Maybe this was a terrible idea after all. Not like I don’t make a habit of acting on terrible ideas. That’s always been my claim to fame. What’s one more to add to the list?
But she’s talking, and I’ve gotten lost in the lines of her body, wondering what she’d taste like, if she’d like it if I held her down or if she prefers to be on top. I force myself to focus on her words. But all I catch is, “okay?”
Blinking at her, I cast about for a response, but all I can come up with is a grunt. She nudges her tequila glass in my direction and settles back on the couch with her champagne, her brows drawn together in question. “That wasn’t an answer. I don’t know what grunting means. English, please.”
I shake my head. “Sorry. I didn’t quite catch that.”
Her eyes narrow, and I worry she’s about to call me out for being an asshole again. Then she stands and moves to retrieve the remote control where the hostess left it, hitting a button a few times and turning down the music. “Sorry,” she says as she reclaims her spot. “Your ears are probably still ringing from the show. Even with the ear protection, I know that can sometimes happen. My back was to you, and it’s not exactly quiet in here.” She waves a hand at the room and smiles. “Can you hear me better now?”
“Yes,” I croak, all out of sorts.
This chick. She’s sweeter than spun sugar, and here I am having filthy thoughts about all the ways I want to defile her.
She beams at me. Fucking beams. “Good. I said I’d chug champagne, but I can’t drink that.” She makes a face at the glass on the table. “You can finish it. I’m not one for shots, much less sipping liquor like that. I just can’t do it.”
“Oh, V,” I say chuckling. “You just gave me a challenge I can’t resist.” One of many, but we won’t get into the others. “Now I’m determined to turn you into a girl who loves top shelf liquor.”
Sticking out her tongue, she makes a gagging sound. “No, thank you. Hard pass.”
I shake my head, sipping my tequila. “Oh, yes. We’ll make a proper rock star entourage member out of you yet.”
Chapter Twenty
Viola
There’s a dark promise to Mason’s words that have me squirming. Mostly on the inside, because I’m still keeping a tight leash on my emotions and reactions, not wanting to give him too much power over me. Not wanting him to know how he affects me sitting there all loose and relaxed in his standard concert wear of equally faded jeans and T-shirt. The fabric looks soft, and more than once over the last few weeks I’ve had to stop myself from running my hands over him to feel just how worn in it is.
I can’t help but adjust my position a little. Kicking off my shoes and pulling my legs under me, I squeeze my thighs together as his deep, sexy voice tickles over my skin, combines with the slow, sultry bass beat filtering through the speakers, and warms me everywhere.
It’s not a sexual promise. But it sounds like a double entendre. Like maybe he wants to turn me into a groupie. Or …
Nope, that’s the only other thing I can think he could mean by “rock star entourage member.” That sounds a lot like a groupie.
Which he already mistook me for once.
Does that mean that’s all he sees me as still? Just another pussy? A challenge he has yet to conquer?
That thought cools me off considerably. No matter how sexy his voice or how firm his abs, I’m not that kind of girl.
Well, he said he wants to get to know me. What better way to make that perfectly clear?
Sipping my champagne, I’m determined not to drink too much. I need to keep a clear head, and the alcohol is already turning my cheeks and the tips of my ears warm.
“First thing you should know is that I’m a lightweight,” I say, pointing at him with my glass. “I don’t need hard liquor to catch up to you. In fact, I’m probably already more tipsy than you from two glasses of champagne and a tiny sip of tequila.”
“That so?” he rumbles, his face mostly shadowed from the position of the lights. His body is loose and liquid, like someone poured him into that position on the couch. He has this easy confidence like he belongs. No, like he owns the place.
It’s distracting. And infuriating.
Because here I am, curled up in a tiny ball in the corner, like I don’t deserve to take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Fuck that noise.
I stretch my legs out on the couch, my toes mere inches from his thigh. He gives me a look of surprise, but there’s challenge mixed with it.
Oh, am I invading your domain, Mr. I’m-A-Rock-Star?
Too damn bad.
He reaches for the bottle and refills my champagne glass.
“Anything else I should know?” he asks as he settles back into his corner, his free hand landing next to my foot.
“Yes.” I give a decisive nod. “Lots, actually.”
He gestures with his glass. “Please share. I’m fascinated.” The words sound almost sarcastic, but even though that smirk is still tugging on his lips, I think he might mean it.
“You should be.” Right? Yes. I am a fascinating creature. Full of surprise and whimsy. And champagne.
I take another drink. “I worked at the most boring job in the known universe before coming here.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Worse.” I point at him. “You don’t know the half of it.”
He shifts, his body flowing into a new position with his elbow on the back of the couch and his cheek propped on his fist. It’s mesmerizing. “Why was it so terrible?”
Taking another sip of champagne, I rifle through the various ways to explain exactly how and why my
