Page 60 of Perfect Pitch

“Like when I’m asleep, when I wake up, right before I go to bed.”

“Not when you’re awake?”

“Greedy, are we,” he chides. “But I’ll admit to it. Then too. Satisfied.”

“Very. Would it help you to know I can’t get you off my mind either, despite how much you aggravate me?”

He lifts my hand to his lips. “Yes.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes before I try again, “Mitch?”

“Beats?”

“I wasn’t asking about us before.”

“Then what were you going to ask about?” Confusion laces his voice.

“Is traffic always this bad? I mean, it’s almost two o’clock in the morning. Do people ever go home?”

An enormous grin splits his face. “Never.”

I relax in my seat, leaving my hand in his. “Good. That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

* * *

After a delicious after breakfast at the Stardust Diner, Mitch drives me back to Fort Washington. The whole time, we’ve caught up on what the other has been doing in the few weeks he’s been gone. I informed him about all the shows and music I’ve made while he bitched about the amount of sand in his shoes. In a lush voice, I sang the refrain to “Sand in my Shoes,” a classic song from Dido.

When I finished, people around me applauded. The waitress asked me if I was applying for a job as the notorious diner staffed hopefuls who hoped to catch their big break amid the Theater District it was nestled in. After I declined, she muttered, “Pity.”

Now, as the elevator ascends to the top floor, Mitch’s arm is wrapped tight around my waist. “I don’t want to leave.”

The doors open and we step out before I work up enough courage to make my offer, “You can stay.”

His body jerks to a stop. “Hold up.”

I tilt my head back and meet his eyes. “What?”

“Austyn, I like you. And there’s nothing more that I want than to lie down next to you in that bed.”

I press up against him. “Then what’s stopping you?”

He drags a finger down one of my cheeks. “Maybe it’s because of how much I like you. You’re not someone I want to scratch an itch with. You’re a woman I want to call up in the middle of the night just to say hi.”

I step back. “And you’re confusing me.”

He slips a strong arm around my back before lifting me clear off the ground. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist. His groan is agonized. Between his teeth, he grits out, “Not helping.”

I nip his ear. “I want you to call me up in the middle of the night. I want my heart to turn over in my chest when you do. But I also want to remember what your touch feels like when I dream.”

That’s when he drops down onto the sofa and kisses me.

But not on my lips.

He dips his head down until his lips press against my heart. For several long seconds, he leaves them there, not moving. Then his head tips back and his eyes meet mine.

My chest rises and falls in anticipation of something I’ve never experienced with any man—a craving, a desire, too overwhelming to stop.

He draws out the anticipation as he holds me in his lap, slowly drawing his head up between my breasts, over my collar, up my neck. My skin tingles where his beard rubs, causing me to squirm on his lap. I wrap my arms around his neck and ensnare us both in the womb of passion we’ve created.

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