I rock her and pat her hair, but her crying only seems to grow louder.
Shit, shit, shit.
The band around my heart squeezes. Gotta do something. What does one do to quieten someone who’s crying? I rock her back and forth, back and forth. She digs her fingers into my shirt, her nails digging through, into my skin. She’s still weeping…but it’s not as intense as earlier, right?
I continue to rock her, hum under my breath. She sniffles. Her crying lessens. I hum again…then croon the song.
She hiccups, then falls silent.
"Your pitch is off-key, by the way." She sniffles.
"I'm tone deaf," I reply cheerfully. But at least she's stopped the waterworks. Man, that was close.
She peers up at me from under her eyelashes, "Did you sing—"
“While my Guitar Gently Weeps by The Beatles?" I crack my neck. "Seems that way."
"Why?" She asks.
"It worked, didn't it?" I scowl, "Couldn’t stand by and watch you have a bloody meltdown."
She huffs, "I meant, why The Beatles?"
"Why not The Beatles?"
"You hate The Beatles."
"I hate tears even more, besides, when a naked woman—"
"—Almost-naked," she protests.
I chuckle, "Almost naked woman throws herself at me… I had to catch you. I couldn’t have you hurting yourself."
Her gaze flickers.
I fit my knuckles under her chin, so she has no choice but to glance at me.
"Only I am allowed to do that, Gigi."
She swallows.
"No one else can hurt you, except me," I lower my chin, "you feel me?"
Her pupils dilate. Her chest heaves, then she nods. "I understand… Sir."
My dick hardens at that. Shit, what am I doing, cuddling her? I fucking hummed a song for her? Bloody-fucking-hell!
I lean forward and she presses a hand into her chest, "It’s okay, Saint, I won’t tell."
I frown.
"I won’t tell the Seven or anyone else. It’s our secret."
"What the fuck you talking about?"
She darts me a look from under those sooty eyelashes, "That you secretly have a thing for The Beatles."
"I don’t have a 'thing' for those knobheads."
"Yet you knew the words to their song."
"Who doesn’t?"
She stares at me.
"What?" I scowl.
"Not everyone knows the correct words to that particular song."
Shit, is it getting hot in here?
"Admit it." She sits up in my lap.
"No."
"You secretly like them… You think it’s ‘uncool’—" she makes air quotes with her fingers. "—to say so."
I set my jaw, "I don’t."
"It won’t take away from your macho, hotter-than-hell image."
I lean back in the seat. "You think I’m macho?"
"Umm." She shuffles her feet.
"Answer me."
"Maybe…" She chews on her lower lip and my gaze traces the action. Bare lips with all the lipstick bitten off. Mascara trails down her cheeks, her eyelashes are spiky from the tears she’d shed, she’s not wearing clothes… And yet, she’s trying to coerce me into revealing something more about myself. It’s not a big deal…but…if it means so much to her, hell if I’m going to give it to her so easily….
"Yes or no, Gigi?"
She throws up her hands. "Fine, yes, you’re macho as hell, fucking sexy, the most virile man I’ve ever met."
"Don’t forget overpoweringly charismatic."
She draws in a breath.
"And an asshole."
"You mean, alphahole?" I smirk.
She tosses her head.
"And dominant."
"Your ego is so large that—"
"It’s bigger than Beatlemania at its height?" I smirk.
She blinks, "See?" She stabs a finger in my chest. "So, you admit they were a phenomenon?"
"So were The Stones, and they had a fuck-ton more attitude."
She raises her shoulders, "Too rebellious."
"Too conformist." I lower my chin. "Goody-goody on the outside and bitchy, on the inside."
"Over the top, bad boys, too much sex, too much fast living, too much everything."
"Exactly what you secretly covet."
She scoffs.
"Admit it. What you need to loosen up, is a whole lotta fucking." I raise an eyebrow.
"Speak for yourself." She gathers her hair to one side. Her tits jiggle again, and my dick instantly perks up. Shit, is there a direct connection between her sensual actions and a particular part of my anatomy?
I adjust her position so she’s straddling me. "Tell me what you feel for me," I say, "and if I’m satisfied, I might let on what I think about that old-fashioned, overrated, ridiculous boy band."
"Boy band?" She splutters. "You called them a boy band?"
"I changed my mind." I stab my tongue in my cheek, "They were a bunch of dicks who hated each other…"
Her shoulders stiffen.
"Oh, and Lennon was especially a douche-dick."
She clutches her fingers at her sides as twin spots of color appear on her cheeks.
Hell, this is more fun than sitting in a business meeting negotiating the crap out of my opposing party.
"And The Beatles copied The Stones."
"The Beatles copied them? The Beatles?" She sputters, "Your timelines are all warped."
I lean in close enough for our breaths to mingle, "Are you aware that you get this cute little line between your eyebrows when you go all maniac?"
"I’m not bloody Flashdance," she huffs.
I laugh.
"Nice one, Rhodes."
"That’s not my surname." She slaps a palm over her mouth.
I frown, 'What’s that supposed to mean?"
"N…nothing." She tries to scramble off my lap, and I grab her shoulders to hold her in place.
"Explain."
"There’s nothing to explain."
"Yes, there is, what you said—"
"Was a slip of the tongue." She tips up her chin.
"You’re a bad liar."
"Not lying."
"You’ve been heaping on the bullshit from the moment we met."
"What?" She frowns, "What do you mean?"
"You went out of your way to catch my attention, you led me on, capitalized on the chemistry between us. You made me an offer you knew would pique my interest."
"Not my fault you found me a challenge," she huffs.
"You’re more than that for me."
She freezes.
Shit, shit, shit, hadn’t meant to say that. Talk about a slip of the tongue, huh?
She swallows, lowers her head, "You’re not making sense."
"It’s simple. You wanted to become my submissive, but I’ve changed my
