Vodka.

The word on the label on the bottle in front of him blurred. Simon’s eyes drifted out of focus as he lowered his chin to his arms. It didn’t really matter the brand, or even the quality. His throat longed for the burn, but even more important was its ability to turn off his fucking brain.

The song was locked inside him. The stage was the key and Simon knew that, but the little box he was supposed to perform in was a shitty substitute for a live show. Each day the microphone kept getting larger and larger, and the booth felt smaller and smaller. The excitement of working in the studio was now filled with dread. The mic was a monster that reached down his throat and snatched words, only letting the off-key, warbled or flat ones free.

Mouth guard, no mouth guard, chair, no chair, open window, closed curtain. Drunk, sober, exhausted, rested—none of it mattered. None of it worked.

His voice had always been his salvation. No matter how much he fucked up, no matter how many times he let people down, at least in this one thing he’d been able to come ahead. And now everyone was staring at him, whispering about him, steering clear of him.

Simon spun the empty bottle on the table he’d commandeered in the corner of the break room. He stood and pitched the travel-sized bottle in the recycler and wandered back into the control room. He took two steps inside and stopped.

The dizzying array of controls and lights drew his ADD brain down and around the deck. Up on the screen was the visual feedback of Deak and Gray’s instrumental parts of “The Becoming”.

Deak’s meaty bass sounded amazing. Heavier than it was in most of their music, it thrummed through the background of the song like a heartbeat one minute and crashed to the forefront the next. It coated the room and pulled at the gut. Hell, even the tingles along the back of his neck were back. Son of a goddamn bitch they really had something here.

Gray’s guitar layered under the bass one minute, then took center stage the next. Gray wasn’t self-taught like he was. He had the kind of technique that usually meant hours of instruction. But the guy’s talent was about more than his precision with the strings. Beyond that was the creative way he blended attention to detail with his own style.

Simon rubbed his eyes. Nick may want to gut him with a rusty spoon for giving Deacon the green light to talk about a restructure of the band, but it was probably the best move he’d ever made. Now he just hoped Nick would forgive him one day. As much as he missed playing co-lead guitar with Nick, he couldn’t dispute the utter magic coming out of that speaker.

Another layer hummed through the room.

“Guitar 2” was the simple label on the screen.

But there was nothing simple about the sound. Simon took another two steps into the room and saw Nick sitting in the cavernous recording area that adjoined the control booth. He’d curled over his guitar and hunched his shoulders as if to hold every note to his chest. But there was no holding back the gritty anger he manipulated out of that fret board.

Simon’s eyebrows shot up. Nick had gone off the rails from “The Becoming” into another song. One of the producers moved to the control room microphone to stop him, but the musical director, Blitz, held up a hand. “Let him go.”

Gray came up beside Simon. “Do I know that song?”

Simon didn’t move his gaze away from Nick. His best friend might be the silent, lone wolf eighty percent of the time, but he never could hide his emotions when he got his hands on a guitar.

“Simon?”

He shook his head. “No idea what that song is.”

“Well, shit.”

Finally Simon looked away and again he was surprised. The usually clean-cut Gray was at least two days deep into a beard and his eyes were rimmed in scarlet. Not just bloodshot, but a painful red. “Jesus, Gray. When’s the last time you slept?”

“Not sure. I worked last night and had to come in today to redo the end of the song.”

Simon glanced over to the flurry of fingers working the board. The producer, Nelson Geier, had an IM window up on his laptop and Blitz had his cell to his ear. Nick was still playing, the guitar work nearly frenetic now.

Nelson flipped the microphone on and spoke into the recording booth. “Tell me you can do that again.”

Nick looked up, his eyes unfocused. Yep, pure emotional hangups laced through that room like weed at a concert. Nick’s gaze tripped over Gray then darted back to Nelson. “Yeah. I’m sorry, man—I got lost. I fucked up.”

“No—well, yes you fucked the recording of Becoming, but whatever you were doing there at the end. I want it again. Do you have more?”

