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“You know,” she says as I inspect the back of a Shirley Bassey album. “I think my true appreciation of music came from you.”
The record almost slips from my fingers. “I…What?”
Brenna leans a hip against the display stand. “I’m serious. You’re so passionate about music. The way you’d talk about it, the endless songs you’d have us listen to, the history of it all…” She shakes her head, ponytail swaying, a fond look on her face. “It made me hear it, feel it, in a whole new way. A better way.”
All these years, I never knew she was truly listening. I never knew she liked what I said.
Amber eyes hold mine. “Music is part of your heart and soul, Rye. Whether you play or not, that will never change. You will always be able to express yourself through it and move people with your love of it.”
Hell.
“Bren. You can’t say that to me here. Not when you’ve gone and cut my heart wide open, and all I want to do is kiss you until…Damn it.” I expel a harsh breath and rake my hand through my hair to calm down.
She studies me with interest. “Don’t stop. Until what?”
“Until you’re slick and swollen and begging for my dick.”
A laugh breaks from her, but she eyes my mouth like it’s ice cream and all she wants to do is lick it. “I wouldn’t have to beg. You’d give it to me without hesitation, fast and hard, wouldn’t you, big guy?”
Flames of lust burn my skin, as her voice lowers. “All I’d have to do was spread my thighs and show you just how wet—”
“Not fair, Berry.” I shove the record back into place. “Not fucking fair.” I march her cute little ass out of the store. And she laughs the whole way. I pretend I’m disgruntled, but I’m not. I am so far from not it isn’t funny.
I distract myself by taking her to one of my favorite hot dog spots. We opt for carryout, and I drive us up into Griffith Park, stopping at a secluded spot so we can eat. There is a bench nearby, but before I can get off the bike, Brenna surprises me and climbs up to straddle my lap.
“Well, hello,” I say, my arm instantly going around her waist.
She settles in. “Much more comfortable than a bench.” She reaches down and grabs one of the takeout boxes. “You up for eating this way?”
“You think I’d ever turn down a chance to have you in my arms?” I shake my head and help her out by holding the box steady. “Think again, Berry.”
The hot dogs are messy; bacon-wrapped and loaded with toppings—Brenna’s has corn, cotija, and spicy aioli, while mine is drowning under fries and cheese. But Brenna doesn’t hesitate to pick hers up. It’s cute as hell the way she holds the unwieldy dog, her nose wrinkling a little as she tries to take a huge bite without spilling. I chuckle as she almost gets there, and then I wipe the little bit of sauce that lands on her chin.
“Good?” I ask.
“So good.”
Because it’s not polite to stare, I dig into my own dog. We’re silent for a bit, eating in the sunshine. Brenna sets the remnants of her hot dog back in the takeout box and grabs some napkins from her lap to clean her hands. I hand her a frosty bottle of her beloved Diet Cherry Coke. After she’s had a drink, she sighs with contentment.
“There,” I say with the satisfaction of a man who has seen his woman well-fed. “Tell me a taco is better than this.”
She dabs at the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “I hate to break your little dream here, buttercup, but this is basically the love child of a hot dog and a taco.”
Damn. She’s right.
I rally. “But it is still called a hot dog. Thus better than a taco.”
“A technicality.”
“Which is another way of saying I’m right.”
“Or that you’re not.”
Chuckling, I lift what’s left of my hot dog to her. “You haven’t tried this one.”
With a dubious hum that I know she does to tease me, Brenna opens her mouth and dutifully waits for me to feed her. Fuck. I stare, trying not to get turned on.
Her smile is pure evil. “Come on, Rye. Give me a taste of your wiener.”
I burst out laughing, even as I get hard as a pike. “Oh, you’ll get more than a taste.”
She takes a large, snapping bite, and I laugh again as she chews. By the times she’s swallowing, she’s laughing too, resting her forehead on my shoulder. “All right, you got me,” she says straightening, cheeks flushed and eyes alight. “These are excellent hot dogs.”
“Better than a taco?”
Hell, why am I pushing this? I shouldn’t. It’s stupid. Petty as fuck. I’m thinking Brenna might agree because she goes silent. Her expression is thoughtful as she packs up the mess, shoving it all in the boxes lying on our laps. Heart thudding, I hold up the takeout bag for her to put the trash in. Only when I’ve set it on the ground does she speak.
