Page 41 of Don't Bang a Bandmate

Bronson takes another moment, then says, “Do you want to stay with me tonight?”

I snort. “God, no. No offense to the fine people at the tour bus company who put this thing together, but you and I have vastly different opinions when it comes to comfortable sleeping arrangements.”

“Jordan.” He says my name in that way that makes the hair on my arms tingle wildly. “Do you want to stay with me tonight?” he asks again, emphasizing each word to make sure I hear them this time.

“Oh,” I say, looking down as the heat in my face reaches unbearable levels. “I don’t know about that, Bronson. I mean, we agreed that last time was the only time.”

“I remember.”

“I’m not sure that’s a door we should open again.”

Bronson studies me for a moment, his brows pinching. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Yes.

Yes.

The word is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t bring it to the surface. I look at Bronson, a guy who’s been my friend for as long as I can remember. A guy who punched a kid in the nose because he stole my book at recess. A guy who spent an entire school day wearing dirty gym shorts so I could wear his jeans when my period started early. A guy who danced with me at prom when my date ditched me to go get drunk with his friends on the football field.

A guy who asked me to be in his band, even though I couldn’t even read music.

In my silence, Bronson steps closer. He reaches out with one hand, his strong fingers gently taking hold of my cheek. A rush of heat fires down my neck, swiftly curling around my chest to grip my racing heart.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Bronson,” I whisper, one last push against temptation before he leans down and kisses me.

It’s a soft kiss, warm and friendly. I’d almost call it chaste if I thought Bronson Isaacs was even capable of that.

I touch his wrist. I will myself to keep standing as I close my eyes and kiss him back. He shifts closer, his firm chest flush against mine as his hand falls from my cheek, his arms wrapping around my waist to keep me close. My senses ignite with memories of our first night together. I curl my arms around his neck, my body eager to experience him again. The comfort of his embrace. The pleasure of his cock. The hours of aching satisfaction and relaxation that came after.

With a sudden flex, Bronson lifts me. I gasp against his lips, but I know I’m safe as he walks us back to the bus.

I cling to him as we step on; the doors locking behind us.

14

JORDAN

Bronson sets me down on the front table, his body pressed hard between my knees. I sit as close to the edge as possible, the hint of his erection teasing me, tempting me, making me kiss him even deeper. Our tongues touch as our hands move, both of us carelessly tugging on the other’s clothing.

With a laugh, we peel off our shirts. For a moment, I look around, quietly realizing where we are. The windows are tinted, so no one can just walk up and see this, but I’m not the only person in this hotel who can unlock the doors.

“Bronson,” I say, the name coming out as more of a moan than I intend it to as he kisses my neck. Before I can vocalize the rest of that thought, it dissolves on my tongue, and I release another soft moan that renders me silent.

Yeah.

Let’s not talk.

As I unzip my jeans, Bronson grabs hold of them and quickly pulls them down, taking my panties, too. Dropping them to the floor with our shirts, he returns to the space between my thighs, his cotton slacks the final barrier between us.

“Bronson,” I whisper, at least one smart thought shining through. “Condom.”

He pauses.“Shit.”

“What?”

“I don’t have one.”

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