I have to grin. Were my dad alive, he’d be moaning over Bon Jovi being called a classic. But I can’t fault Killian’s choice. It’s unexpected, yet I see the possibilities. The song can work well on an acoustic and without drums to back it up. And it’s a duet of sorts.
“’Dead or Alive’? Yeah, I know that one.” I adjust my strings, fiddling with the tone. And then I pluck the first few notes, the old but familiar twang making me smile.
Killian makes a happy sound as he pulls a chair close and starts to do his own adjustments. Good Lord, just the sight of his big hand and long fingers moving along the frets, his forearms, corded with muscles and flexing, makes my mouth dry. Killian holding a guitar is the stuff of both my dirtiest fantasy and my most girlish daydreams.
My heart is pounding, anticipation and nerves running through my veins. I can’t believe I’m about to play with him. Sing with him.
He glances at me, his dark eyes glinting. “You take the lead.”
“What?” My stomach drops. “No. No way. You’re the lead guitarist.”
He chuckles. “Not tonight. You lead. We’ll harmonize the lyrics, but you take the first verse.”
After a few minutes of working out who will sing what, we agree to start. My hands are so sweaty, I have to rub them on my shorts before I can hold my guitar.
Killian’s voice is a soft purr of encouragement. “This is gonna be fun, Liberty Bell. Just let go, feel it.”
Taking a deep breath I start. And fumble. Blushing, I power through it. The music. Just feel the music.
Okay. I got this.
I begin to sing—wobbly at first, but stronger when Killian smiles wide and nods, encouraging. I close my eyes and think of the lyrics. It’s about a musician, world-weary and jaded. Lonely. A man who’s been reduced to nothing more than entertainment for the masses.
And it hits me. I open my eyes, look at Killian. My heart hurts for him. But he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s listening to me sing. He comes in with the rhythm, picking up the second verse. Then he sings.
Killian’s voice is a wave of sound that sweeps over the room. It’s the difference between singing in your shower and finding yourself in a concert hall.
I stumble a chord progression before getting a hold of myself. Feel the music.
So I do.
And we sing, just enjoying.
Killian is a generous musician, letting me lead, propping me up when I stumble. Occasionally he changes things up so I’m forced to follow, but he does it with a smile, daring me to step outside my safe box and risk. It’s like a dance, playing with him.
And I grow bold, putting more emotion into my voice. I become that lonely but proud musician.
Our gazes clash, and energy licks through me, so strong it prickles my skin, pulls at my nipples. Joy unfiltered surges through me, and I smile even as I sing with all my heart. He grins back, his eyes intense, burning like dark coals. It makes me so hot, I want to toss down my guitar, throw myself in his lap and just take. It makes me want the song to never end.
He picks up singing the refrain, and that deep voice sinks into my bones, runs like liquid heat up my thighs. God, he’s beautiful. Perfect.
With fluid grace, he hits a guitar solo, his lids lowering, his strong body rocking. All of his sinewy muscles tense and flex, but he’s loose, so loose now, totally into the song. It’s like sex, watching him let go. And I throb.
The song ends too soon. I’m left panting, sweat coating my skin.
We stare at each other for a long minute, a dull roar swooshing in my ears as if my body can’t quite come down from the high.
“Jesus,” I finally rasp.
“Yeah,” he says, just as raw. “Yeah.”
I’m shaking when I set my guitar down and run a hand through my damp hair. “That was…” I take a hard breath. “How can you give that up?”
The fire in his eyes dies, and he ducks his head, carefully setting his guitar aside as well. “Everyone needs a break now and then.”
Fair enough. I’m still shaking. “I feel like I’ve run a sprint or something.”
“It’s the adrenaline.” His lips quirk. “Happens when you make good music. And, Liberty Bell, we made some fucking good music just then.”
Heat invades my cheeks. “It was you.”
“No,” he says softly. “It was us.” He glances at the guitar by my side. “Want to go again?”
Do I? I’m not sure. It feels dangerous in a way, addictive. Once I give in, will I be able to go without?
Killian looks at me with calm eyes, and yet he’s leaning in, his body tight. Waiting. I can’t resist him. I’m beginning to think I never will.