Nick frowned. “It’s just something I’ve been messing with.”

“Do you have more?” Nelson asked, this time minus the patience.

“Yeah.”

“Good, give me five and then take it from the top.”

Gray shrank back and gripped his neck. His body could’ve been made of granite, he was so tense. Gray’s rain-colored eyes bore through the glass and probably would have singed Nick on contact.

“What’s with the laser beam stare?”

Gray turned to Simon as if coming out of a trance. “Nothing.”

Awesome, both of them were tripping on some sort of emotional minefield. Simon had a feeling the minefield was filled with pink and purple-colored explosions. Double fuck.

This was why girls shouldn’t be in a band. Pussy should be for after work—AKA after a show or practice. Bringing it into work was just asking for trouble. Too bad the Pink Pixie was so damn good behind her kit.

Simon folded his arms until he matched Gray’s stiff posture. Gray blinked then relaxed his shoulders and dropped his arm, the tension seeping from him like a faucet had been turned on to wash away the emotion. Gray’s face went carefully blank. He really needed to learn that trick. But it was still a trick. “Yeah, nothing my ass,” Simon muttered.

“Leave it.”

Simon cocked his head. “Now I can’t. You really should have went with a better excuse.”

Gray looked around the room. “Taking over for Deacon? Trying to keep the peace?”

Simon quirked his eyebrow. “C’mon, man. It’s not nice to insult just for the sake of it.”

Gray’s lips twitched, but his icy eyes went back to flat, as did the expression on his face. “It’s nothing anyone can fix.”

“Hook up with a chick. Works for me. Sometimes you just need to get under another girl to get the first one out of your system.”

“For once I wish that were true.” Gray scrubbed the top of his head where his hair stood on end. “Hey Nelson, you need me any more today?”

Nelson looked up from his laptop where he was furiously tapping. “I’m still not happy with that ending, Grayson. Come in at eight tomorrow.”

Gray winced, but nodded. “Will do.” He unhooked the shades from his cargo pants pocket. “Good luck.”

Simon dropped into the overstuffed leather couch that snaked along the back of the room. He was so past the luck stage. Wing and a prayer with a side of mercy killing was more like it.

He tipped his head back, letting the background noise shift and settle around him. He’d lost the best part of his buzz. All that was left was a headache and the need to take a nap. The hydraulic hiss of the door behind him followed by the scent of honeysuckle and spice teased him awake.

Violin Girl.

That scent had been driving him crazy all week. As elusive as the brunette had been since his first day in the studio. He’d watched her play her purple violin a few times, but she always disappeared before he could talk to her again.

“Ah, Margo. There you are.”

Simon shifted into the corner of the couch, swinging his legs up so he could sprawl out and enjoy the scenery. So, her name was Margo. He’d been too preoccupied with his less than stellar results in the recording booth to remember to ask around for her name. But since he didn’t want to think about just how much he sucked, he focused on the delectable Margo instead.

She wore a skirt today, high-waisted with a tiny ruffled slit at the back of her knee. Combined with black stockings and boring black flats, the outfit shouldn’t have been appealing. Sky high black heels or boots—that would be his usual style. And still, he wanted to drag his knuckle over that little hollow behind her knee. To see if he could coax a reaction out of her deep dark eyes.

She wore another one of her crisp white blouses. Honestly, didn’t she have another color in her wardrobe? He was having a helluva time focusing on anything but her long neck when she was in the room. Today, he had an extra treat. A hint of her collarbone peeked from the single button she’d left open. She stood motionless, listening to Nelson give her a few directions about Nick’s song.

Nelson waved to Nick to start again. She slid silently into to the rolling chair that Blitz had vacated to pace around the room. As if ingrained, she slipped one ankle behind the other, keeping her knees tight together and her spine straight as a schoolteacher.

God, would she sit just as straight if she straddled him?

He shifted on the couch and she quickly turned her head. In profile, she was striking. Perfectly elegant and lovely with her high cheekbones and sweep of bangs framing her dark eyes. Too lovely. He wanted to rip the clip out of her chocolate-colored hair and see if the strands were as perfect and straight as her spine or a riot of fistable curls.

