My Metallica hoodie was draped on my chair. I stopped short, my gaze fixated on it.
I must’ve come perilously close to dropping my shit all over the place, because Cary jumped to his feet and took my laptop bag from me. I looked up at him with wide eyes.
“My hoodie,” I croaked.
He glanced at it, then his eyes met mine again. That warm, soft honey staring back at me was gonna do me in.
I saw what you did.
“You left it here last night.”
I swallowed. I hadn’t left it here, exactly. But I had left it in the house.
And the last time I saw it, it was draped over his glorious, naked chest, while he…
I went to sit down and as I got my laptop set up, carefully not looking at him, I couldn’t stop wondering if my hoodie smelled like him now.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked me, sitting back down. I could feel him eying me and I couldn’t even look at him.
“Not really. I’m kind of a night owl sometimes. Have a hard time sleeping when I can’t stop thinking.”
“Me, too.”
The doorbell rang; the studio door was open and I heard it in the house, and I almost gasped with relief. “I’ll get it.” I jumped out of my chair, glad for the interruption.
It was Rose, and I spent the next half-hour helping her unload groceries and put them away.
Then I decided to be a total chickenshit. I headed out to the poolhouse to grab my purse and the car keys Cary gave me, and sent him a text.
Me: Running out for coffee. Will take the car. Be back soon.
I headed around the house, letting myself into the garage through the side door so I wouldn’t accidentally run into him in the foyer or anything. Obviously, I’d have to actually work with him at some point today. I just wasn’t ready to face him with my No, I totally didn’t watch you jack off last night poker face on.
Maybe caffeine would help.
There were three cars parked in the garage when I walked in. One was an old collector car, in mint condition, all peacock blue and chrome. There was also a dark gray SUV and a charcoal sedan. I pressed the unlock button on my key fob, and the sedan unlocked.
I went over and slid into the buttery leather seat. As I got acquainted with the controls, I wondered why Cary had given me this car instead of the older model SUV. I pulled out to the driveway, where I let the car run for a moment in case it hadn’t been driven in a long time. Then I opened the sunroof and got on my way.
Gliding along the leafy, beautiful streets of Shaughnessy and Kerrisdale on this gorgeous summer morning, I decided to go long. I wasn’t in any real hurry, and I was sure Cary wouldn’t mind. He said I could use the car anytime to get whatever I needed. So I looped around and headed over to Mount Pleasant to get us coffee at Nudge instead. I wondered if he’d ever had their coffee.
I figured I might as well. It was probably good for the car to put a few miles on, let it warm up and let the oil run through.
Damn, I could really get used to this.
I’d had some decent jobs with perks, but this one was something else.
Generous pay.
Sweet poolside accommodations.
Luxury car.
Plus, my boss was becoming juuust this side of too much to handle. I’d never crushed on a boss so hard and so damn fast.
Nice to me.
Super dreamy on the eyes.
Provides the hottest solo sex show I’ve ever seen…
And now I felt guilty.
I should’ve really stopped drooling over him and his amazing car and gotten back to work. But I kinda couldn’t believe this was suddenly my life.
Then it hit me—this wasn’t my life. This was his life.
And he wasn’t really living it.
When was the last time he’d driven this car? Or any of his cars?
When was the last time he’d cruised around his beautiful city and gone to the café?
It was fucking sad, that he didn’t get to feel this. This freedom. The sun on his face. The breeze in his hair.
And the true enjoyment of reaping the rewards of all that hard work he did.
I managed to fly through the rest of the day on the wings of my ongoing caffeine buzz—after the café drinks ran dry, I made us two pots of coffee—and diving deep into my work.
My most pressing mission was to get on top of Cary’s email correspondence, since ninety-nine percent of the “correspondence” seemed to go one-way—into his inbox, where it died of neglect. My first task was sorting through the unopened emails, which would probably take days. I’d decided to sort them in three rounds. One: delete everything unopened that was over two months old. This actually took a hell of a long time, since he had tens of thousands of unopened emails. Two: delete all spam and anything else that was impersonal. Three: go through everything that was left and sort it into two groups, one being “ask Cary about this” and the other being “reply on Cary’s behalf.”
Meanwhile, I was constantly distracted by the man sitting on the other side of the very small room.
Wondering what he was working on. Wondering what he was up to when he was in the other room. Wondering if he was looking at me.
Wondering how many other times since he met me that he might’ve brought himself to orgasm while thinking about me.
You know, just the important stuff.
I knew he was wondering about me, too, because on a pretty regular basis he’d fire random questions at me out of nowhere. This went on pretty much all day.
The first time, it happened when I passed him his coffee from Nudge.
“Why do you have two last names?”
“Oh. Uh… Lawczynski was my last name when I was born. But then my dad and his brother, who moved here from Poland as teenagers, with my grandparents, decided to North-Americanize it or something. I’m not even sure why. I asked him, but he was vague about it. My dad is kinda crazy. You ask him a question and he rambles off to something totally unrelated.” Wait. Am I doing that right now? “Anyway, they changed it to Lawson, so that’s what I’ve always gone by. But lately I’ve been rocking the original family name. You know, maturing makes one think about their roots and stuff. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” he said.
