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“You didn’t want to wake me up,” she said. “You didn’t want more, something for yourself.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it,” he said mildly. He pulled open the cupboard and found a basket of supplies including ground coffee, filters, and mugs.
She’d felt his hard-on through his jeans last night. And licking her until she came all over his face had only sharpened his need.
“But you fell asleep,” he said.
Enjoying your orgasm.
And for the first time since he’d run to her aid in the canyon, Chrissie Tate, America’s country sweetheart, had looked completely at ease. He couldn’t bring himself to disrupt her relaxed, peaceful sleep. So he’d carefully carried her to bed, and he’d tucked her in fully dressed just in case the act of stripping off that maid’s costume disrupted her slumber.
Then he’d visited her bathroom and taken care of his aching dick. And yes, he’d closed his eyes and pictured her spread legs hovering over his face while he came, but it still felt like the right thing to do.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He glanced over his shoulder and found her standing on the edge of the kitchenette’s tile floor. “Honey, seeing you in that maid’s outfit was enough for me.”
“But you didn’t—”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that. Maybe someday I’ll ask you to return the favor and then pass out on you. But there isn’t a rule stating I need to come if you do, honey. Remember that, all right? You can add it to the list right below ‘kissing should never hurt.’ Even if it’s just practice.” He turned back to the coffeemaker. “Now, how do you like your coffee, Ms. Tate?”
“Strong,” she said.
He added more grounds. “Me too.”
Chapter Seven
“Something’s not right with your mic, Ms. Tate.”
Hank, the assistant audio engineer, dropped to his knees and started fiddling with the wireless microphone pack strapped to her back beneath her fitted gingham shirt. She always performed the first two numbers in the same down-home country outfit. Jeans, a button-down red shirt tied at her waist, cowboy boots, and the Stetson her brother had given her for her eighteenth birthday.
“I noticed when the vocals dropped out,” she said with a sigh. She’d completed the opening, upbeat number with a handheld. But for the next one, the song everyone came to hear, she needed her hands for her guitar. She always performed the acoustic version of How Do I Remember You? but she also liked to walk around the stage. If she sat on a stool with a handheld mic on a stand, she might lose herself in the words—or worse, the memories.
“I’ll switch out the pack,” Hank said, his forearms brushing her backside while he worked.
She’d grown accustomed to mic repairs and quick changes. But the big bad alpha SEAL standing watch five feet away? U.S. Navy SEAL Dante Raske, the man who’d given her the orgasm to end all orgasms last night and then tucked her into bed, looked ready to introduce his fists to Hank’s jaw if the audio technician got fresh with her.
She met Dante’s gaze and gave her head a subtle shake. Her guard SEAL didn’t need to worry about her married audio tech. Hank had one goal—get the talent, namely her, back onstage.
“You’re all set,” Hank said, rising to his feet.
Great, now it was time to take the stage and bare her heart and soul to her fans. She had to deliver on this number, and every other one. She moved to the stairs, paused, and glanced over at Dante.
She’d been planning to send the SEALs packing this morning. But after last night, after Dante had given her exactly what she wanted without demanding anything in return, she couldn’t fire him or his redheaded partner. She’d told herself one more show. She could end their guard dog routine tomorrow, before her final Vegas performance.
And while he was here…
She looked Dante straight in the eye. “Mr. SEAL,” she called, one foot on the steps leading to the stage. “Pay attention to this next song. This is what country’s all about.”
“Sex?” His lips curved into one of his rare smiles. She’d witnessed that grin last night before he’d devoured her.
She shook her head. “Heart.”
She paused on the stairs and pointed to the blond-haired eight-year-old standing beside the sound board set up to mix the track for her earpiece. “And watch what you say about my music,” and last night, “in front of my kid sister, okay?”
His smile vanished as he glanced at Melissa. And, she recalled, he’d had a few choice words for her manager when he’d learned that her mother had dropped off Melissa for the show.
Are you fucking kidding me? You’re worried about her safety, so you’re adding an eight-year-old to the mix?
