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“It seems,” he said, effortlessly picking me up and shifting me onto his lap, “that you could use some stress relief.”
His fingers made their way up my shoulder blades, pulling a gasp from me. Those strong, capable hands were the stuff of all my filthiest fantasies.
Almost lost in visions of what those hands could accomplish, I was startled by a nudge at my stomach. Straightening, I tucked my chin and came face to face with an impressive bulge straining at his gray sweats. And it was dangerously close to the place I wanted it most.
“That’s what you do to me, Parker,” he said, gently nipping at my neck. “I’m hard for you all fucking day.”
Feeling bold and desperate for more, I ground up against him, getting a preview of just what kind of equipment he was packing.
“Fuck.” I moaned. Damn. Merely brushing against him sent me dangerously close to the edge. What was happening? I wasn’t that type of girl. It had always taken a lot of foreplay to get there. A quick dry hump would never suffice.
“Again,” he growled, his hands traveling up my T-shirt to palm my bare breasts.
I obeyed. And as I rocked against him, it hit me. A surge of energy and pleasure, making me gasp and groan and—
Bam. My shoulder connected with a hard surface, and my neck snapped back. I threw my arms out, searching for him, but all I found was the cold hardwood floor.
“Parker,” he shouted, though his voice sounded muffled through my haze of confusion. “Are you okay?”
Before I knew what was happening, those strong arms were lifting me up and steadying me on my feet.
“Did you hit your head?” His arms were on my shoulders and his brow was furrowed in concern.
“What happened?”
“You rolled off the couch in your sleep. You sure you’re okay?”
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs. Beside me, my laptop and phone were still spread out on the couch, and there was what looked like a drool spot on one of the throw pillows.
“Yes,” I said, taking a step back from him. My shoulder throbbed, and so did my ass. I’d probably have bruises tomorrow. But I was also… turned on.
And I needed space from real-life Paz, who, while broody and sexy just like dream Paz, had not been pleasuring me. No, he’d been watching me drool and fall off his couch.
Not my finest moment. And certainly not my sexiest.
* * *
Retreating to my office seemed like the safest bet. A quiet space free from Paz and his brooding. It was late, but my nap and injurious wake-up had left me energized. I’d been pacing for a while, studying the whiteboard I’d been adding to every day, when music wafted up the stairs, calling out to me. Officially, I headed down to the main level to refill my water bottle. Unofficially, I was being nosy and procrastinating.
Halfway down the stairs, I realized Paz didn’t have the radio on. No, music from the piano filled the house. It bounced around the empty rooms, making it feel like it was coming through the walls.
I rounded the corner and halted. The grand piano was open, wide and beautiful in all its dark, lacquered glory. His eyes were closed as his fingers flew over the keys. There were several pages of sheet music spread out in front of him, but he was playing from memory. Every few minutes, he’d pause, find his place, and resume.
I leaned against the doorway, in awe of what I was experiencing. He sat, shirtless in sweats, playing the most beautiful music. I watched, mesmerized by the flex of his shoulder muscles while he played.
But the most incredible thing of all? He didn’t only play with his fingers. He played with his entire body. He moved rhythmically, and his body swayed as he hit note after dramatic note. The music was coursing through his veins, lighting him up inside.
This was the most alive I had ever seen him.
I was so distracted by him I didn’t even hear the music. It was classical and melancholy, but it was beautiful. I stood, frozen, as the sensations washed over me. The empty room filled with this massive, exquisite instrument, a powerful man, and the most beautiful but sad song I had ever heard.
Like this, focused and passionate and engaged, he was beautiful and vulnerable and real. His love of music had been apparent since I arrived in Lovewell, but this? This type of talent? It thawed some of the frost in my heart. This man was accomplished and gifted and dedicated. He would have had to spend hours upon hours devoted to learning to get where he was now.
Maybe we were more alike than I had been willing to accept. He’d worn armor made of cold detachment for as long as I’d known him.
But this earnestness? This conviction? The desire to dive into the deep end and care about things? That was the kind of stuff that made me tick.
I’d spent the majority of my life being called a try hard. As a child and into my teen years, I’d been made fun of for doing extra credit in school, volunteering for every club and event I could find, and for being “too sensitive” when I was devastated by the soccer loss or the bad grade.