Her eyes skimmed his body, but he couldn’t tell if the ripped to shit jeans he wore were her to liking or not. She hid her reaction beneath heavy lashes and an impassive face.

When Nick started up again, she turned her attention to the recording room. Simon stood and moved behind Margo. If it was at all possible, her spine snapped straighter. In an effort not to unbind her hair—seriously, he wanted at that clip—he dipped his hands into his pockets. The spicy undertones to her scent were going to end him.

Determined not to get a hard-on behind her, he focused on Nick. Today they were using a smaller room. The orchestra had partitioned off the larger side for practice. The versatility of this studio continued to astound him as much as it made his balls shrink up with nerves. Session chairs were scattered in a messy trio. Nick’s blond head bowed over his guitar again as his fingers slowly climbed the fret board. He flicked dials and tapped his pedalboard to fracture the echoing notes.

The neck tingle was back and stronger than ever.

Where the frig had Nick been hiding this song? Simon cracked his neck and paced to the back of the room. Nothing for months. Nothing with him anyway, and then Nick pulls this out of his ass on his own.

Phenomenal, but not the band—yet again.

Solo crap.

Nothing cohesive to pull them in as a unit. Deak and Gray versus Nick. On the plus side, they’d finally realized Simon was the singer, not Gray, even if he was singing everyone else’s songs but his own since they’d stepped foot in the studio. Oh, they’d tried a few Oblivion songs, but they’d gotten one take down before the producer had dismissed it as unworthy of his time.

But this was different. Simon could see the interest lighting Nelson’s eyes and Blitz was tapping along happily with a huge smile on his crinkly face. At least Simon assumed it was a smile twitching his huge handle bar mustache.

“Think you can play with him?”

Simon glanced at Nelson, but it was obvious he was talking to Margo.

She nodded and picked up the case that sat at her feet. “I can wing it.”

“Excellent. I knew you were the right choice to help out. I need you to do another track too.”

Margo pulled sheet music out of her case. “I learned ‘The Becoming’ this morning.”

“Good, I want your electric violin as another layer.” Nelson turned to Simon. “And you are in the booth again tonight.”

Simon’s jaw clenched. Again being the operative word. He’d been in the booth every single day this week—except when they’d decided to try out Gray in his place—and not a single track was usable.

“Simon, I really need a good session tonight. Or we’re going to have to go with Deacon and Grayson’s vocals.”

Simon nodded, sparing a look at Margo. Her attention was on her instrument, not the fact that he’d been dressed down by the producer in front of the very professional, very hot chick. Well, at least that was one thing in his favor.

Then she looked up and he saw a flash of pity in her dark eyes before they went carefully cool again. She stood and slipped through the door to the recording room. A few minutes later, the haunting tones of Margo’s violin sliced through his chest.

Simon crossed the room and headed out the heavy door, then continued down the hall to the empty lobby. The front desk was unmanned and there were no minions running around. A red light pulsed from the back studio, but otherwise the world had hung it up for the night.

And he was just beginning.

Crashing out the front door, he dragged in a breath he hadn’t realize he needed. He stripped off the loose fitting button-down shirt he wore. Even that felt too tight. Crouching down, he dragged in another deep breath. The cool spring air tightened his lungs.

Is this how Nick felt on stage before they started? Like a vise around his chest restricted the very air he breathed? Forget a vise, it felt more like a steel cage.

“You’re going to hyperventilate if you don’t calm down.”

Simon swore and fell on his ass. He looked up to see a girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen staring down at him.

She lowered herself to the pavement, sitting cross-legged in front of him. “I’m Lex.”

“Of course you are.” Simon sucked in another shard-riddled breath. He couldn’t even freak out in peace.

“In through your nose—”

Black dots danced around his vision. “Look, kid, I’m sure you’re sweet and all, but—”

“Singer or instrument?”

Simon frowned at her. “Singer.”

