I would take the consequences when they came. I was prepared.

  When the rain died to a light drizzle, Liam suggested we make a run for it, so I abandoned all caution, grabbed the cello case, and, on the count of three, opened the door and followed him around the side of the house. Standing before the garage, Liam shook rain off his head and flipped open a panel next to the garage door. He punched in a series of numbers, and suddenly, the garage door sprang to life, rolling backward with a heavy groan, as though Liam had awakened a sleeping beast. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the significance.

  The two-story house was almost clear of furniture or any decoration. Liam showed me the rooms where his grandmother sewed costumes for him and his brothers, where his grandfather took apart computers then put them back together, where their dog, Jax, watched the birds outside eat his dog food, and the room where he and his brothers slept whenever they visited. Now, they were just hollow rooms.

  The stairs were wooden and spiraled slightly, cherry, same as the floors, and the handrail was some other type of wood I couldn’t think of right now, because the truth was, I couldn’t think straight.

  He’s leading you to a bedroom. Will you give it up, Abby?

  At the first room, Liam gently took the cello case from my hand and set it in the middle of the room next to a single chair. Outside the window, sunset was going on somewhere behind the gray curtain of clouds. Soon, it’d be dark in the house, and as far as I could see, there weren’t any lights. My heart pounded inside my throat.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Pretend this is your audition,” he said, pulling up a chair for me. “Play your song for me. Play Serenade.”

  My tummy fluttered because he so easily remembered the title of my musical composition. He’d been paying attention. It had taken three or four times before my own mother could remember what it was called. “You want me to play for you?” I clarified. “Now?”

  “Yes. Come on, Miss Chan, serenade me with Serenade.” He smiled, pulled another chair from the corner of the empty bedroom, and whirled it around, straddling it, resting his chin on the backrest. Then he pulled out his phone and held it up to me.

  “Are you videoing me?” I asked. I remembered the picture he’d taken of me at the party and wanted to ask him if he’d kept it. If he’d looked at it. But I instinctively knew he had. That he probably thought of me as much as I thought of him.

  “Just want to capture your audition, Miss Chan.” He smiled. “Now play.”

  “As you wish,” I said, pulling out the cello, the bow, and the rosin. I took a seat in the chair, which wasn’t the perfect height for playing but would do fine. Positioning everything, I tried to hold down the butterflies going mad in my belly. Not because auditioning made me nervous, because it didn’t, but because of the way he watched me, like I was an exotic dancer on a pole for the first time, and he was the virgin-hungry billionaire. I played a quick D-major scale then closed my eyes to bring myself to center.

  Listening to the sheets of rain pelting the windowpanes, I let myself be guided by the rhythm of the downpour, listening to the heavy creaks made by a house assaulted by all this humidity, and I used my nervous heart as a metronome.

  “What brings you here today, Miss Chan?” Liam asked, employing an official, deeper tone.

  “Principal Cello.”

  “You want the position?” His voice was sultry, hot honey.

  “More than anything,” I replied, moving apart my knees, positioning the cello perfectly in place and thinking for the first time how sexy the movement felt. I rested my bow flat against the G string, poised and ready.

  “Show me.”

  I launched into the opening notes, lively, allegro, reminiscent of Mozart and slowed it down right when things got intimate in the musical story. I always imagined a lover’s quarrel beginning the piece, and in this part, an adagio middle took over, sad and forlorn. It was haunting, everything I wanted in a good solo piece, one I would’ve enjoyed with some tea and brandy by the fireplace had someone else been playing it.

  Halfway through the piece, Liam began humming along, familiar now with the refrains. He shuffled his chair closer to mine, then set it down again. Watching me intently, like bowing strings was the most amazing thing in the world, he hummed the rest of the song. I agreed
there was nothing more amazing than breathing life into music, setting it free. I wondered if Jimi Hendrix ever felt that way, like he was only the channel for the music, like the music flowed through him the way electricity moved easily through water.

  Even through shut lids, I felt Liam coming closer. It was the scent of his skin, the humidity filtering into the room from outside. I would’ve recognized that scent a mile away. His presence was dizzying, his humming satisfying, as he became part of the performance, part of the song. I gave it everything I had. If this had been the actual audition day, I would’ve gotten the part.

