He played the notes to the song, causing Lola to laugh. “I don’t agree. You are the hook. Your pink hair, tattoos, and piercings are a good start, but it’s the part of you that you’re hiding that gives you the hook. The woman who can memorize a textbook about accounting, who’s willing to give up her most valuable possession to a younger child without a second thought. The one who smells like lavender and whose kisses taste like heaven even when my cock is in agonizing hell with jealousy of my tongue. That’s the Lola you need to show the music producer.”
“You want me to kiss him?” she asked innocently.
He stopped playing.
“I’m kidding, Romeo.” She laughed at him. “It’s music time.”
His pants grew uncomfortable at the vision of her laid out on his piano. An idea formed and he smiled. The hell with music time. He couldn’t pass on this opportunity. “Who are some of your musical influences?” he asked.
“Stevie Nicks, Heart, and John Lennon,” she answered without hesitation, her feet dangling off the edge of the piano.
He slipped off her right shoe. “Why?”
She blew out an audible breath and paused. “Their lyrics speak to me. The words are honest and raw. They tell it as they see it.”
“So, not because Stevie Nicks wore lacey dresses or because Heart was made up of two sisters like you and Portia or because John Lennon was a pacifist, but because of the honesty of their words?”
“Yes,” she replied in barely a whisper.
He grabbed her right ankle and twisted her around so her feet hung over the keys of the piano and gently removed her left shoe. “You connected with the soul underneath the image.” He rubbed the sole of her foot, eliciting a soft moan from her lips. “Give that music producer the real you and the rest will fall into place.”
“How . . . would you know? You don’t work in the music industry.” Her breath came out in choppy pants. “By the way, that foot massage feels really good. Don’t stop.”
He moved to work on her other foot and chuckled. “I promise I won’t stop until you are completely relaxed.”
She lay on her back allowing him to work his magic on her feet. He pressed his thumbs firmly into both arches, dragging toward the bottom of her soles and she inhaled audibly. He cupped her ankles in each of his hands and massaged the firm flesh, admiring her tattoo of a dolphin jumping out of the ocean. How many other tattoos could he discover before she stopped him?
Thank goodness she wore a skirt.
His fingers continued to drift higher, gently squeezing the muscles of her calves and feeling them soften under his hands. A driving need to continue the exploration of her body caused him to yank her by the knees to give him better access. She gasped but didn’t refuse him and he couldn’t see her face. It killed him not to watch her reactions, but he listened closely to the patterns of her ragged breathing and the little moans. He felt the goose bumps under his hands as they worked their way up her legs to dig deep into the muscles behind her knees.
The scent of lavender permeated from her skin, calling to him. He lifted himself up from the bench, just enough to let his tongue join his fingers as he licked his way from her calf to her knee. Her body shuddered, but still, with the exception of the soft gasps, she remained silent.
“What is love? ‘Tis not hereafter. Present mirth hath present laughter. What’s to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty,” he muttered against the silkiness of her calf.
“What did you say?” she asked weakly, sitting up on her elbows and allowing him to finally see her flushed face.
He pushed back the piano bench and stood, wrapping his hands around the outside of her knees. “It’s from Shakespeare’s ‘Twelfth Night.’ I’m sure you’re familiar with it. And it means we shouldn’t waste time when we both want the same thing.”
“And what’s that?” she asked, her voice deep and husky.
“This.” He slowly spread her legs and watched her eyes for the reaction.
They blazed with intensity and curiosity, but her jaw was rigid. “I’m not sure . . .”
With his fingertips, he caressed figure eights on her inner thighs. “Call this a full-service massage. Don’t think. Don’t stress. Let go. Let me take care of you.”
She swallowed hard and gave her permission, falling back onto the piano and dropping her arms to her sides. From her ankles, he slowly and deliberately dragged up her long skirt inch by agonizing inch, revealing her perfect skin to his gaze, including a small tattoo of a rainbow. It was like a scavenger hunt for tattoos. He wondered if she had any ink a bit higher. His palms skated along her thighs and bunched her skirt around her hips.