Page 146 of Broken Lines

The guitar slides back to my lap as my fingers begin to strum. My heart thuds in my chest as the words flow from my lips, starting from the top and singing the whole thing one more time. Until once again, the last notes and the final lines hang like silk strands in the darkness around us.

They’re still hovering there when I stand. They’re still vibrating over both of when I set the guitar to the side, take a slow breath, and turn.

And there she is.

My muse.

Every pink strand of her.

“Melody—”

“Okay, youdidsay I could come back…”

I grin a lopsided smile.

“But I mean, if you’re busy,” she shrugs. “I can find some other washed-up rock star on some other island to hang out with.”

Could you? I actually have plans with another neon-haired pain-in-my-ass. You understand, of course.”

“Of course.”

I grin.

So does she.

And we get one more second of putting on this sarcastic façade before it breaks. She gasps quietly as I close the distance between us in one giant step, my big hands grabbing her waist and pulling her into me.

She’s barely been gone for twenty-four hours. But when I crush my lips to hers and taste the sweetness of her mouth, it’s like I’ve been without her for years.

And maybe I have been, and that’s what was missing the last decade of my life spent wandering through a haze on this island, searching and hunting for madness or genius.

It turns out, I was just waiting for her.

The missing chord.

The killer line.

The perfect Melody.

33

Jackson

The wayshe moans into me is like napalm to my soul. The way she writhes in my arms so eagerly and grinds her pussy against the thick bulge in my jeans turns me into a fucking demon for her.

But the biggest thing is that her being back in my arms triggers a sort of caveman response. A savage, evolutionary need to make hermine.

Ruthlessly. Recklessly.

Repeatedly.

She whimpers when I scoop her into my arms, her legs wrapping tight around my waist as my hands grip her firm, tight ass with a savage hunger. My lips don’t even leave hers as I stride purposefully from the studio and down the hall.

I keep carrying her like that—my lips seared hungrily to hers and my fingers kneading the globes of her ass—the entire way upstairs to my bedroom. And I don’t let go until I’m tossing her down across the bed and stalking onto it after her.

Over her.

Pinning her down as my mouth devours her lips. And her neck, and her collarbone, until she’s arching her back and mewling like a fucking kitten for me.

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