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Baby all I see…is you…and me
Just you and me
And I know…I know you need to go
I know you want to take this slow
But baby, I need your touch
Baby you make me feel so much
When it was over, when Wyatt’s voice finally faded out over the last word, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Hell, she could barely breathe. No wonder he’d played until his hands had bled. If she could make something that real, she might never stop either.
For long seconds, nobody said anything. Then the others were clapping and laughing and all talking at once as they told Wyatt how good the song was, how much they liked the lyrics, how much they wanted to record it, to see how it sounded when it was professionally arranged. And she, who had already thrown her objectivity out the window days ago, did something even more out of character than letting Shaken Dirty’s drum player eat her out in an alley behind a club. Something that shot straight to hell the promise she’d made to herself about playing things cool.
As the other guys moved back, she called Wyatt’s name and then launched herself around his drum kit and straight into his arms.
He caught her, just like she knew he would. And then he was doing what he always seemed to do when she was in his arms—backing her up against the nearest wall as his mouth crushed down on hers.
Vaguely she was aware of the other guys laughing behind them, of Ryder saying maybe this was a good time to break for food.
And still Wyatt kissed her.
He kissed her as Jared put down his guitar and Quinn turned off his keyboard.
As Ryder hit the light switch near the door and plunged the room into an inky kind of twilight.
As someone opened the door and they all started to file out into the night.
He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, until Quinn called, “Don’t fuck on the couch, man.”
Wyatt pulled his lips from hers then, but only long enough to say, “You can’t tell me that you and Elise never fucked on that couch.”
“Yeah, well, it’s my damn couch.”
The door slammed closed behind them on that warning and then she and Wyatt were finally alone.
“I love your song,” she whispered into the darkness as her hands slid down to cup his ass through his well-worn jeans.
“Oh, yeah?” His mouth was on her collarbone.
“Yeah. No one’s ever written a song for me before.”
As soon as the words were out, she wanted to take them back. Wanted, even more, for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Thinking he’d written the song about her was one thing. Saying it, though, was a hell of an assumption. Especially after how they’d left things that morning.
She waited for him to freeze, to shut her out. But all he did was press closer as his bruised and battered hands worked at the small buttons on the front of her blouse.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he murmured as he dropped hot, open-mouthed kisses along her neck, her shoulder, the tops of her breasts. “Considering I’ve never written a song for a woman before.”
“You haven’t?” she asked, holding her breath because she didn’t want the answer to matter but it did. It really did.
“I haven’t,” he told her as he started moving her gently across the room.
“Wait,” she said, and he stopped right away.
“You okay?” he asked, brows raised inquiringly.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