  Near the end of the piece, his hands found my knees, resting softly so as not to startle me. Gently, he pushed them apart and leaned in close as I continued to play. When he realized I wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, he gripped the neck of the instrument, cutting the piece off right at one of the sections I was having trouble with anyway, and set it aside.

  “No more playing?” I whispered, opening my eyes.

  My stomach rose into my chest. Every pore of my skin felt electric and alive. All he needed to do was touch me once more, and I’d be his. There was nothing I wanted more.

  He nodded, taking the cello from my hands and gently laying it on its side. In one swift movement, he swiveled his chair back around, so that the backrest was no longer between us, moving his body into the space between my legs. Leaning in, he rested one hand on my thigh as he cupped my face with the other. My breath was sucked from my lungs. I wanted him more than anything right now. He knew it, moving in to steal a kiss. A sweet, delicious play of tongues and lips. A longing request.

  “Play me instead,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Liam

  From the moment I felt Abby’s knees widen, cautiously at first, then fluidly when I inched toward her, I knew her guard was up. We kissed in this position for a while, me between her knees, not quite touching her, not pressing against her—that would have been too fast, too soon. But her arms laced around me tightly, and the heat rose off her skin like morning mist burning off in the summer sun.

  She smelled like rain, wood, and rosin all rolled into one. Her naturally merlot plump lips tasted delicious. We rocked in a tightly coiled knot, kissing and savoring. Finally, I drew away, holding the sides of her face. I was panting. “Do you want this?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she breathed, barely a whisper.

  “Tell me how much.”

  “Entirely.” Her words sent a wave of heat into my groin.

  “I can’t make promises, Abby.” I pressed my forehead against hers.

  “I can’t make promises either.”

  I stood slowly and held out my hands for her to grasp. “Then come with me.”

  Her longing eyes hesitated a moment, peering up at me. She was probably thinking it was now or never. If she was going to stop this speeding train, now was the time. Instead, she slowly slid her hands into mine, and I helped her to her feet, pressing her taut body against me. I adored the way her curves felt against mine—a perfect fit.

  I led her out of the empty bedroom and down the hall, headed for the guest room, the only room that still had some furniture in it. My mother had wanted it that way, in case they were ever in the area and needed a place to stay. Though my parents could, at this point, spend the night wherever they liked, in any given hotel, they preferred to stay in my grandparents’ house, basking in their memory, picking up good-luck vibes for a long and happy life together.

  Inside the room was a queen-size wooden sleigh bed with a quilt on top that my grandmother had sewn herself. When I was a kid, I used to jump on that bed. Now, for the first time, I’d do something else. I’d never brought anyone here before, not even Vanessa. The place was too close to my heart for just anyone.

  At the window, I unlocked it, pushing it open to allow rainy breezes to blow in. Turning, I threw myself on the bed, lying on my side, and patted the empty space in front of me for her to join me if she wanted. I figured we could lie quietly and just breathe, forgetting last night and just enjoying the moment, letting our bodies decide what they wanted.

  Abby inhaled deeply then lay down in front of me, her back to me. I wrapped my arms around her, suddenly overcome by goose bumps. “You’re warm,” she said, squeezing my arms.

  “You want warmer?” I asked.

  She giggled. “Hotter,” she said.

  “Is that so?” I sat up halfway to peel off my T-shirt and toss it to the end of the bed. “How’s that? Better?”

  “Oh, yes.” She blushed and chewed the edge of her thumbnail.

  I lay back down, closing up the space between us. My shirtless body radiated warmth against her back. I wrapped one arm around her torso, right above her waist under her breasts, as though she were mine, all mine. Well, for one night, at least, she would be.

  Her lips parted—a sigh escaped her. She traced the tattoos on my arm and hand with her fingers. In the dying light, I caught a glimpse of her nipple pushing through her bra and tank top. I traced my fingertip lightly over it, thumbing it softly as if playing a guitar. There was something ethereal about being here with the pelting rain outside, caught in a thunderstorm with Abby inside my grandparents’ house. Dreamlike. Yet she felt so real—a good, solid woman in my arms.

  My breath hovered close to her face. I settled into her more, pressing my body and hardness against her before I’d meant to. How she reacted would tell me everything. At first, she did nothing, didn’t move or say anything. Then she arched her back and pushed her ass against me. Holy shit, she was driving me up a fucking wall. It was taking everything in my power to restrain myself, to keep from rolling her onto her back and feasting on her. I wanted more than anything to make her comfortable and safe.