“Me too.” She pressed a hand to her belly and dragged in a breath through her nose.

He tightened his jaw, but did as she said. The black dots faded and a few more breaths had him sitting upright to mirror her.

“Didn’t your voice coach teach you this?”

“What voice coach?”

She shook her head, a dimpled grin curving her mouth. “If you were working with Blitz, you have a vocal coach.”

Simon shrugged. “He gave up.” More like the guy thought he was a lost cause and not worth his time.

Lex narrowed her eyes at him. “Never been in a studio?”

“Virgin in a box all over again.” He winced, realizing too late that she was way too young for that kind of comment.

Her huge blue eyes sparkled. “You have to ignore the room, ignore the people and ignore the need to show off. Pretend you’re in a shower, just warming up your chords.”

“If I could ignore my surroundings, I wouldn’t have a problem.”

Her small hands covered his and pressed them into his knees. “The producers can fix anything, but then again you don’t want just a slick American Idol song, do you?”

“Fuck no. Dammit. I mean—” God, just shut up.

“I’ve been in the studio since I was twelve.”

“And what, you’re fourteen now?”

“Sixteen next week.”

“Color me impressed.”

She shrugged. “I do voice work for cartoons and television.”

“Why?”

Lex grinned. “Why not? It’s good money and will put me through Berkeley.”

“Do you play an instrument?”

“Violin,” she said with a sigh.

Simon’s gut twisted. Violin Girl. “You know Margo?”

Lex’s eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, Margo Reece she’s with the Boston Symphony. I’m going to do what she does someday. And that violin she has?” She let out a sigh. “I’d happily kill for a Starfish.”

He was unfamiliar with violin manufacturers, but he’d bet Cherry that was the unique purple instrument Margo never let out of her sight. Plenty of other violinists were used in the studio, both male and female. All of them seemed so stiff and formal, and none of them had a purple violin quite like hers. Blitz seemed to target Margo for a more specific use. Slightly edgier pieces suited her, regardless of the symphony uniform she wore.

Lex’s nails bit into the tops of his hands. “Are you listening to me?”

“Sure. Starfish is rad.”

She sighed. “Yes, the violin is awesome, but no. I meant about singing. You need to picture yourself somewhere else. Your favorite place.”

“The stage.”

Her sweet, freckled face brightened. “See, that’s good. It’s no different than on stage—”

Simon crossed his arms. “Yes, it is. The energy is missing. The sweat and the gritty smoke in the air, the screams, the feedback. All of that is gone.”

“I can almost guarantee you don’t miss the smoke when you’re singing.”

She had him there. “Well, no…but—”

“No buts. Go back in there and pretend it’s the damn shower. It’s easy to sing in the shower.”

Her earnest—and entirely too pure—face made him feel like a wimp. Here she was, a complete stranger trying to give him pointers. And what did he do? Whine like a bitch. Pathetic.

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “All right, I got it.” He looped an arm around her shoulders and dragged her in for a quick hug. “Thanks for the pep talk, squirt.” He shrugged into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned over his tank top as he stood up.

“You’re welcome. Tell Blitz that Lex says hi.”

“You got it.” He wandered back inside, his shoulders stiffening as he walked into the control room.

“Look, Simon.” Blitz didn’t look at him as he spoke. “I’m going to leave the instrumental on a loop and you go get comfortable in the booth for at least an hour. I want you in here at six. We’ll all start fresh.”

“A.M.?”

“Yes.”

Simon cracked his neck. No sleep then. “All right.” He went into the secondary studio and stopped in front of a huge, high backed leather chair. It looked like something that Ozzy would have in his living room, but the leather was soft and worn.

Flea market meets rock star.

He hefted it over his head and backed his way into studio B where they’d been working. The chair barely fit through the door to the booth, but he made it work. He lowered the mic and sat back, closing his eyes against the constant motion in the control room, the eyes that judged and found him lacking.

