“Fucking great answer.” His voice was end of a concert rough. He held Mena to his side a little tighter, as if holding her physically could bind her to him in other ways.
It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d meant to both resign him as a client and as a person and never see him again. He felt like he’d narrowly missed being in a fatal accident. “We can talk to your boss together, if that works for you?”
She reached for his other hand and squeezed it. “It’s enough that you offered.”
“Have you ever been crazy enough about anyone to be in love?”
“Once. A long time ago and I was very different then. He was someone I lusted after. I plotted to meet him. Put myself in his way so he couldn’t avoid me. It was only a temporary thing. But it was good in a way that shocked both of us. I found out much later that it meant something to him. Neither of us tried for more, but I still wonder what might’ve happened if we had.”
Story reminded him of his week with Philly. “Man was an idiot to let you go.” It was difficult to imagine how Mena was still single.
“We were on different paths.”
“We’re on different paths. I’m a musical clown and you’re a mathematical witch. I kinda liked that monster truck and you hated it.”
She poked his side. “It was super impractical.”
“I was joking but I think you know what I mean. We’re not as different as I first thought but we’re not from the same worlds now. Does it worry you?” When she didn’t reply, he took a quick breath and went on. “It worries me. I’m not touring right now, but I spend months on the road every year. It’s not an easy life for partners.”
She didn’t respond.
“I’m getting ahead of myself, right?”
She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his palm. “I didn’t hate it.”
He was so freaking hooked. She was extraordinary. He had one question left. The very first question he’d ever asked her. It was like being scared spaghetti was going to choke him all over again. It made no sense.
“Mena, have we met before?”
She lifted her head, her eyes wide and said, “Pass.”
SEVENTEEN
The word pass was out of her mouth, deadpan serious, before Mena could weigh its impact. She flat out panicked and tried to disguise it in acting like she’d intended to tease Grip. She’d been careful with all of her answers, not telling outright lies but keeping her secret, never mentioning being goth, or spending all of her time in pubs, clubs and concert venues, and everyone had that one-who-got-away story.
She buried her head in Grip’s arm so he couldn’t see her face and didn’t take a breath until he laughed and hauled her across his lap and kissed her with an edge of ruthlessness. She deserved it.
Lying to him was getting harder. She had to find a way to come clean that didn’t make him distrust everything she’d said and done. Instead she kept digging herself in further. That was one of the reasons why she’d wanted to control the touch element of the game. If Grip’s questions got too tricky, she’d intended to distract him with touch. They’d ended being all about touch anyway because he clearly loved being touched and she loved getting him excited.
She couldn’t think about it anymore because he kissed the anxiety out of her, and she surrendered to the drug of his lips and hands. All that dopamine he injected into her with hungry kisses and possessive caresses was too much to combat. She gave in to the pleasure of making out, only anxious they’d run out of time to be like this together.
Time was what she needed. Time to live this fantasy. Time to wonder if it could truly be more than that. Time to fall in love with him then fall out so her secret no longer mattered, and she never needed to betray him.
Time to tell him he’d always been her one.
“It is faintly disgusting how into you I am,” he said, fingers tapping a beat between her breasts, down her sternum and onto her stomach. “Are you cool with that?”
“For a foul-mouthed rocker, you’ve got some good old-fashioned courtesy in your DNA. It’s faintly disgusting how turned on I am by that.”
“I’ll own the bad language. But you know I’m good at doing other things with my mouth.”
She traced the vibrant green feathers on his shoulder. “You talk a good story.”
He leaned over and sealed his lips over hers and her limbs lost contact with the crucial bits of muscle and cartilage that held them together as she softened into goop. He kissed like he was trained in it as an art form and had mastered shades of dark and light, could kiss storms and whimsy and switch between them with the most unexpectedly elegant strokes.
She was utterly undone by his ability to open his heart and humbled by his honesty. She was terrified of admitting her lie. She clung to him like the headstrong, know-it-all, too-smart-for-her-own-good teenager she’d been, assuming she could have everything she wanted without understanding the limits.
With his fingers sliding under the elastic of her pants, Grip said, “Want to see the music room?”
She’d go anywhere, see anything with him. “Yes, please.”
He brought his lips back to hers and spoke against them. “I want to show you what else I can do with my mouth and a piano.”
“Will you play