Later, it happened when I walked back into the control room after refilling my mug. “Is your hair always pink?”
“No. It’s dirty blonde. The pink thing is more recent. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
Later, while we were both working on our laptops, he asked me, “Is April Wine really one of your favorite bands?” That one was so out of nowhere I actually jumped a little.
“Yes. That’s why I put them on my top ten list. But I only listen to them when I’m feeling melancholy or nostalgic for my childhood. My mom was a major fan.”
After that, I started singing “Rock N’ Roll Is a Vicious Game.” Which I figured took some balls, since I couldn’t really hit a note to save my life, and he was the legendary music producer.
He smiled at me.
My pussy clenched involuntarily and I stopped singing, pretending to need to cough.
Five o’clock started creeping up far too fast, and I started to regret that the day was almost over. All day, Cary had drifted between working at his desk with his headphones on and working out in the great room, acting totally normal. Or at least as normal as Cary seemed to get.
And I’d had fun working with him, again.
Maybe it was just me who felt the palpable tension between us every time he came into the room, and felt mildly embarrassed about what happened last night.
Why would he be embarrassed? He had no idea he’d had an audience when he did that incredibly private, sexy thing.
“So… would you have time this week to go through your emails with me?” I asked him as I was finishing up. We were both sitting at our desks, and he slipped his headphones off, the same way he did, patiently, every time I interrupted him. “I sorted out anything that see
ms worthy of your attention. I can just run though them with you quick and see how you’d like me to respond to them for you? Might take an hour or so.”
“Sure. We can do that. I’ll let you know when I have time.”
“Okay. You know, you have some requests for interviews sitting in your inbox,” I told him, stalling as the last few minutes of my workday dissolved. Those emails had been the most interesting ones; they’d been forwarded to him from some of the record companies he’d worked with, from his lawyer’s office, from Merritt over at Little Black Hole. It didn’t seem like he had an actual point of contact for that type of thing, until now. “Do you ever respond to those?”
“Nope.”
“I could do it for you.”
“Maybe.”
“If I did… what would you want me to say?”
He blinked at me, like it had never occurred to him to think of a response to interview requests.
“It’s good karma, responding to people,” I said. “Don’t you think?”
“Not worth wasting too much of your time on, though.”
“It won’t take much time.”
He sat back in his chair. “Okay. If it’s a request from a fan site or something you can just ignore it. I don’t think most of them expect a response anyway. If it’s from anywhere legit, any kind of major publication or TV, radio, whatever, you can write up a form response that says thanks but I’m not doing interviews right now. You can use that going forward. But if you respond once and they come back asking again, just ignore them.”
“You never do interviews? Even over the phone or email or anything?”
“No.”
“Would you want to, if we vet the questions and I help type up your answers or anything?”
“No.”
“Can I ask why?”
He stared at me.
“Just wondering…” I said, using his excuse to me when he’d asked me questions today.
It worked.
“I don’t do interviews,” he explained, “because when I do interviews they always ask me about Gabe. Some of them only ask me about Gabe.”
“Right.” Good to know. If he didn’t want questions about Gabe, then I’d try not to ask any. “Well, I guess I’ll clear out of here. Unless you need anything else today.”
“No.” He went back to his laptop. “Thanks for everything.”
“You’re welcome.” As I was packing up my laptop, I added casually, “Did you know that a lot of famous musicians have stage fright?”
He looked up at me.
“It’s a type of performance anxiety, like you said,” I went on. “Which is a type of social anxiety disorder. It’s a very real thing.”
“I’m aware.”
“Yet they manage to overcome it and get themselves onstage. Hence the famous part.”
He just looked at me.
I held his gaze. I’d read up on it yesterday, while I ate my dinner. I was interested. And I wondered how much he knew about it. How much work he’d done to try to overcome it.
I wondered if he wanted to go back out onstage.
And what it might take to get him there.
“Maybe you could get back out onstage,” I said, when he said nothing.
“I’m not in a band anymore. I’m a music producer.” He said it with such conviction, I almost bought it.
But if all he really wanted was to hide out in his cave, alone, where no one would ever admire him again, why did he let me in here?
He had to have noticed the way I looked at him by now. The obvious chemistry between us.
He didn’t have to hire me. If all he really wanted was an assistant to help him with his work, he could’ve hired some dude who was just as proficient at this job but would bring zero complications to his life.
He also didn’t have to have me living in his backyard and working right here in his tiny office with him.
So, frankly, I wasn’t buying the whole hermit thing.
His haircut was far too sexy, his body too toned, and he smelled way too fucking good to have one-hundred-percent thrown in the towel on his dick and decided he was living alone for the rest of his life, never to be seen, desired or touched again.
Of course, if he had no desire to be in a band again and get back out onstage, there was no reason for me to ever mention it again.
