“That makes sense,” I say. “Anyway, let’s not talk about depressing stuff. I’m sorry.”
“You never have to apologize to me,” he says. “But if you want to change the subject …”
An almost mischievous look comes into his eyes, like the leader of the pride about to tease his lioness, a baring of the teeth and a crinkling of the eyes that speaks of savage playfulness.
“Let’s talk about your angelic voice instead.”
I giggle, a blush dancing across my cheeks. “What about it?”
“You’re incredible,” he says, sincerity painted across his expression, each contour of his self assured face roaring dominance and possessiveness. For the first time in my life, I actually let myself believe my singing has brought somebody joy, and it warms my heart like a love tipped arrow.
“Really?” I say, trying to laugh it off.
“Really,” he says, squeezing my hand tighter, running his finger over my knuckles one by one. “I’ve got a little talent with the guitar, but your musical ability is something else. It’s magical, Lena.” He laughs gruffly. “It’s not often I get sentimental like that but, with you, it’s the truth.”
“Wait a second,” I giggle. “You play the guitar.”
“Uh oh,” he smirks. “I can play the guitar, yes. But don’t ask me to play.”
“Why not?” I laugh, leaning forward and slapping his muscle corded forearm. “You’ve heard me sing, haven’t you? Maybe we could do a song together one day. I can just see it. Me and you and all our children huddled around a fire, you playing the guitar and me singing. It would just be magical.
“Oh my God, and maybe our little ones would sing, too. And it would just be so beautiful, like the family I never had. Singing was a way to save me when I was a little girl, Lorenzo. When my parents died and I was put in an orphanage, I thought I’d never be happy again, but I could always lose myself in music. But I don’t want our children to lose themselves in music. I want it to enhance their lives, to make what they have even more wonderful …”
I trail off, realizing I’ve just spoken with more passion than in all my eighteen years, my words hanging in the air like embarrassing little forget me nots, just waiting to be plucked and ridiculed.
But when I look up, intensity sweeps across Lorenzo’s face, his jaw tight and a faraway look in his eyes as though he’s staring at the scene I just lost myself in.
“I want that too,” he whispers.
I beam, but can’t shake this unfair, niggling notion that soon he’s going to present the punchline to the joke.
I glance around as paranoia lances through me, wondering if the people at the nearby tables are going to turn and start laughing, telling me that I’m the silliest idiot girl in the universe for ever believing Lorenzo DeLuca could want me.
I want to leave the past where it belongs, but the scars run deep and remind me too achingly of what happened, and of what could happen again.
“Lena, are you okay?” he asks.
“Yes, yes,” I whisper, cursing myself for being a dork queen.
Yes, yes.
What am I, a parrot?
“I have something to show you after dinner,” he says. “I think you’ll really enjoy it. But first, let’s order. I plan on feasting like a Viking who’s just returned from a raid. And it would be my honor if you’d do the same.”
I giggle, my worries falling from me like an itchy blanket as I sit up straighter.
“Jeez, Lorenzo. How could I say no to that?”
CHAPTER NINE
Lorenzo
“This is amazing,” Lena says, walking to the large control panel of the recording studio, so many dials and buttons and sliders it looks like an airplane switchboard.
I can’t help but let my hungry eyes move over her ass, to the way the fabric of her dress clings to the round tempting globes. With her pale legs poking out from the hem as she leans forward, the dress riding up, every instinct is urging me to dart forward and slide my hands up between her legs to smear her wetness across my palm.
She turns to me, her face bright and her eyes even brighter, her vivacity and lust for life like a perfume that infuses the air around her.
“I can’t believe you own this place,” she says. “This is really state of the art.”
“I own a record label,” I tell her. “It’s just one of my many businesses. Truthfully, I don’t have much involvement with it. But I’d be honored if …”
“Nah uh,” she sasses, dancing over to me.
She kicked her heels off when we came in here, with the casual intimacy that befits our blossoming relationship. I stare at her calf muscles, wanting to nibble and bite and then trail higher, feeling her goosebumps prickle her skin against my lips.
“You were about to say you’d be honored if I used this studio, right?”
I loop my arms around her and press her close, feeling her breasts pushing against my torso, her body inferno hot and heaving with frenetic breaths.
Our closeness envelops and captivates us, as though nothing else outside of this studio exists.
“Right,” I growl.
“But it’s just hard for me, Lorenzo.”
“How?” I say, my voice choked as my manhood floods with the fire of a thousand stars, the heat surging through my balls and making them bulge, my seed writhing around in its eagerness to gush lovingly into her waiting sex.
“It just all seems too good to be true,” she whispers. “I mean, I want to believe it. Of course I want to believe it. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And this studio, wow, it’s just amazing. Maybe another girl would turn it down out of pride. But not me. I know what it is