He took out his phone and his earbuds, letting Myles Kennedy center him. Slash’s guitar was gritty and yet somehow crystal clear from beginning to end. He let his lungs open up and the familiar lyrics to “Starlight” filled the room. He didn’t care what he sounded like, just liked the raspy warm-up with Myles.

Simon opened his eyes to see Margo in the main recording room. She watched him with a strange tilt to her head. Solemn brown eyes that saw too much. He yanked the earbud out and Deacon’s heavy bass filled the space. The walls were soundproofed and could be turned into speakers. The speakers were on full volume now.

He closed her out, let his own song work through his bloodstream. The room was a shower, warm and tight. He could reach out and touch the four walls with his fingertips. He imagined the heat of the steam filling his lungs. The clamps around his chest opened as he let the music carry him. Testing his voice with the belabored end of the song where each word became a prayer.

As always, he followed Deacon’s sure and steady bass line. Again and again he sang until the lyrics were effortless. Not perfection, just effortless on his tongue—as instinctive as muscle memory.

He opened his eyes, knowing Violin Girl was still staring. Still trying to piece him together. Slim and cool as an ice pick, she seemed so apart from everything. She came into the room to do a job, and just the job. The only emotion came out of her instrument, not a damn thing showed on her face.

The need to show off overrode the nerves that had been plaguing him. He somehow found a reservoir of talent that had been absent and the reward of a quivering vibrato stirred her into action.

She lifted her violin and played her part with the recording. He stood at the window, amazed at the difference between this Margo and the one he was used to seeing in the studio. Her eyes closed. The cool façade slipped away. And when she opened her eyes again and her gaze collided with his, he looked down to see the doorknob in his hand.

He opened the door and the live music drilled inside his chest. A humming high note lured him out for more, but he stopped at the threshold. She was utterly lost in the sensual element of the song. Her elegant fingers slipped up and down her fret board with a precision that he’d never even hope to achieve. The notes were as fluid as a guitar, but the lower registers added a full-bodied element that hadn’t been there before.

Margo was actually walking toward him, breaching the doorway to his cell. Her eyes were huge and dark—he couldn’t tell where pupil met iris. All he could do was drown as his voice lowered in reaction. His cock curled in the confines of his jeans until it dug into his thigh.

Ignoring the involuntary response to the sexual undertones of the song, he paid attention to the way his voice molded around the lyrics. The words tasted as smoky and biting as black licorice—undeniably different and overwhelming on the tongue. She stopped a heartbeat away and mouthed the words with him. Her honeysuckle scent rolled in with the chest-thumping whine of strings under a bow instead of pick.

Her hand fell to her side, the bow and lightweight violin clutched in the elegant fingers of one hand. He brushed the backs of his knuckles down her cheek. Her pulse fluttered madly in her throat as she swallowed. Taking the instrument from her, he set it in the corner of the room and returned to her side.

He traced her jaw, following the line of her throat, dipping his thumb into the half circle dent of her collarbone. A tiny pearl hovered on a chain so fine it barely glittered in the dim light. He spun the bead, then leaned in and tucked his tongue underneath to taste her skin.

She shuddered, but didn’t step back. Instead she tipped her chin back and gave him greater access. He tugged at the pearl, feeling the sandy grit to the tiny treasure. Bumping his nose deeper into the collar of her blouse, he reveled in the spice and flower scent he found. Deeper and stronger at her pulse points.

God, he loved the rich flavor of her. He needed to know if her tongue tasted just as spicy. If her lips were cool or hot, wet or dry. He palmed the back of her head, knocking her clip to the floor so her hair twined around his fingers and wrist.

His other hand slid along her hip, lining her up and yet giving her more than enough time to back away. To walk away if this wasn’t what she wanted. Her wide brown eyes weren’t so cool now. They were curious. They remained open as he flicked his tongue along her full upper lip. She rolled that full lip into her mouth with the tiniest flash of tongue, then pressed her lips flat as if gauging his taste. He slid his thumb behind her ear, tipping her face up as he went in for more. Her tongue tentatively slid along his. Coffee and caramel warred with the coolness of her mouth.

