The Duet

  For two seconds he didn’t say a word, but then he leaned forward, pushed off the counter and walked around toward me. “Well, then you’ve come to the right place.”

  Oh dear God, I thought that was going in a drastically different direction. This man looked like he wanted to kill me, stuff my body and put me on display next to his taxidermied squirrels. I kid you not, there were like four of them sitting on the counter. One was wearing a top hat.

  “I bet you’re about a seven and a half,” he said, looking down at my feet, clad in the only pair of sneakers I’d brought with me for the trip. I wore them to work out, but after the mud-in-the-face debacle, I wasn’t about to ruin another pair of heels.

  “Yes, that’s exactly my size,” I gaped. “How’d you know that?”

  “Ain’t the first time I sized up a foot, honey.”

  Hold the phone. Did this behemoth of a man just call me “honey” like my hair stylist did back in LA? I narrowed my eyes on him, but he was glancing over the racks of boots on the wall and I couldn’t get a very good read.

  “Try these. They’d look good with just about anything, although I’m a bit over the boots and short skirt trend myself, I’m sure you’d be able to pull it off well.”

  I couldn’t even process his words. It’s not like I pride myself on my gay-dar or anything, but c’mon. This man screamed heterosexual male. I mean, he had on a camo-print shirt for Christ’s sake. Oh my God, that’s when I saw the Hermes belt buckle peeking out from under his shirt. He was wearing camo because it was trendy, not because he lived in the country.

  “Are you going to take these boots, or keep staring at my belt like you’re wishing I had it in your size?” he asked, pursing his lips and tilting his head.

  “You are the most interesting person I’ve ever met,” I blurted out as I took the red cowboy boots from him.

  He laughed and shrugged. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. I moved out to Montana to open up a chic bed and breakfast, but not many people travel out here for that. So I have the store as well.”

  An hour later, I walked out of Callahan’s General Store with a smoking hot pair of red cowboy boots, a new pair of cutoff jeans shorts, and a coffee date with Paulo. Yes, that was grizzly man’s name. Paulo.

  …

  A few hours later, after I’d returned from town, I went up to Jason’s room wearing my daisy dukes and my red cowboy boots. I had my guitar in my right hand, so I knocked gently with the left, pressing my ear to the door to see if he was inside.

  “Come in,” he called out.

  I pushed his door open and stepped in, expecting to find him in the same spot on the couch, but he was pulling his black acoustic Gibson from its stand. When he turned and glanced up to take in my new outfit, he paused for a second, trying to conceal a private smile as his gaze slid over my bare legs.

  “You’re channeling a little Nancy Sinatra,” he quipped, taking in my appearance nice and slow. For the first time, his interest was clear to see. It was written across his face from the way he took a deep, savoring breath, to the way his lips seemed to unconsciously part. Perhaps the signs had been there from the start, but I’d been too distracted concealing my own interest to notice his.

  “More like Jessica Simpson. But thanks.”

  I sat down in the overstuffed chair and waited for him to take his seat on the couch. He’d trimmed off his beard overnight so that only short stubble remained. His black long-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned on top. I could see more of his tan neck and chest then I’d ever seen before.

  He cleared his throat as he sat down, positioned his guitar over his lap and crossed his bare feet. We’d been in the same situation before, but today, the tension was back, igniting the air between us.

  There was a pen stuck behind his ear and his writing note pad sat with a blank page open on the coffee table between us.

  It was time to write.

  Wordlessly, we started playing the opening bars of the song we’d been working on the day before, but no lyrics came. I could feel them, trying to break through, but I wasn’t used to the nerves pushing them back down my throat. I wrote alone. Always alone. I never had to worry about someone thinking my lyrics were silly because by the time I shared them, they were perfect. Maybe that’s why neither one of us spoke up.

