Page 115 of Stormswept Colorado

For a few beats, she didn’t say anything. Her profile appeared as her head swiveled to see me. “You want me to sing for you?”

“I can think of few things that would please me more. Only if you’re up for it. If not?—”

“No, I’m always up for music.” Her eyelashes splayed shyly as she smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that. Let’s go downstairs to my studio.”

We held hands down the open-riser staircase to the lower level. The house followed the shape of the cliffside, so we didn’t lose the ocean views. I spotted the counter where I’d taken her just a few hours before, and a flare of desire heated my insides.

I wanted her again. But I let that simmer. We had all night.

The sun had set. Moonlight danced over the waves below.

There was a cozy, open sitting area with a grand piano and a half dozen guitars, some acoustic and some electric. Beyond, through a glass door, there was a soundproofed booth with a microphone and recording equipment.

Ayla selected an acoustic instrument and sat on a stool, one foot propped on a wooden rung. Her guitar draped gracefully over her lap. I took a seat on the couch opposite her.

“Do you invite a lot of people here?” I asked as she tuned the strings.

“Hardly any. I could probably do more of my recording here, but I tend to be choosy about who I bring home.”

“I feel special.”

“You should. What shall I sing for you?” she asked coyly.

“Whatever you like.”

“This was your idea.”

Hell, that flirty tone of hers went straight to my cock. She knew the kind of power she had in this position. And I loved seeing that confidence in her. She deserved every bit of success, every accolade, and more.

“How about the song you were working on in Silver Ridge? How’s that going?”

She shifted on the stool. “It’s not finished yet. But I can play what I have so far.”

Her fingers moved over the strings. She started to sing.

And instantly, I wasgone. Pulled into her orbit like a satellite around the sun.

Time seem to stand still. Was my heart even beating? Definitely a few skips.

I’d heard her sing countless times in recordings. Heard her sing in person before too, even today. But nothing,nothing, compared to the experience of Ayla singing directly to me.

Some people seemed to think they were entitled to pieces of her. Paul, her more zealous fans, the stalker—they believed they owned her. Didn’t they see the gifts Ayla gave to the world with every note and lyric?

I had to catch my breath when her fingers left the strings.

“See?” she said. “Not quite finished yet. But it’s getting there.”

“That was…beautiful. You’re unbelievable. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Thank you for listening.”

She set the guitar aside and crossed to sit next to me. I turned my body and put my arm out, trying to fit her as close as possible against my side. “I’m already a super fan. I have been for a while.”

“You don’t need to exaggerate.”

“Not kidding. I’ve memorized every one of your songs. All your albums are downloaded on my phone.”

“Not just on your workout playlist?”

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