When her breath mingled with his, he gave up all pretense of letting her go.

He sealed his mouth over hers and demanded her full participation. She moaned as their tongues twined and he stepped into her space. She dug under his shirt into the skin along his back. When her nails bit into the flesh of his ass, he scraped his way down her chin to her neck.

“This doesn’t stop with a kiss, Violin Girl.”

“Margo,” she said on an uneven breath. “If we do this, you better know my name.”

“Margo,” he agreed. No, he wouldn’t forget her name. Ever. Then his mouth was on hers again. They both fought for dominance, but he couldn’t settle back and let her take control. This wasn’t his usual roll for fun and distraction. He couldn’t sit back and let whatever happened happen.

Her taste infected him like a lyric that needed to be absorbed and understood. A lyric that would burrow into his brain for years. Like “The Becoming”, he needed to understand and devour her until everything was clear.

He gripped her sides, drawing her skirt up inch by inch as his mouth glided across her jawline and down the fragile column of her throat. With his tongue, he slid one of the small pearl buttons free.

A cool fingertip grazed his hip where she’d infiltrated one of the rips in his jeans. He hissed, moving away from her. “That kind of action will end this before we’ve even begun.”

“I thought you were a virile rock star.”

“I’ve been smelling your perfume for days, watching you play, watching you…watch—I want you too much right now.”

“Watching me watch?”

He nipped her chin then her lower lip. “You watch everything. Take everything in. It’s sexy as fuck.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

The slinky yet scratchy material of her skirt bunched into his hands. She damn well didn’t stop him and he wanted her under him. Or maybe over him. Christ, he didn’t care. He just needed to get under her skirt. “Don’t play, Violin Girl.”

At the wrinkle in her forehead, he let one side of her skirt fall from his hand as he drew his thumb between her brows and down her nose to her lips. Maybe she didn’t know just how intriguing she was. Though in his experience, beautiful women knew their own power.

“From the first moment I saw that slim, perfect ponytail and crisp white blouse tucked into those tight black pants, I wanted you.”

“Oh.” That quirky, expressive eyebrow climbed into her bangs. “You want me because I’m not a groupie-type.”

He resumed his skirt removal plan. “No, I want you despite the fact that you’re not a groupie.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped and shut it again.

Her skirt finally reached the top of her thighs. He glanced down to find serviceable black pantyhose over white panties. All he could do was stare.

No garter.

No sexy panties.

Honest to God virgin white panties hugged her lean hips. She wasn’t a seductress, yet not an innocent either—somewhere in between but definitely not of his world.

He dropped to his knees and she gasped, taking a step back. He curled his hands around the back of her thighs, up over her pert ass to hold her still. She stared down at him, every muscle pulled as tight as her bow.

Nylon-slick skin buzzed under his fingertips. He skimmed under the crease where ass met leg and around to the front. He nuzzled into the vee between her thighs. She simply stood there with her hands at her sides. So still…too still. Too watchful. Instead of sliding into the moment, she was analyzing. Watching for her cue instead of reacting.

He slicked his knuckle down the seam at the center of her thighs. He wanted her open, wanted her flavor on his tongue.

Needed her flavor inside him.

She gasped as he ripped the nylon pantyhose, then hooked his finger into the leg of her panties and bared her slit. Without thought, he gripped her ass and covered her with his mouth. The heat of her infused his taste buds, flooding his mouth with her taste.

She staggered back, but instead of keeping her upright, he dumped her into the chair and hoisted one of her thighs over his shoulder. Already missing her taste, he stretched the elastic of her panties until he felt them give. He pushed the tattered ends up to her smooth stomach and tucked it into the elastic of her pantyhose.

The crisp tails of her white blouse teased the backs of his hands as muscles fluttered under his palm. “There we are. All open for me.” Part of him wanted to tear her blouse open too, but he liked the angle. Her black skirt all scrunched up at her hips while her blouse barely had a single wrinkle.