  We said nothing. Didn’t have to.

  My lips moved from her neck to her ear, leaving a vapor trail of warm, inviting breath. I slid my mouth along her earlobe, nibbling and licking the contours there. The goose bumps on her arms returned, and she pushed harder against my body. I pulled her in tighter, pressing up underneath her breasts. She sighed heavily.

  Wicked thoughts drove me insane, the things I wanted to do to her, but this was Abby, not some groupie. Everything had to be done slowly, deliberately. I would not rush her before she was completely sure she wanted to invite me in. Like she’d heard my thoughts, her small hands guided mine over her breast and squeezed. I was all too happy to oblige, and I massaged her, pinching and pulling on her nipples through the soft fabric. She writhed against me, wanting more, opening herself up for me.

  Following her lead, I kissed her neck and massaged her nipples some more, marveling at the way they responded. My whole body was more alive than it’d ever been. With other women, it was as if only my cock responded, while I watched from afar, detached, as my body pleasured them. With Abby, I was present—completely—mind and body. Every inch of me participated.

  I took hold of one of her thighs and pulled slightly to open her legs. She let out a soft moan.

  Heat flooded down my stomach into my cock. My balls tightened, and my body begged to be inside of her. Foreplay was a beautiful thing, but sometimes, as much as I would’ve liked for it to go on forever, the raw need to just do it dominated everything else. It was what she wanted, too, what her body was telling me. I pressed my cock against her ass, and she hooked her arm backward over my hip, urging me to move against her harder, more furiously. My mouth landed on her ear again, my other hand around her head, playing with her hair. Jesus, I wanted her. I wanted her to be happy with me pleasuring her. I wanted her to be happy—all the time.

  Why did she have to make me feel this way? Why couldn’t she just be a fuck and that was it? Was I falling hard for her? I knew I would if I let myself. I’d been craving a connection for a while now. I knew I could bring out a smile of pure joy from her, too, if she let me. I wanted to see that more than anything. All day today, I’d thought of nothing else. Other women gave me smiles so easily, too easily. Abby was a challeng
e, yes, but that wasn’t the only reason I wanted her. I thoroughly loved spending time with her today. She understood me.

  Her head turned, her mouth opened freely, and we kissed, me behind her, her face tilted up, as if she begged me to take control and make her feel good. Her chest heaved with raw desire. I craved the need to feel closer to her. Kissing, tongues tangled and tasting each other, I slowly slid her skirt up, my fingertips grazing the backs of her thighs. She gasped softly, arm around my head, holding me closer, pinning me in place, in case I was considering going somewhere without her. Sliding a hand around and down her tummy, I paused at the top of her cotton panties, waiting for her to invite me in. She took my hand and gently slid my fingers into the cleft between her thighs.

  Softness, heat, wetness. Oh, God.

  She moaned as I rubbed the spot in slow circles, kissing her neck, working her into a slow frenzy. We could’ve stayed this way all evening, grinding against each other, driving each other crazy, but I was dying to be inside her. My hands came up again to squeeze her tits. One slid to the back to unhook her bra, pulling the straps and freeing her of all restraints. Then I tugged down the front of her tank top to expose her breasts. The shirt’s tension held them tightly in place.

  They were a perfect fit to my hands.

  She turned to face me. Her dark eyes were alight from within, confirming what I already knew, that she wanted more. The whole thing. And she wanted me to take her there. Her longing gaze, hands on my chest, and mouth on my neck and chest confirmed it. She was losing herself, the prim and proper Abby dissipating like the sunlight outside. This woman had a sexual ferocity I hadn’t expected.

  I bent to kiss her breasts, take one nipple into my mouth, and suck on it, tracing the curve and fleshiness of it with my tongue. She moaned, gripping my head. “Harder,” she whispered.

  I kept sucking on her breast until I thought for sure she would come just from this.

  I released my hold on her to slide up and look into her eyes. Her thumb swiped across my mouth, her tongue followed its trail. Other women assumed I just wanted a blow job and to come quickly—it was almost a game to them to see how fast they could make it happen. No one ever took the time to explore me the way Abby was.