“Come in,” he called out.
I pushed his door open and stepped in, expecting to find him in the same spot on the couch, but he was pulling his black acoustic Gibson from its stand. When he turned and glanced up to take in my new outfit, he paused for a second, trying to conceal a private smile as his gaze slid over my bare legs.
“You’re channeling a little Nancy Sinatra,” he quipped, taking in my appearance nice and slow. For the first time, his interest was clear to see. It was written across his face from the way he took a deep, savoring breath, to the way his lips seemed to unconsciously part. Perhaps the signs had been there from the start, but I’d been too distracted concealing my own interest to notice his.
“More like Jessica Simpson. But thanks.”
I sat down in the overstuffed chair and waited for him to take his seat on the couch. He’d trimmed off his beard overnight so that only short stubble remained. His black long-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned on top. I could see more of his tan neck and chest then I’d ever seen before.
He cleared his throat as he sat down, positioned his guitar over his lap and crossed his bare feet. We’d been in the same situation before, but today, the tension was back, igniting the air between us.
There was a pen stuck behind his ear and his writing note pad sat with a blank page open on the coffee table between us.
It was time to write.
Wordlessly, we started playing the opening bars of the song we’d been working on the day before, but no lyrics came. I could feel them, trying to break through, but I wasn’t used to the nerves pushing them back down my throat. I wrote alone. Always alone. I never had to worry about someone thinking my lyrics were silly because by the time I shared them, they were perfect. Maybe that’s why neither one of us spoke up.
We kept strumming, playing on and on, with silence twining around the sounds of our guitars. I kept catching Jason’s gaze on my legs… my arms… my neck. He’d focus on me for just a moment, always glancing away when I looked up. But I could feel him, feel the tension multiplying. I noticed every breath he took, the desire building in my body as his heated gaze stayed glued on me.
“I don’t usually get writer’s block,” Jason spoke up a few minutes later, after clearing his throat.
I nodded, staring down at my fretboard. “Neither do I.”
“How should we get over it?” he asked.
I thought for a moment. “We could just say the first few things that come to mind, no matter how silly.”
He nodded, but didn’t reply.
“We could start with a word, a single word and move on from there.”
Still no reply.
“Or we could just have sex,” I added, just to make sure he was listening.
His guitar strings rang out sharply before they stopped all together.
When I looked up at him, his dark eyes were focused right on me. Not my guitar, not the window behind me—they were pinned on my face as if he was trying to read between the lines. I’ve never been someone who filters what comes out of my mouth, but in that moment I was left wondering why I’d joked about something like that. Jason and I were not close enough to understand each other’s humor. Or actually, I wasn’t sure Jason had a sense of humor at all.
“I like that idea,” he said, letting a smile slide over his beautiful mouth.
I swallowed hard. That’s the last thing I expected him to say.
Then he continued, “We obviously still feel nervous around one another. You’re too scared to sing even though I can see you’ve got lyrics brewing.”
What in-all-that-is-holy is going on? Are we actually talking about having sex right now? My eyes stayed glued on my fingers sliding back and forth along my guitar string. Do not look at him. Do not look at him.
“So, it’s purely a business thing,” I suggested, trying to think of any possible excuse to get this man in bed. I’d tell myself it was for world peace if that’s what he wanted to hear. That’s right, I’d have an orgasm for world peace, because I’m noble like that.
“You can look at it like that,” he replied, rubbing his stubble.
“So, we should have sex— right here, right now?” I asked, meeting his eyes.
He wet his bottom lip, flashed me a confident grin and then,
it began.
Chapter Sixteen
We were like animals. Whereas our minds had writer’s block, our bodies had no trouble improvising. Our guitars were tossed aside as Jason came around the coffee table and I was peeling my shirt up over my head at the same time that he bent to kiss me. Our lips parted when my shirt got in the way, but I didn’t care. I was already working at his belt buckle. There was no foreplay. There was no two-hour make-out session before we finally pushed past the invisible boundary.