So much a part of Margo. The wild and the inhibited fought a war before his eyes. He hovered above the heat of her, following the slim line of hair that arrowed into her downy softness. The heady mix of flowers and the richness of his Violin Girl flooded his mouth. He slipped his tongue inside her folds, his nose brushing her clit. She arched up and he held her down for more.

With the palm of his hand, he spanned the width of her, his thumb resting just above her slit. He traced slow circles until the tip of the thumb was slick with her excitement. When she undulated in time with him, he dragged the flat of his tongue over her until all he knew was Margo.

Circling her clit, he closed his lips around it and sucked. She bucked under him, her fingernails digging into the arms of the chair. She actually tried to get away from him. Suddenly nervous that she honestly wanted him to stop, he looked up only to find her eyes raging with barely suppressed longing.

He dragged her back down, jamming her hips into the back of the chair to still her flight response. Her breasts stretched the blouse until gaps showed enticing flashes of flesh. “Open another button, Violin Girl.”

Margo’s hand went to her chest, gripping the straining material together instead of freeing herself.

“Just one.” Simon curled his fingertips into the ultra-sensitive skin of her inner thighs. The runs in her stockings pulled apart under his touch. He met her gaze and slowly hooked her other leg over his shoulder. Instead of diving into her pussy again, he kissed her inner thigh. “Margo, let go.”

She shook her head. “It’s too much.”

“One button.”

Frustrated, she worried her lower lip. “It’s not the blouse.”

“Then undo the button,” he said patiently.

She huffed, then released a button.

The swell of her breasts over the pearl gray bra made him groan into her thigh. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

“Please, Simon.” She reached down and sifted her fingers into his hair and tugged. “Just come up here and get inside me.”

He groaned. God, she didn’t know how bad he wanted to bury his aching cock inside of her, but something told him to stay put. “I’m not finished here yet.”

She shifted under him. “I don’t let anyone do that.”

“Don’t let anyone what?” He asked as he used the edge of his thumb to open her hood. Slick and tight, her clit was crying out for his tongue.

“I don’t like oral.”

At her unblinking gaze, he hid a smile. She was a helluva lot more buttoned up than he thought. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

“I—I don’t know.”

He lapped at her lightly. “You taste so good though. So good I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.” The runs in her stockings widened under his palms. He followed them down the inside of her thigh, tasting each fraction of skin that was revealed until she slowly opened for him.

With his cheek resting at her knee, he gave himself a moment to study her. “Let me in. I promise I’ll make it good for you.”

Her hips shifted restlessly as her hand rose over her head to grasp the top of the chair.

“That’s it, Margo.” He pulled her legs open wider. Her hip bones made a shallow bowl just above her pussy. He rested his hand there again and tucked his thumb along the top of her clit. He massaged her gently, watching for any reaction to his touch.

He traced the shredded runs in her stockings with his lips, his other hand sliding along the cushion of the chair up between her legs. He pushed aside the torn bottoms of her panties and tucked them out of the way. He kept his massaging thumb as innocuous as possible. Soothing, sweet…nothing shocking.

Her back arched and her breathing became shallow. She had no idea how close she was. In the shadow of her thighs while her attention was riveted to his thumb, he snuck inside, his knuckle brushing between her folds. She stiffened and he waited her out. Feeling her coat his hand with her slickness was the ultimate tease.

She was so wet, so incredibly ready for him to be inside her. But he didn’t just want to lose himself in her heat. He wanted to make her mindless, to leave his mark. To make it good for her.

His cock hammered in his jeans, reminding him how tenuous his own control was. If she ever let anyone else touch her like this, he wanted them to pale in comparison. He wanted to be legendary in her mind in this one small way.

He slowly rocked his finger inside, adding another to stretch her for him. She moaned as he kept up the massage from the top. Her honeysuckle scent mixed with the more intimate flavor that urged him closer. His mouth watered with the need to dive in again. To suction around her and make her scream. To fuck her with his tongue and feel her shake around him.

Her back arched and she tipped her chin in abandon, letting him know she was close. But he didn’t want her to shut down again. He wanted her open to the pleasure and satiated before he let loose on her.

