Page 45 of The Beat Match

Tibetan monks didn’t have that level of willpower.

She splayed her palm out under his, letting the tips of her fingers press against his pulse point. Tingles spiked the fine hairs on her arm, more static-electric bursts scrambling her brain. If she felt his pulse correctly, hers wasn’t the only heart rate accelerating.

Keep calm. Quit reading into things that aren’t there.

She ran the wash cloth along his thumb, softened the stuck glue enough to pick it off, then rubbed the warm-damp fabric over the spot to soothe the inflamed skin. She found another spot, did the same. His back relaxed, hunching heavier over his bent knees. She worked the cloth over his fingers, taking her time on his knuckles, traveling delicately along the dips in between, then pressing harder. His blueish veins stood out, the pads of his palm lightly callused from working out, but his nails were clean and trim. Strength and elegance rolled into one.

A classical song with a commanding backbeat.

Then the glue was gone. His hands were warm and clean, still held by hers, and she wasn’t ready to lose this heady connection. She dug her thumb into the center of his palm, massaged in an outward motion. Wes’s eyelids slid shut, and a purr rumbled from his thick chest. She didn’t speak, too terrified to break this spell.

“I like piano for you,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re playing again.”

“It feels good, even though it’s frustrating at times.” Whispered words as their hands touched. “I love that you’re DJing. I don’t think I told you how talented you are. It’s really something to behold. Leo would be so proud.”

His fingers closed slightly over hers, his other hand shifting, moving slowly toward their joined hands. Contact. More static. He traced the outsides of her fingers as that electric energy sizzled through her body. “He’d be amazed by you,” Wes murmured. “I’m amazed by you.”

I love you. The thought filled her struggling lungs until they ballooned. So full. Too full. Too much air to hold as she digested this frightening revelation. She loved Weston Aldrich. It wasn’t really a shock. It was the biggest shock of her life.

She loved his uptight designer clothes and fascination with modern art. She loved his silly rabbit and his resting brood face, and how his laugh made her feel unbuttoned. She loved that he worried after her, cared for her, showed her his soft underbelly while being everyone else’s kingpin. She loved his scrapbook-worthy lips and tidal-wave eyes that never failed to pull her under and how she was the best version of herself around him. Funnier. Challenging, because he challenged her.

She loved Weston Aldrich, but he was in a relationship. Unattainable. Unless, maybe, her pathetic hope had been true and he was dating Rosanna because he was scared of this intense connection.

He released her hand, rubbed his palms down his thighs. Rubbed her hope away.

She bit down on her cheek. She should know better by now. Tonight was about them returning to their normal, not unrequited love. She could do normal. She would do normal. She would not lose his friendship to her infatuation.

“I think we’ve scrapbooked enough tonight. Movie time?” God, her voice sounded strained.

She extricated herself from the small space between his knees and the coffee table. He nodded while tracking her movements, his piercing gaze following as she stood. She rubbed the soreness from her knees and tossed him a practiced grin. “I have it on good authority you love watching things blow up. That new movie with The Rock should fit the bill. I can stare at him while you get your testosterone fix.”

He didn’t crack a smile or joke back. He watched her intently, then dipped his chin and looked at his scrapbook page. “Explosions sound good.”

* * *

At way-too-early in the morning, Annie woke as twisted a contortionist. Her mouth tasted like stale wine. She winced as her lower back torqued. She didn’t remember the movie ending or falling asleep on her couch…or resting her head on Weston’s lap.

A very awake lap.

Its owner was passed out, but he shifted slightly. Everything about Wes was solid and masculine: the thick expanse of his thighs, corded forearms, broad chest, shoulders meant for lugging heavy things or just looking super strong. From her angle, his angular jaw was downright brutish. Her gaze flitted back down to the male power stretching the fly of his pants.

She sighed. He stirred.

Life wasn’t fair.

The soft wool of his slacks rubbed along her cheek as his legs spread wider. Danger, Will Robinson. One large hand moved to her neck, dragged up, up, into her hair. And her body bloomed, a painful ache spreading lower. Wes murmured, too low to make sense, but he seemed in the throes of a dream, eyes still closed, body loose. All but his straining erection.

She seriously needed to move. Bolt upright and quit picturing sliding his zipper down, freeing him, touching him, running her tongue around that thick girth.

She steeled her willpower, took one last look at all she couldn’t have.

Then Wes said, “Annie. Oh fuck, Annie.” His sleep-fueled voice was gravelly. Erotic.

His fingers gripped her hair tighter.

She tensed, stole a glance up. He’d said Annie. Not Rosanna.

His eyes were still closed, his lips parted as his hips did a seductive roll. Was he dreaming about her? Did the thought of them together, skin against skin, turn him liquid, too?