  We kept strumming, playing on and on, with silence twining around the sounds of our guitars. I kept catching Jason’s gaze on my legs… my arms… my neck. He’d focus on me for just a moment, always glancing away when I looked up. But I could feel him, feel the tension multiplying. I noticed every breath he took, the desire building in my body as his heated gaze stayed glued on me.

  “I don’t usually get writer’s block,” Jason spoke up a few minutes later, after clearing his throat.

  I nodded, staring down at my fretboard. “Neither do I.”

  “How should we get over it?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment. “We could just say the first few things that come to mind, no matter how silly.”

  He nodded, but didn’t reply.

  “We could start with a word, a single word and move on from there.”

  Still no reply.

  “Or we could just have sex,” I added, just to make sure he was listening.

  His guitar strings rang out sharply before they stopped all together.

  When I looked up at him, his dark eyes were focused right on me. Not my guitar, not the window behind me—they were pinned on my face as if he was trying to read between the lines. I’ve never been someone who filters what comes out of my mouth, but in that moment I was left wondering why I’d joked about something like that. Jason and I were not close enough to understand each other’s humor. Or actually, I wasn’t sure Jason had a sense of humor at all.

  “I like that idea,” he said, letting a smile slide over his beautiful mouth.

  I swallowed hard. That’s the last thing I expected him to say.

  Then he continued, “We obviously still feel nervous around one another. You’re too scared to sing even though I can see you’ve got lyrics brewing.”

  What in-all-that-is-holy is going on? Are we actually talking about having sex right now? My eyes stayed glued on my fingers sliding back and forth along my guitar string. Do not look at him. Do not look at him.

  “So, it’s purely a business thing,” I suggested, trying to think of any possible excuse to get this man in bed. I’d tell myself it was for world peace if that’s what he wanted to hear. That’s right, I’d have an orgasm for world peace, because I’m noble like that.

  “You can look at it like that,” he replied, rubbing his stubble.

  “So, we should have sex— right here, right now?” I asked, meeting his eyes.

  He wet his bottom lip, flashed me a confident grin and then,

  it began.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We were like animals. Whereas our minds had writer’s block, our bodies had no trouble improvising. Our guitars were tossed aside as Jason came around the coffee table and I was peeling my shirt up over my head at the same time that he bent to kiss me. Our lips parted when my shirt got in the way, but I didn’t care. I was already working at his belt buckle. There was no foreplay. There was no two-hour make-out session before we finally pushed past the invisible boundary.

  In its place, there were small bites, and nails scraping against skin. His stubble scratched my face, his arms wrapped around my waist and then he was carrying me over to his bed in the corner of the room. It was still as unmade as it’d been the day before, but I liked that. I didn’t have to worry about messing it up even more.

  My heart was beating so fast I was scared it’d break through my rib cage. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d felt this way, maybe with a past boyfriend, but I doubt I’d ever felt this rushed to feel someone else’s skin. Once his shirt was gone, I dragged my palms down over his chest and abs. He was a musician and his body reflected that with toned, sinuous muscles that weren’t as bulky as some of the m
en I’d been with before. But Jason could move; his hips had a mind of their own and the way he rolled against me made my mind splinter into two.

  “Holy fuck,” I groaned as I felt his warm skin against mine.

  “This can’t turn into something more,” he said, breaking the sound of our heavy breathing as he scooted down the bed to slip off my boots.

  “The sex? Or us?” I asked.

  He tugged off my jean shorts with half of the care that he’d shown my boots, leaving me in my black panties. His eyes raked over my thighs and stomach, and then he finally glanced up to my face.

  “Us.”

  I rolled my eyes. I didn’t give a shit what happened with us. Just because I was the girl didn’t mean I had to care what happened after we had sex. Cuddling? Who needs it? Talking? Overrated. This was going to happen and I was going to enjoy every second of it. And after? I couldn’t even think that far.

  “Great. Can you stop talking now?” I asked with a grin as I gripped his biceps and pulled him back up so that his body covered mine.

