Epilogue
Two months later
“Why did you wear pants?” Sarge groaned into the back of Jasmine’s head. “Why would you ever wear pants?”
Her smug answering smile was fleeting because Sarge went to work on her neck, running his teeth over the spot he’d discovered at the slope of her shoulder. Warm, wet, sexual kisses that weakened her knees as Sarge’s day-old beard abraded her skin. Totally her fault since she hadn’t given him time to shave before leaving the house. They were backstage in Sarge’s dressing room, five minutes from showtime, and—
Yup. His hand had definitely snaked around her hip to unbutton the jeans she’d chosen to wear, just to avoid a late arrival for Sarge on stage. Since arriving in Los Angeles to begin work on the newly contracted album, she’d been culpable for Sarge’s lateness to three press events, five recording sessions, and one charity event, which both of them still felt guilty about. Jasmine liked to think back to Sarge’s promise that his relative youth would mean needing her more often. And then she liked to laugh over his underestimation. Before the limousine had picked them up to transport them to the show, he’d taken her up against the living room wall, one of her legs still stuck in the jeans she wore now. Her boyfriend was insatiable. And she didn’t have a single damn complaint.
“Ahhh,” Jasmine breathed when Sarge pushed his erection against her bottom, bringing her up against the waist-high dressing table. “We can’t.”
“We already would have if you’d worn a skirt.” He tangled a hand in her hair, turning her head to the side for a slippery, over-the-shoulder kiss. “This is why I made the no-pants rule at the house. All panties, all the time.”
“Rules were made to be broken.”
Jasmine’s words ended on a squeal of laughter when Sarge whirled her around, boosting her up onto the table and easing between her legs. For a minute, they just looked at each other, breath mingling between them. Moments like this weren’t unusual since they’d taken that cross-country flight and landed in Los Angeles. Their first week had been spent in a hotel while house hunting. At first, Jasmine had been a little alarmed by the prices of the houses Sarge wanted for them. Coastline property in Malibu wasn’t exactly in her range, even though she’d been saving money since she’d started at the factory and insisted on contributing what she could. But true to character, Sarge had been adamant about giving her the best, so in the end she’d relented, allowing him to put both of their names on the deed to an oceanfront home overlooking the Pacific. Jasmine’s one condition had been her helping to pay for household costs and maintenance, which meant she’d had to work fast to find a job. Which she had.
Jasmine now taught voice lessons in downtown Los Angeles. And her heart had never been so full. Doing what she loved during the day and returning to the man she loved at night. Her client roster was brimming with talent, due in part to the viral video of her singing in a certain toy store…and one super-famous boyfriend who tended to make surprise drop-ins during lessons. Life was damn good.
“You going to come out and sing with me tonight?” Sarge whispered, nipping at her lower lip. “James says they’re demanding you on Twitter and the message boards.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “We can sing that new song we’ve been working on.”
Her boyfriend’s sweet torture of her mouth, his tender touch, made Jasmine short of breath. “The one I started in the hotel room?”
“On the best day of my life?” They sank into a hard, demanding kiss that ended with Sarge yanking Jasmine closer on the dresser, rolling in an intoxicating rhythm between her thighs. “The day you came back to me? Yeah. That one.”
Oh, and they had been working on way more than one song. Since Sarge had brought music back into Jasmine’s life, she couldn’t stop writing. Singing. More often than not, Sarge joined her, encouraging her simply by adding his voice to hers, turning her creations into duets. Sexy ones that fit the Old News vibe. A few that would even make it onto the new album. Some of Jasmine’s best new memories of Los Angeles were lying on their bedroom floor singing up at the ceiling while Sarge strummed his guitar, ocean waves breaking down below.
Jasmine’s voice was thready when Sarge’s skillful mouth finally gave her the chance to answer. “We won’t sing anything if you don’t go get on stage.”
Sarge’s blue eyes lit up. He knew he had her. There was something else there, though. Additional mischief. “Is that a yes?”
Leaping had become easier, so much easier, because she knew they would always catch each other. Every time. “That’s a yes.”
His smile fell away little by little, but those eyes remained focused on her. So focused. “I love you, Jasmine. But I dreamed about you so long, I’m still not sure I’m awake right now.”
“You are.” Heat pressed behind her eyelids. “I know because you woke me up, too. And I never want to go back to sleep.”
He enfolded her in his arms and squeezed. “I’ll see you out there, baby.”
Sarge gave her a long look over his shoulder as he walked out of the dressing room. As soon as he was out of sight, Jasmine fell back against the wall, breathing deeply to get the hormones her boyfriend had unleashed back under control. The struggle was real. A corner of her mouth ticked up when she heard the crowd lose their minds over Sarge walking onstage…and then she heard the first few chords of “Girl in Blue.”
Dios, the man knew how to make her heart pound.
Last week, Old News had gotten their upcoming tour schedule from the record label. Twenty-two countries over the course of a year once the new album was completed. Jasmine was loath to put her voice lessons on hold, but with the help of webcams, she could continue them from the road. She could still remember that afternoon when the schedule had been announced. Sarge had looked over at her in the meeting, obviously worried she might balk about accompanying the band on such an extensive tour. She’d seen his stubborn side rising to the surface and knew he wouldn’t go without her. Informing Sarge—with a whisper in his ear—that she had no intention of being without him for any length of time had ended the way most of their conversations did. Back at home. With Sarge praying to God between Jasmine’s thighs, in between licks.
James walked into the dressing room, bursting her naughty thought bubble like a day-old balloon. “You coming?”
Interesting choice of words. Jasmine straightened. “Already?” She checked the wall clock. “They just walked out.”
“You can’t hear them chanting your name?”
Her heart slowed at the band manager’s casually delivered question. Closing her eyes, she listened hard and heard it. The distant rumbling of her name. Jasmine. Jasmine. A hand lifted to circle her aching throat as she slid off the desk. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Now?” James signaled that she should precede him to the stage. “You go out and sing. Later, we’ll talk about the fact that the band already voted to make you the newest member. Which means…” He eyed the wall clock. “Technically, you’re late for your first gig.”
Jasmine’s legs shook as she walked through the backstage area, past the roadies who patted her on the shoulders, and out onto the stage to deafening applause. Sarge met her halfway across the stage where a second microphone was already set up. The second he took her hand and they locked eyes, her legs stopped shaking.
They sang together. And they always would.
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