Tension gathered between his shoulder blades from too many days without an outlet. The music, the failure, the frustration and a ball of need he hadn’t realized had lived inside him so long—all of that coalesced as the first shudders fluttered down her thighs.

He opened her wide, riding the mini-orgasm with her and blindsiding her with his sweeping tongue. She bucked under him, her brown eyes losing their distant civility as he demanded more, not just a flutter. Her fingers dug into his scalp, holding him tight to her with one hand and pushing him away with the other.

Simon took all of it. The struggle, the release, the power and the perfection of her taste. He swallowed it down like the starving man he was. And when she finally screamed his name, he thrust two fingers deep and ripped at his belt with his other hand.

He fingerfucked her, dying a little inside as her walls squeezed his fingers when it should’ve been his cock. Her body was looking for more and he wanted to give it to her. Wanted that strength and exquisite scent wrapped around his shaft.

The chair rocked with the force of his hand delving into her and he knew he’d never get inside her like this. He’d topple the chair for sure. He stood, looming over her. Her breasts spilled over the half cups and the tips matched the flushed pink of her pussy lips. Groaning, he pulled his hand away and her cry of displeasure matched his. The only thing he could do was gather her in. He wrapped his arms around her back and hauled her up.

Instead of pulling away from him, she gained her footing and curled her arms around his shoulders. She was a little taller than average and fit him in all the right places. The sweet curve of her body against his dulled any thought process. He buried his face in her neck and bit down on her shoulder as her knee bumped his cock.

Pain shimmered up and into his brain like an aftershock. He whirled her around, and pressed his knee into the back of hers until she collapsed into the chair, her ass raised. Exactly what he wanted. He yanked down her stockings and tattered panties before sinking three fingers into her soaking wet pussy.

She gripped the back of the chair and he pressed his cheek to hers. “I need to fuck you and it’s going to be hard.” He tucked his cheek into the crook of her neck and tried to stuff down the aggressive need firing his blood. “Margo, I need to know if I can fuck you like I need to.”

Margo shook her hair down her back. The chocolate strands twisted down the pristine white of her blouse. “I can take whatever you can dish out, Rockstar.” Her head dropped forward and the tails of her blouse fell around her hips as she shrugged out of the white cotton. She left behind a scrap of lace that showed just how perfect she was under her symphony uniform.

She braced her hands on the top of the chair and grinned over her shoulder. “What are you waiting for?”

The clink of his buckle and the snap of latex were a mere afterthought under the thunderous bass of Deacon’s solo. The song crashed around them. As he slid into her, the lyrics had never been more ominous.

I own your soul, the night has just begun.

The becoming claims with a whisper and ends in a scream.

He groaned as her walls stretched for him, accepting every inch. She let out a hissing sigh. He peeled out of his own shirt, his nerve endings alive now that he’d unleashed the monster that had grown larger and meaner with every moment of patience it had taken to bring Margo around.

Guitars wailed and Margo moaned at the way he pounded into her. The chair legs scored the carpet as the strain of his muscles and the piston of his hips drove her and the chair across the room until they had nowhere left to go. The speakers pulsed with their song. The chase for pleasure and release felt like a marathon instead of a sprint. Making him work for it.

Just out of reach, teasing the edges of his consciousness was the need to come. He blocked it out. Instead he cupped her breasts. The silk of her bra cup filled his palms and the tips of her stiff nipples peeked over the top, burning into his flesh. He pulled her back against him, one hand spearing down between her legs.

He felt the stiffness of her muscles and the panic in her breath as he rubbed over her clit. He needed her to come again, needed that bracing scream. Why she resisted her pleasure was a mystery, but he needed to get her past it. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did.

She reached back, grasping a handful of his hair and dragging him in until they were flush in every way. Until he was buried inside her so deeply that there was no Simon and Margo, there was only mindless pleasure, sweat and honeysuckle spice. Only this moment with this woman and the song that would change his world.

And when the orgasm slammed into him, it took everything.

She took everything.