Page 5 of One More Song

Ash

Frustration flickersin Ember’s eyes. Eyes that have held me entranced since the moment I walked into this old house. Flecks of gold, like tiny flames, burn there. The woman is all fire and heat, despite the cool facade she’s trying so desperately to maintain.

I understand her all too well, even though she’s determined not to give me an inch. Which is probably for the best. If she let me, I’d take a mile.

I can feel the heat emanating from her, but she’s meticulous with her words and body language. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, giving me one word at a time. Refusing to let me in.

But damn, I feel it.I know it. Because a fire used to burn in me too. Now it’s nothing but ashes. It’s no secret that I’m the king of rock star cliches. I drank and screwed and soaked up every ounce of oxygen I could until there was nothing left.

Until I hit rock bottom. And my rock bottom happened to be very, very public.

That was months ago. But the media still hasn’t forgiven me. And why would they? My crash was a journalistic goldmine. Not that they need to tell much of a story - the photos and videos that were released didn’t need a caption.

I wouldn’t care much about if it was only my own reputation on the line. Those guys out there, they’re the only family I’ve got. And I fucked them around big time. And it doesn’t help that our last album was a complete flop.

Self-indulgent.

Soulless.

Void of originality.

The reviews were harsh, but they weren’t wrong.

I lost the music. It’s gone. It used to flow through me, like a separate heartbeat. But there’s nothing but emptiness now.

And I’d let the misery of it spiral me into a depression fueled by anything and everything to fill the void.

Booze. Chicks. Drugs.

But gluttony and debauchery just drew me deeper into the darkness of self-loathing.

Which is why we’re on this three-month media hiatus. Maryll’s idea, of course. I’d fought it at first. But now, watching the gorgeous little brunette huff and puff in a frenzy in front of me, I’m thinking it might not be such a bad plan after all.

Shit, it’s been a long time since my cock rose to attention the way it had when I’d first laid eyes on her. Even now, it’s pressed uncomfortably against my jeans. But more than that, the woman has my curiosity piqued.

I don’t understand it. I’ve never felt the tug I feel now. It’s more than just a need to be inside of her. To see if those lips taste as sweet as they look. It’s like my soul recognizes something in hers, something familiar. Like I need to explore not only her body but her entire being.

Fuck. I drag my fingers over my face and blow out a rough breath. I’m not sure where that thought came from, but it’s messed up.

No, the truth isI’m messed up. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to show Ember Skye exactly who I am. And the mix of frustration and lust I see flickering in those expressive brown eyes, I know it’s only a matter of time before I have her screaming my name as she comes repeatedly over my cock.

She wants it. I can see the desire in her eyes. The need.

But there’s a hint of fear there too. One that gives me pause. That stops me from reaching out and drawing her to me. From teasing out a soft moan from those sweet bow-shaped lips.

“This is so bad,” she says, shifting from one foot to the other, and glancing out the window.

Taking pity on her, I swing my leg over the stool and stand. “We’re not going to turn the place into a frat house if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She has to tilt her head to look up at me, and when she does, a soft stream of light hits her face, showing off a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks. Her skin looks soft, healthy, not caked in makeup like most women these days, and the temptation to drag my knuckles across her jaw is almost too much.

“You have no idea what I’m worried about,” she says softly, but I’m pretty sure her words aren’t meant for me. I see it then, the weight she carries. It’s a look I grew up seeing daily.

I glance around taking in the cheap furnishings. The only thing of any worth is the old piano, which hasn’t been tuned in years.

And I can see her struggle of whether or not to let us stay. She needs the money. That much is clear. The asshole in me, which has been prominent the last few years, softens slightly.

“You need the money,” I say. It’s not a question, just a statement of the truth of our situation. “And we need a place where no one knows us.”

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