  He laughed and shook his head, obviously surprised by my response. But then his lips found mine again and his hips dug into me at the same time that his tongue slipped into my mouth. I think I orgasmed on the spot. He was so skilled and I hadn’t had a proper orgasm in far too long. My body was overly sensitive, ready to spring to life beneath his deft touch.

  When he pulled his boxers off, he took my underwear and bra with them and we were left completely naked, staring at one another in awe. If there were time, I would have pushed him onto his back and sat atop him to get my fill of every single patch of skin. I wanted to know how he felt, take my time touching his biceps, his chest, his abs, his thighs.

  But there was no time. I needed him.

  He reached past me for a condom in his side drawer and I tried to ignore the fact that he could unroll that bad boy like he was competing in “Condom Application” on an Olympic level. This man had clearly had quite a lot of sex in his life and I was about to benefit from all that experience.

  I had to hold back a squeal as he repositioned us in the center of the bed and parted my legs. Dear God, if you’re up there, please don’t let me pass out from excitement before he even gets it in.

  Thankfully, God or whoever, definitely heard my prayers, because when Jason sank into me, I experienced heaven and let me tell you, it looks like a musician’s room. And it feels like Jason’s bed. And it smells like Jason’s body wash. And it tastes like his mouth over mine, dipping into me and making me whole.

  I let him take the lead since I wasn’t actually able to use my brain for anything other than generating soft moans. His thumb found my most sensitive spot and I bit my lip, arching my neck off his pillow.

  There’s a moment just before you orgasm when your toes curl and you know it’s coming. You can feel it rolling through you. It’d been so long for me, I wanted to prolong the agony, ride the anticipation for as long as possible— just feel the moment and realize I was three seconds away from the best orgasm of my life.

  “I – can’t – even,” I said, unsure of where I was going with that sentence.

  I never got the chance to find out because a second later, my body shook with uncontrollable pleasure as Jason brought me to an orgasm that seared my soul. I took his face between my hands and kissed him with every ounce of passion that he’d given me, and then I watched and listened as he finished after me. It was so sexy to behold, someone deriving pleasure from you, from the sheer act of being inside of you.

  A moment later, when he was done, he collapsed onto my chest, breathing against my ear. We stayed like that for a few minutes and then he whispered a few words into my ear. His mouth tickled my skin, but I strained to hear what he was saying. The words were faint and I could hardly hear them, but I did. And I wasn’t sure I was meant to.

  Loving you would be as easy as taking a breath

  But to look at you, that’s a dance with death

  He’d written the first lyrics to our duet.

  And in doing so, he’d stolen the first part of my heart.

  I gave myself ten seconds to stay on his bed, beneath his weight, while I collected as many memories as possible: he’d liked when I tugged on his hair, his sheets smelled fresh and masculine, the moan he’d emitted as he’d come undone inside of me was the single most delicious sound I’ve ever heard.

  As soon as the ten seconds were up, I took a breath, and sat up. Silently, I rolled off the bed to find my clothes. Jason mimicked my actions on the opposite side, his eyes cast toward the ground.

  “I meant it when I said I don’t want anything serious right now,” he explained, running a hand through his hair, agitated about something he clearly didn’t want to tell me about. Maybe he was just upset he’d had sex with me. Perfect, just what a girl wants to think about after she just had her legs wrapped around a guy like a python in heat.

  “Seems to me like you’re the one hung up on it. Like I said, we agree on that subject,” I said, still breathing heavy from our… whatever it was we’d just done. It definitely wasn’t lovemaking, but it wasn’t just sex either. I tried not to mull it over since he’d just nailed home the fact that he wanted nothing to do with me.

  “Things are complicated for me,” he started to explain, holding his head between his hands. I wanted to jab my fist into his mouth so he’d stop ruining the moment.

  “I get it. So, just let it be,” I said, realizing that I was a simple person. I just wanted good chocolate, my guitar, and maybe some sex every now and then. Maybe Jason and I were perfect for one another.

