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A soft laugh rumbles in his chest. “You want it all.”
“Shouldn’t everybody?”
He laughs again and pulls me closer, until we’re pressed against each other. God, but he feels good, like the most perfect pillow—even if he’s all muscle. I sigh and try to quiet my brain. But I can’t. Because I can’t have it all. Change is coming. And I can’t fight the truth of that. Rye must feel my tension because he returns to stroking my back in delicious, slow circles.
“Go to sleep, Berry. It’s been a long day.”
I’d been struggling to sleep for hours, but his softly spoken words, the warmth of his touch, and the steady beat of his heart against my cheek all work to lull me into a state of languid comfort. My lids grow heavy, and my hand spreads wide over the hard swell of his chest. I could stay like this forever. But the girl inside, who’s constantly felt she had to prove herself worthy, won’t quiet. “You really came all this way just to sleep with me?”
There’s a beat of silence before he answers, his voice a whisper with an edge of surprise. “Yeah, I did.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rye
I wake with her hair on my face. All that glorious, silky, thick mass cascading over my cheeks, covering my nose. In truth, I’m smothered by it and am in danger of choking. Even so, I grin wide, as I gently brush the auburn strands away. She doesn’t wake but snuffles—I would never dare call it a snore—and wiggles her pert butt closer, grinding it against my increasingly interested dick.
I tell my dick to settle down, as we’re not getting any for a while. But that is surprisingly okay with me. I’m content with what I have in this moment: Brenna’s slim body cuddled up next to mine, the scented warmth of her skin, the utter peace of watching the rays of the sun stretch across the floor while holding her. After days of twitchy tension, I am relaxed.
It’s not the first time I’ve woken up in bed with someone. I’ve gone on occasional benders with different women, spending a couple of days just fucking. They were mostly hazy memories involving the high of performing, getting drunk, and getting lost in someone else for a while. There’s no shame in it. At least not for me. I had a good time with those women, and hopefully gave them one as well.
But those moments weren’t anything more than a bit of fun. It didn’t mean anything more to me. Or to them. In the back of my mind, there was always the knowledge that they were with me because of who I was, or maybe they just liked how I looked. But they didn’t know me. I didn’t know them.
I had no idea just sleeping with someone I have a connection with could be this good. It feels like solace. Like true rest. Right here, in the light of the morning, with Brenna James wrapped around me in blissful sleep, the world stops spinning.
I was thirteen years old when I heard the song that made me the man I am today. I had been obsessed with music my entire life; I listened to everything, from Chopin to Chuck Berry, Portishead to Patsy Cline. But it wasn’t until that rainy day, curled up on my bed, trying to ignore the sound of my parents fighting about yet another one of my dad’s infidelities, that I downloaded “Taste the Pain” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
It was a revelation.
I can’t even say it’s the Peppers’ best song or that it’s my favorite. But it was the first song I heard of theirs. I sat on my bed, staring up at a hairline crack on my ceiling as the music flowed over me. As Michael Peter Balzary—aka Flea, one of the best damn bass guitar players in the world—absolutely slayed. He didn’t simply provide a background rhythm, he dominated the song, owned it. Funktastic beats, hot slides of soul. It worked into my bones, reverberated through my heart.
I can play any instrument put in front of me. It isn’t a trick but simply a part of my essential makeup, like the color of my eyes or that I’m left-handed. But lying there that day, alone and confused, I realized the bass guitar offered something I’d been searching for—an outlet where I could bang out beats or strum taut melodies. I could let the rage, the pain, out in a way that would satisfy some critical need within.
For more than half my life, the bass guitar has been my world, my heart and soul. But I can no longer play it the way I want. Not with the same intensity and carefree joy. The knowledge hurts. It fills me with a gut-wrenching sorrow and choking fear. Change is terrifying when it isn’t your choice.
