Page 68 of Perfect Pitch

—Moore You Want

I knock on the door, anticipation riding me hard.

I hope to be riding Austyn harder.

The door flings open, and there she is. Her smile rips through me, tripping my heart into an irregular beat—something it only does for her.

That’s when her voice breaks the silence between us with the sweetest words I’ve heard in days. “You’re home.”

Seconds later, she’s in my arms. Her arms wrap around my neck. I pick her up and kick the door shut as I move us both into the foyer.

* * *

Sweat pours down my face as I pound through a five-mile run with Kane. We’re going head-to-head on the treadmills in the gym. The bastard manages to increase the speed while I almost trip over my rock-hard dick after he asks, “How was your date last night?”

How was my date? I can still feel the snug fit of my fingers inside Austyn as she moaned into my mouth. If it hadn’t been for Trevor’s again unfortunate—or fortuitous—timing when he stumbled against her bedroom door on his way to take a leak, I’d know exactly what those clenching fingers felt like around my cock. I’m certain of it. I settle on, “Good,” as I amp up the speed just a touch higher.

Kane mutters, “Fuck you, Clifton,” as he increases the speed to match mine.

We’re both panting, sprinting outright when any half-sane person would be jogging at these lengths. Then again, with the nature of our jobs, who knows what we’ll face on any given day? The stories Kane has shared about when crazed fans used to get into Beckett’s place are quite frankly terrifying from a security standpoint.

“And now you know why he agreed to round the clock guards,” Kane bit off.

We’re playing chicken with one another—male testosterone refusing to let the other be the first to lower the speed. That is until another presence announces himself by changing the music from Metallica to Heart. Simultaneously, we shout, “No!” I turn my head toward the door and catch Kane slowing his speed.

Grateful, I do the same.

Then Kane shouts, “Beckett, change it back!”

And like an incantation, the man himself appears in the doorway. “You boys need to expand your music tastes.”

I sneer. “I have expanded them.”

“Ahh, yes. There’s that DJ you’re dating. Has she shown you if she has perfect pitch yet?” Beckett’s voice is laced with innuendo.

I’m about to leap at him for daring to make such a comment about Austyn when Kane snags my biceps in a fierce hold. He warns, “Don’t encourage him.”

Beckett transfers his laser blue stare to Kane before muttering, “Spoilsport.”

Without censoring myself, I say to the older man, “You’re an ass, Beckett.”

Beckett beams at me, like he’s a professor and I just aced a test.

Kane groans, “Really, don’t encourage him. His latest hobby is seeing how much he can drive us to the brink.”

Beckett’s eyes flash. “You’re spoiling my fun.”

“Don’t take potshots at my girlfriend. She’s off limits,” I fling at him before I trip on my feet at the overbearing way I’m talking to my boss. “Shit, where the hell did that come from?”

“Does the lady in question know how you feel about her? Or is there something you forgot?” Beckett sings his modified words along to Ann and Nancy Wilson.

Beckett doesn’t drag his probing gaze from me even as Kane face plants over my embarrassment. His work of tormenting his bodyguards complete for the time being, Beckett announces, “I need to speak with Kane. We’re going to be adding a few dates to the tour.”

Kane shoves himself to his feet. “Couldn’t just come in here and say that?”

“What would be the fun in that?” Beckett wonders. As he slips away, his powerful baritone harmonizes with the song’s end.

“When you go talk with Beckett, can you change the station?” I plead.

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