“He has to go through all the takes for each part and pick the best ones. Plus add all the filters and edits and stuff. There isn’t even a complete version to hear until he does that.”
Oliver makes a face. “Filters? Like autotune? What I heard sounded so good. You’re not going to mess it up, right?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, nothing like that. Just reverb and stuff to smooth it out. An untrained ear probably wouldn’t notice much of a difference, only that it sounds cleaner, richer, and better overall.” He sighs in resignation, and I elbow him lightly in the side. “Think of this like a team practice. Recording is a ton of practices and workouts before you get to enjoy the actual game. Most of the process is long and meticulous hours of finetuning small details.”
Strong arms loop around my front and pull me back into a wall of muscle. I settle in with a smile, enjoying the warmth and closeness I’ve been craving all night. Gosh, he feels good. Like coming home and raging fires all at once.
“Sorry,” he says, his lips close to my ear. “But what I saw tonight is nothing like my boring rehab. Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch you and not rush into that booth?” His lips explore the sensitive skin of my neck just below my ear, his hot breath sending shivers through me.
“And do what?” I ask, breathlessly.
“Smell you,” he says, running the tip of his nose along my neck. I feel the force of his heavy inhale, shuddering as if I could dissolve into a vapor and filter into his lungs. I can’t help but absorb an intoxicating blast of his own clean, virile scent. I don’t know what shampoo or cologne he uses, but I want to douse my sheets and wrap myself in it.
“What else?” I ask, drawing in a gasp of air.
“Taste you,” he says, sending a current of electricity through me with a light suck on my neck. I moan and reach up to tangle my fingers in his hair. His kiss intensifies along my skin to the dip at my shoulder.
“What else?”
“Touch you.” His hand slips down the front of my sweatshirt, wedging beneath the cup of my bra. My body instinctively molds to his touch, encouraging the slow, firm massage of his fingers as I mirror his movements with tugs of his hair.
“Oliver…” Just his name. That’s all I can manage as he works my body with the expertise of one who reveres it. I press into him, my backside grazing his front in teasing strokes. He releases a groan, and I reach back with my other hand for more direct access. I want to feel him, to experience his need for me. He hisses in a breath as I rub my palm over him, deep and slow, loving the way he responds to me. “Should we go up to my room?” I rush out. “You haven’t exactly been an easy temptation to resist either.” I slide my hand up and under his shirt, sinking my fingers into firm muscle that always makes my mouth water. I need his clothes off him as soon as possible.
“In a minute,” he says, surprising me. I try to turn to face him, but he holds me steady. It’s then that I notice his attention has shifted to something else. Curious, I follow the direction of his gaze and spot our reflections in the floor length mirror by the entrance to the studio. Above my startled expression rests his intense stare, studying our molded forms like a work of art. I squint at our image as he walks us toward it. Several strands of hair have slipped from the pile on my head. Unhidden by makeup, my skin is pale with a few freckles visible in the bright studio lighting. My lashes are dark, but not dramatic like usual, my eyebrows shaped, but thinner. But my irises are the same, glowing with a spark I’ve never noticed before. I lean closer to the mirror, searching for the flecks of brown Oliver loves so much. Testing a smile, I watch my lips turn up, full but unadorned, shining only with the slightest bit of lip gloss to keep them moist. My bare shoulder lifts in a shrug as I stare openly at the girl in the mirror, naked and exposed.
“See? Perfection,” Oliver says, bending toward my ear again to say those words. I settle back against him, still scanning the foreign image in front of me. He drapes his arms around my front where I grab them to hold on. We look good together. We look relaxed. Real. He looks like Oliver, the injured hero whose strength moves mountains, but I don’t look like Genevieve Fox. Surprised, I blink in awe.
“It’s her,” I whisper, staring at my reflection. “The girl in the mirror.”
Oliver kisses the top of my head, and my grip tightens on his arms. “It is. And now that you know she’s not Genevieve Fox, who is she? Who sang that song tonight?”
It’s a good question. It wasn’t Genevieve Fox, that’s for sure. It wasn’t even Genevieve Hastings. It was someone new. Someone who’s been locked up and finally freed. It’s time to decide who exactly she is.
CHAPTER 13
I am
Brave
I am
Scared
I am
True
I am
Scared
I am
Confident
I am
Scared
I am who I am
The girl who is boldly afraid
OLIVER
“Give me eight more. You got this,” Carlos says.
I pull in a deep breath, bracing myself for one more set of reps. To say my first day back has been hard is an understatement. Forget my knee, my entire body is an inferno of burning muscle. My knee
