“What is it?” she asked nervously.
“Your reason. It’s not simply a case of saving yourself for the right person, which I would totally respect, is it?”
Pixie shook her head. “I’ve tried this before, Dred. And it never ends well.”
Lucky for him that every other asshole who was given the chance messed it up. “This will. Because rule number two says I promise to stop if you say so. I want to try. I want to strip you and lick you. I want you to strip me, and lick me, and enjoy it. And if we get to go further, I want to run my fingers over you and in you unless you tell me to stop. I don’t want to ask permission each time I touch you, or to bring it up again and remind both of us what’s going on. I want to savour it. Savour you.”
Because he couldn’t resist, he kissed her again. The rules were working, her hands gripped his shoulders, her body pressed up against his, and it felt like heaven. He ran his hands lower and squeezed her ass, pulling her closer, and bit back a smile when she groaned against him.
“Can I add a rule?” she asked, her lips a hairsbreadth away from his.
Dred nodded, anxious to hear what she had to say.
“You can’t treat me like I’m made of glass. I’m not going to break, Dred.”
“Agreed.” To support his point, he slid his hands inside the back of her jeans, grazing the smooth skin of her butt.
When she gasped, he laughed. “Ready to see our rehearsal?” he asked, changing the direction of the conversation and hopefully redirecting the blood away from his cock. He was ninety percent concerned about Pixie and ten percent ready to take her in every way known to man, so distractions were good.
He gave her the full tour of the studio, something he’d never done with another woman. It was all the groupies ever wanted to do, but he didn’t want to leave a trace of history in the place he went to be inspired. Lingering impressions of people in his workspace would influence the music he created there.
Practice lasted a couple of hours. Remarkably, Dred had been able to focus after the bomb Pixie had dropped on him. Nikan had been playing around with the chorus of a song they were working on where all four guitars played a hugely complex yet different series of notes, and it was taking a while to get the timing right. They stopped for a break before lunch to discuss making some changes. Pixie was busy laughing as Lennon tried to teach her a basic eighth-note rock groove using the hi-hat, bass, and snare. She was useless at it, but when Lennon took over to show her again, she started to sing the opening to “Billy Jean.”
He did a double take. Her voice was . . . perfect. Like tone, pitch, depth. Everything about it absolutely perfect. He’d heard her hum, even sing quietly, but this had power.
Jordan joined in with his bass and Pixie stumbled on her words.
“No,” Lennon shouted, “keep going.”
Nikan and Dred threw their straps back over their shoulders, Nikan taking on an electric equivalent to the violin accompaniment, Dred the guitar solo.
Dred gestured her over to his microphone and she shook her head furiously. He laughed. Sometime he forgot how good it was to just play. And not their own shit, either. Or even their own genre. Songs they loved by other artists, songs they played as kids when they didn’t have their own back catalogue.
When the song finally finished, Pixie whooped and hollered as Lennon high-fived her. Dred swung his guitar off his shoulder and waited for her to come to him.
“Holding out on me, huh, Pix?” he said when she finally made her way to him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“That was fun,” she said, her eyes all wide and bright.
“You’ve got quite the voice.” And she had. It made him get all kinds of stupid ideas. Like asking her to record something with him.
Pixie shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“It’s better than okay, Pix. It’s incredible,” Nikan said, patting her shoulder as he walked by.
Unable to resist, Dred kissed her, then gently bit her bottom lip. “You taste so good, gorgeous.” He pulled away and put his guitar back on its stand. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”
Their late lunch consisted of different cheeses and meats with grapes and fresh bread that he’d picked up from St. Lawrence Market.
Once the food was eaten, and the mess cleared away, they wandered upstairs so Pixie could pack. He wasn’t ready for her to leave. She’d brought a fresh energy to the house, and while he hated having to share her with the rest of the guys, having her there had brightened everyone’s spirits.
“What would it cost me to get you to stay another twenty-four hours?” he asked from his spot on the sofa. Every item of clothing he witnessed her fold and put away killed a little part of him.
“It would cost me my job,” she said and smiled in his direction.
“No it wouldn’t. You have Trent and Cujo wrapped around your little finger.”