Only for the Night (If Only Book 2) (12 page)

And to make it even worse, from the occasional heated glances Hank sent her way, she knew that the feeling, and the struggle, were mutual.

Squaring her shoulders, she pushed herself to walk normally up the stairs, creaks notwithstanding. Only when she got to the back deck did she hear the guitar. The strains of a melody floated on the breeze from somewhere inside. Hank’s music, not a recording. She could tell the difference. The stark nakedness of the sound, just the instrument and the fingers plucking at it and the occasional knock of what sounded like Hank’s knuckles against the guitar to keep rhythm, tugged her closer to the door.

Closer to her own destruction, maybe. If anything could make the hunk she lived with even sexier, it was watching him play. It hit her like an aphrodisiac every time. And she’d seen it often enough that she had no problem imagining those fingers plucking her strings, God help her.

She crossed the deck anyway.

The back door was open to the fresh air as it so often was when she came home, only the screen door blocking out the occasional insects in the air. Sage moved to one side, peering through the mesh. Hank was sitting in the open window at the opposite end of the kitchen, his usual spot, guitar cradled in his arms like a baby. One muscular leg was propped on the sill, the other braced on the floor, their long lengths naked from the thighs down and dusted with a healthy bit of dark hair. He wore familiar black athletic shorts and a white tank that stretched across his pecs in a way that should definitely be illegal. But it was his face that really struck her—his head was thrown back to the sun as if in worship, his eyes closed, every bit of focus on the music flowing from his hands.

And then he started to sing, something she’d never heard before, and Sage thought she might melt into a puddle right there on the deck.

It wasn’t a smooth sound—Hank wasn’t a smooth talker. Easygoing, funny, teasing, yes, but his voice had a gravelly quality to it, almost as if he’d just awakened, twisted in rumpled sheets, still groggy, except it never went away. Probably that deep chest of his, resonating the sound of his voice around its confines before releasing it. His singing voice had the same rough sound, almost a growl. It shivered down her spine straight to her core, waking up things best left alone. Things that were already torturing her. Things that, with nothing more than the sound of him singing, surged to the forefront so hard all she could do was grip the door and hang on tight, trying to ride the wave.

Did she really think she could do this for months? She’d barely managed the few weeks they’d lived together; how the heck was she supposed to hold herself back for months more? And yet she couldn’t make herself look for a new place, not if it meant not seeing him except to deliver her rent check.

She must’ve made some sound or bumped the door, because Knight raised his head from where he was laid out full-length in a square of sunlight on the kitchen floor and gave her a welcome bark. The two of them had come to a truce—she gave him good scratches, and he left her alone when she left the bathroom. Of course, she didn’t leave wrapped in towels anymore, but still… The hellhound was growing on her, she had to admit.

Knowing she’d been made, she opened the screen door and went in. Hank broke off midchorus, his long fingers coming to rest flat against the strings of his guitar. “Hey.”

She knelt to give Knight a pat on his belly. “You don’t have to stop on my account,” she told Hank, her eyes on the dog to hide both the yearning and the heat she was sure were evident there. “I haven’t heard you sing before.”
And I love it, even if I shouldn’t.

“You’re barely here.”

She couldn’t tell if that was an admonition or not, and when she glanced up at him, she still couldn’t tell.
Mr. Not Easy To Read.

She shrugged. Saturdays were a madhouse, but today had been even longer, more emotional than most—Alice’s last day in Citrus Pointe, at least for a little while. Customer after customer had come by to wish her farewell, reminisce with her, gobble up her goodies one last time. Most of them would be at the going-away party tonight as well. And tomorrow Sage and Merry would go back to a kitchen that was one person emptier. The knowledge weighed on her, even knowing it was the best thing for Alice and her family right now.

As she crossed to the sink to wash her hands, Hank turned on the windowsill until he faced the room. The full view of his wide shoulders straining the tank made her swallow hard and drop her eyes. The beauty of his body was half the attraction, sure, but it was his strength that was her downfall. Being submissive, she yearned for a partner to control her, but she also enjoyed things a little rough. Just watching Hank move, measuring the width of his hands, seeing him roughhousing with Knight and imagining how strong he could be with a woman— She clenched her hands under the stream of water, cursing the way her mind wandered, the direction it insisted on going.

She sneaked a glance at Hank as she grabbed a towel to dry her hands. He seemed oblivious to her distraction, thank goodness, staring down as he absently plucked out a short bit of melody.

