Page 42 of The Fangirl and the Crooner

Even though I know, realistically, the song isn’t about me––I’d be crazy to think so––it touches me so deeply, I feel tears prick at the back of my eyes. That’s the beauty of great music. It makes the listener feel the emotion. It makes them feel as though it’s being sung for them, and them alone.

Bram finishes with a long, harmonious chord, then looks at me expectantly. I end the recording and toss my phone onto the coffee table as I stand. Moving in front of him, I gently take the guitar and set it back on its stand, then straddle his lap as I wrap my arms around his neck.

“That was amazing,” I say, then press my lips to his.

His arms circle around me, his hands finding my ass and squeezing it as he takes over the kiss. Breaking away abruptly, I rip my sweatshirt over my head and toss it aside before quickly unfastening my bra and sending it the same way as the shirt.

Bram lowers his head to kiss my breast, one hand moving up to cup its weight before his lips close over the nipple. I throw my head back and moan as he sucks on it and flicks the tip of his tongue against it at the same time. His other hand burrows beneath the waistband of my pants so he can grip my bare ass cheek, and I roll my hips to grind down on his erection.

“I want you, Bram,” I murmur, and he grunts before moving his mouth to worship the other breast.

He grips me tightly as he stands, still sucking at my breast, and carries me to his bedroom. He sits me on theedge of the bed, and I fall backward and lift my hips so he can slide my pants and underwear off. Pushing my knees apart, he dives in, licking me thoroughly before sucking my clit between his lips.

“Bram, please,” I groan, and he hums against me.

As he continues to drive me wild with his mouth, I hear the telltale sounds of his zipper lowering and the rustle of denim as he works the jeans down his legs. Giving my clit one last lick, he straightens and moves in closer, lining his cock up with my entrance as he braces his hands on either side of my hips.

I open my eyes and look up at him, and the second our eyes meet, he drives forward to the hilt, filling me completely. I mumble something incoherent under my breath as my inner walls clench around his cock, and Bram mumbles something as equally garbled in response.

Then he starts to move.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he chants in time with his thrusts. “So God damned sexy. I fucking love the way it feels to have you wrapped around my bare cock.”

“I love…the way you feel inside me,” I say, barely stopping myself from saying the word “you.”

I start to panic over the near mishap, but my mind goes blank when he does something with his hips, rotating them with some kind of black magic that has me seeing stars. I mumble out a couple of “fucks” as my pleasure spikes, and Bram starts to pump in earnest, driving into me again and again until all I know is the pure bliss of an impending orgasm.

It explodes inside me suddenly, and I scream as myentire body bucks with the impact. Bram’s hands find my hips, holding me still while he thrusts even faster, not stopping until his own release erupts inside me.

He falls forward, his upper half covering me while his feet remain on the floor. Burrowing his face into the side of my neck, he kisses my throat while we both try to catch our breath.

My mind kickstarts back to life, and I try to keep my body still and my breathing even as I remember what I almost said in the throes of passion.

Fuck, that would’ve been a disaster.

And Bram’s disastrous reaction would’ve been made all the worse, because in all honesty?

I would’ve been speaking the truth.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

Bram

Afew days later, I find myself on Trace’s couch watching Keegan and Pressley bop around the kitchen, mixing drinks and laughing their asses off in matching satin pajamas. A clothing company hired them to feature their product in a three-video series, and fuck if they both don’t look adorable, dancing around in shirts and shorts sporting little cartoon dogs and cats.

I hear a grunt from the opposite direction, and my eyes flare ridiculously wide when I spot Trace shuffling in, a frown on his face. He’s wearing satin pajama pants and a white t-shirt, and the pants match the girls’ outfits.

A laugh bursts out of me, and a quick glare from Trace has me covering it with a cough. As he heads toward Keegan, apparently being coerced into starring in this particular video, I pull my phone out and startrecording. No way am I passing up this opportunity. It’s just too good.

Keegan grabs his hands and swings them back and forth, encouraging him to get into the moment and dance with her. His frown softens the tiniest bit when she touches him, but he’s far from smiling as he shifts his weight from foot to foot like he’s slow dancing at a sixth grade Sadie Hawkins.

His eyes snap in my direction, then narrow when he sees I’m filming him. “Turn that off and delete it, or I’m going to beat your ass.”

I huff out another laugh and stop recording, then slip my phone back into my pocket without deleting the video. No way am I giving up that perfect blackmail material. Or hell, maybe I’ll make sure it’s played at his and Keegan’s wedding reception. The possibilities are endless.

A few minutes later, they finish up, and Pressley skips over to me, happy and breathless from all the dancing. My chest heats when she plops right down into my lap, not even a sliver of self-consciousness or embarrassment that Trace and Keegan are watching. Not that there’s anything to feel embarrassed over. We’re together now, and it’s normal and healthy to show affection.

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