When she rested her forehead at the hollow of his throat, a long, slow sigh eased from him. He buried his face in her hair and drew in breath, exhaled again, and all that restless, tense, masculine energy prowled through her. Tension slipped from his muscles as he softened against her.
Let her hold him. He was utterly open to her. She threw open the doors of her soul and welcomed him in. She held him, he held her, and something clicked into place inside her. She turned her cheek to rest on the hard plane of his chest, breathed the simple, clean scent of him, and gently stroked his back.
The music played quietly in the background, and the setting sun filtered through the dust as they stood together under the orange sky.
“I really, really like it when you do what you want to do, Matt,” she whispered, and felt a smile curve against the top of her head.
His hand slid through her hair to cup her cheek. He stroked his thumb over the fading bruise, then bent his head and kissed the mark, a soft, gentle, healing kiss. Nerves ignited under his mouth, sending sensation streaming to her lips, parted on a skittering inhale.
“You sure? Maybe we should experiment a little. Make sure you want what I want.”
She traced his lower lip with her tongue, then he kissed her, just a gentle, open-mouthed kiss. It had never been this sweet. Never.
“For example, I wanted to do that. You?”
“I wanted you to do that,” she replied. “How did it feel to you?”
“It felt right,” he said against her uninjured cheekbone. “Really, really right.”
The confidence in his tone made her smile. “Me too.”
He did it again, then said, “This is definitely going to take weeks, because God knows we both have to work.”
“Months.”
“Years,” he said. The air flooded out of her when he tugged her out of the sunlight, into the cool dark of the storeroom, and backed her into the door, finally releasing her hand to slide his palm along her hip. “We’re talking about a lifetime commitment.”
She leaned back, and looked up into his face. “Are we?”
“I am.” His gaze searched hers. “I love you, Eve.”
A tremor ran through her at the words, but she continued to look into his eyes. “How do you know? We’ve been under duress.”
“I feel it,” he said simply, then brought her hand to rest flat on his chest. Through the white dress shirt she felt his heart beating. “Here. And here,” he added, moving her hand up to his throat. “Everywhere. You’re everywhere inside me, and I want you with me forever.”
She stroked the five o’clock shadow emerging on his jaw. “I want to be with you forever. We’ll make our own reality, you and me.”
“Sounds good, boss.”
Read on for an excerpt from Anne Calhoun’s next book
GOING DEEP
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
CHAPTER ONE
It was good to be home.
Cady Ward stood under the spotlight, the crowd’s manic, vibrant energy rolling at her in waves, all but lifting her off her feet with the surging roar and applause. She smiled, lifted a hand in acknowledgment. The clapping and whistles ticked up again. Sweat trickled down her ribs and spine. Her silk tank top clung to her skin as she shifted her guitar to her back, put her hands together, and bowed her appreciation to the crowd. Some of them were still singing the refrain to Love Crossed Stars, her biggest hit, the final song of her encore set.
“Thank you,” she murmured, not sure if the sound engineer had cut her mike feed or not. They echoed back into her earpiece, but the spoken words were lost in the din inside Lancaster’s Field Energy Center.
Hometown crowds were always generous. By this time in the show, after two encores and several minutes of applause, people started to trickle out, maybe making one last stop at the merchandise table for a T-shirt or a magnet or a CD. But these folks showed no signs of dispersing. Just as reluctant to leave the high behind, Cady bent over and made her way along the edge of the stage, high-fiving and clasping hands with the people in the front rows. Her grandmother’s bracelet, a cherished keepsake she always wore when she performed, nearly clonked a girl on the forehead as Cady swept by. “We love you, Maud!” she cried out, borderline hysterical as she waved her homemade poster.
Maud was her stage name, borrowed from her grandmother back when she needed a persona to work up the courage to put her voice out there, back when all she wanted was to be Beyonce, Sia, Adele, a one-name wonder with multiple hits, Grammys, platinum albums. But after eight months of touring as Maud, she was back in her hometown, able to spend a few weeks being herself. Ordinary Cady Ward.