I mentioned it again. “But I mean, if you ever thought about it… You’re not the only one who has a hard time getting onstage and performing. Like there are some super, super famous musicians who struggle with stage fright.”
“Thanks for the info.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stuffed my laptop in its bag and zipped it up. Cary had gotten up and went over to the printer. Some paperwork I’d printed out for him hours ago suddenly seemed incredibly interesting to him.
“Quick question,” I said. “What do you think when you think of Eddie Van Halen?”
He looked up at me. “What?”
“Just answer the question. Please.”
He blinked at me. “Okay. Probably ‘Runnin’ with the Devil’ because it was the first Van Halen song I learned to play on guitar.”
“Anything else?”
“I mean, he’s pretty much a virtuoso in the guitar world.”
“Anything else?”
“That Frankenstrat guitar he created. And maybe that power drill effect he did in the nineties. There are a lot of things that come to mind.”
“Uh-huh. Did you know he has performance anxiety?”
In characteristic Cary fashion, he stared at me too long for comfort and didn’t actually answer me. “And your point would be?”
“My point would be that you’re not the only musician who’s struggled with stage fright. And it doesn’t have to define who you are.”
“Right.” He looked down at the papers in his hand.
“Did you know Cher has stage fight?”
He gave me a look.
“And Barbara Streisand.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” He walked back over to his desk like he was dismissing me.
Consider me undismissed.
“And Adele,” I pressed.
He put the papers down, but he didn’t sit down. “When I plan to launch my career as a female pop star, I’ll take that into consideration.” His back was to me. He was trying to ignore me and what I was saying.
But I could be pretty hard to ignore. It was a talent I was obnoxiously proud of.
“Oh, it’s not just the ladies,” I said. “And it’s not genre specific. Rock stars get it, too. You know, like Eddie Van Halen.”
He turned to me, like he was wondering why I was still standing here and still talking.
“What about Slash?” I said.
“What about Slash.”
“That top hat he’s famous for wearing onstage? He wears it because he’s nervous performing for crowds and it helps him feel more comfortable.”
“You’re suggesting I start wearing a top hat?” he said dryly.
“If it helps you get onstage and live your life,” I said lightly, “fuck yes. Also, Ozzy Osbourne gets stage fright.”
“Is that all?”
“Nope. I can get you a list. I mean, if you think you’re more special than Ozzy or something—”
“Taylor,” he said. He moved toward me so suddenly, I froze. He gripped my upper arms.
He looked deep into my eyes.
Then he kissed me.
His lips crushed to mine, effectively silencing me. His tongue slicked over my lip, tasting me, and he shuddered. And I was so there for it, so fucking fast, I whimpered a little as my mouth opened for him.
Then he ripped his lips from mine and I drew a stuttery breath.
“Can you please shut up?” he gasped.
“Yes.”
Then he kissed me again. His mouth and mine twisted together, unfamiliar, and I squirmed, embarrassed how badly I wanted to wrap my legs around him and drill him with my tongue
.
Down, girl.
He tore himself away again, and his eyes searched my face. They looked wild and possessed with something I couldn’t identify. Something like lust, surging on the adrenalin rush of a man who hadn’t kissed anyone in a really long time?
“Tell me to stop right now if you don’t want me to do that again,” he said, “and we can pretend it never happened.”
“Uh…” My mouth dangled open and I took a shuddering breath. “No… No, we can’t.”
“What?”
“I mean… Please do that again.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when he smashed his mouth to mine again. This time, his tongue swirled into my mouth. A shudder ran all down my body. It felt like he licked my pussy from the inside-out. I sagged in his hold, my legs almost giving out. He was still gripping my upper arms, his fingers digging in. I grasped his shoulders and held on as he drove me right back against the wall with his whole body. He pressed into me, and his warmth felt so good.
I hiked one leg up around his hip, wanting to climb him.
He caught my thigh with one hand and shoved his crotch up into mine. My dress rode up and I felt the hard jab of his cock against my pussy through the thin fabric of my panties. I moaned loudly, rubbing against him.
He kissed me with a deep swipe of his tongue and then sucked on my bottom lip, groaning in the back of his throat. Then he kissed my jaw, my throat.
“I’m not very good at this,” he groaned, as he sucked on my throat and my eyes rolled back in my head and I almost passed out.
“Uh… you’re very good at this,” I panted.
“I’m out of practice.”
“I can’t tell.”
“Taylor… I want you so bad, it’s making me crazy.”
Oh, thank God. “Me, too.”
He came up for air, his eyes locking on mine. He looked fucking drunk and dazed and so horny it made me sopping wet. My panties slid against me as I ground myself against him and I wondered if I was making a giant wet spot on his jeans. His hair was sticking up a bit and he looked undone and unhinged and I wanted to tear off his clothes. But something held me back.
What if I scared him off with my exuberance?
“Are you gonna hate me if I want to fuck you?” he said, pretty much voicing my own thoughts, his eyes dragging down over my lips.
Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4) Page 16