  He looked back at me as I slid on my bra and tugged my shirt overhead. Staring back at him made me realize that the millions of thoughts swirling through my head before we’d had sex were suddenly silenced. I felt calm and sated, and when the lyrics came to me, I smiled because maybe Jason and I had been right after all. A little sex never hurt anyone, especially when it got the creative juices flowing.

  I retrieved my guitar from the couch and grabbed a pen so I could record the words he’d whispered into my ear and add a verse of my own. I didn’t overanalyze them or ponder where they’d come from. I wrote them down, gave Jason a nod, and exited his room to give him some privacy.

  I’d risk it all,

  For you I would

  You’d make me fall,

  And fall I would

  Chapter Seventeen

  I woke up the next morning craving Jason Monroe. Not him as a person, I didn’t want his past or his future. I wanted another thirty minutes of heaven. The craving was something I knew I couldn’t fight. I’d never been addicted to anything in my life, save for caffeine, but I’d heard that it only took one time to become addicted to a drug.

  Great. I was officially a drug addict.

  I rolled over in bed, trying to ignore my trainer’s Skype call ringing out in the background of the room. I should have been up and at it an hour ago, but I couldn’t leave my bed for fear of starting the day. I had wanted a one-night stand with Jason and that’s what I got, but now I wanted more. A two-night stand. Surely, that’s a thing, right?

  I decided to get Cammie’s advice about the subject because she never steered me wrong. (Well, most of the time. She did tell me that I wouldn’t regret dyeing my hair black when I was fifteen. Also, she let me try out the bang trend.) I sent her a text in case she was working in the studio.

  Brooklyn: Heyyy. Just for conversation’s sake… Would it be wrong to have sex with Jason?

  It took her five, long minutes to reply and I was going crazy the entire time.

  Cammie: Good morning to you too. It would be wrong not to. Are you going to have sex with him? I didn’t even think you guys were friends?

  Brooklyn: Oh, we aren’t.

  Cammie: Do it. #YOLO. There couldn’t possibly be any consequences….

  Her sarcasm oozed all the way from California.

  Brooklyn: You’re right. I should come back to LA and just write with him ove
r the phone or something.

  Cammie: No. Just relax and enjoy life for once. Jeez. You’re not allowed to come back yet, and don’t forget that I’m coming to visit you in a few days!

  Brooklyn: Okay. Have you talked to Grayson yet?

  Cammie: Gotta go. Studio started.

  I rolled my eyes at how childish she was being about the Grayson thing. I swore to call him myself as soon as I finished my workout and shower. With a groan, I sat up and stretched, changed into workout clothes, unrolled my yoga mat in the center of the room, and called my trainer back.

  “Since you didn’t answer my first call, you’re doing an extra set of everything,” my trainer said with a cheery voice as soon as the video call connected.

  “Peachy,” I said with a note of sarcasm. Okay, fine, maybe it was more than just a note.

  …

  After my trainer made me cry, (it might have just been sweat dripping into my eye, but still, it stung) I headed downstairs. I poured myself a steaming cup of coffee and sat at the table to dial Grayson’s work number.

  After two rings, the call connected and a woman answered with a clipped tone. “Cole Designs, this is Beatrice. How can I help you?”

  Grayson must have gotten a new secretary. His old secretary was named Katherine, or so I thought. It was hard to keep up with the rotating door of young, beautiful women in his office.

  “Hi Beatrice. This is Brooklyn calling for Grayson.”

  “Oh, um, just hold on one second please,” she replied, obviously flustered. I wasn’t sure if she recognized my name or if she was nervous to tell Grayson I was calling. Maybe he’d told her not to interrupt him. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d forced one of his secretaries to connect me to him via hard threats. If the man had it his way, he’d never talk to anyone and just work on his designs all day. Hmm, who did that remind me of? *Cough* Jason.