“You’re home early,” he said to his guitar.

Quite a bit. It was barely two. “Because of the party, remember?” They’d cut the day short in order to give everyone time to get ready to go to Killian’s. Surely Hank hadn’t forgotten.

“Right.” Hank shook his head. “Sorry. I remembered about tonight, just forgot everything else.” He lifted his guitar to ease the strap from around his neck. “It’s hard to surface when I get that deep.”

That’s why he hadn’t heard her on the stairs; he’d been submerged in his music. She could relate. Sometimes, when she became absorbed in a new recipe or getting a taste just right, hours would pass without notice.

She eyed his guitar. “That’s not a bass, right?”

“No, it’s not. It’s an acoustic guitar.” His fingers were idly moving over the strings. How could he draw such beautiful sound from the instrument without even thinking about it?

“But Drew is your guitarist?” Hank had talked about his friend more than once.

Hank laughed, the sound rumbling through her. “We musicians sometimes play more than one instrument, you know. Drew plays guitar for the band’s performances, but I can play it as well. A little bit of drums. Some piano. The guitar is my first love, though. Most rock musicians stick to electric onstage, but I like the stripped-down sound of an acoustic when I’m writing.”

“Writing?”

“Music.”

“Really?” She hadn’t recognized the song he was singing earlier, but she had a fairly specific taste in music, so that wasn’t surprising. “So you don’t just play, you compose as well?”

“Usually me and our drummer, V. We write most of Weekend’s music.”

“That doesn’t sound anything like what I’ve heard on your albums.”

To Hank’s credit, he didn’t preen. In their day-to-day dealings he didn’t act anything like she’d always assumed a rock musician would act, so that didn’t surprise her. What did was the almost sheepish look that crossed his face. “Yeah…this isn’t for the band, exactly.”

Sage crossed to the fridge. “Hungry?”

“Sure.” He stood and began gathering bread and chips while she dug for sandwich fixings in the fridge.

“So if that wasn’t for your band, what was it for? Do you write a different style on the side or what?”

“I write whatever comes to me really. Since we just had a hole open in our schedule, I’m really just messing around at the moment. I’m thinking…I don’t know. Maybe I’ll talk to our manager about developing it for release.” Hank began assembling their sandwiches, not looking at her, but something about the way he held himself said the admission made him nervous. His added, “Maybe. Eventually,” confirmed it.

She thought about the thousands of women who would have the privilege of hearing that growly voice crooning in their ear, and the surge of jealousy that rose threatened to choke her. She busied herself with the food, listening to Hank talk about their lead singer bailing on the band, the band’s need to get back into the studio. Sounded like Chad was a dick. She wished he would get his head out of his ass so she could have exclusive rights to listening to Hank’s new songs.

The thought had her shaking her head at herself.

“So”—Hank took their full plates from her hands and walked them to the kitchen table—“do you play an instrument?”

“No way.” She shook her head ruefully. “I was in band all of one day in middle school. They threw me out when I couldn’t work the triangle. I’m all fumble fingers when it comes to music. Thank goodness I can do other things with my hands.”

Hank’s smile was wicked, his wink even more so. “I can too, but I also play.” He retrieved his guitar. “Come here.”

Every drop of saliva in her mouth went dry. “I—”

Hank straddled the long bench lining the back side of the kitchen table and patted the wood between his thighs. “Come’ere, Sage. I don’t bite.”

I wish you did.
Which was exactly why she should make an excuse, any excuse, and get the hell out of here. But she couldn’t resist. Hank had commanded her, and even knowing it was probably a big, big mistake, she had to obey.

Her heart beat in her throat with every step around the table, hard enough she thought she might faint, but she made it to him. When she lifted a leg to mimic Hank’s position on the bench, he cupped the underside of her thigh with one wide hand and gently guided her into position. Sage barely held back a hiss of pleasure, then or when his grip settled on her hips to move her squarely between his legs. And then his arms were surrounding her, bringing the guitar around to rest against her belly, her inner thighs. That broad chest pressed into her back. Sage closed her eyes against the sensations, the hunger, but the deep breath she took to steady herself only pressed her into him more. Cursing herself, she cradled the guitar, mimicking Hank’s earlier hold on the instrument.

“Good.” Hank adjusted the placement of her fingers while Sage turned that one word over in her mind. Was it her imagination or was that gravelly voice even rougher than before?

“The strings you press on the neck determine the sound that comes out when you strum with your right hand,” Hank was saying, his words barely more than a buzz through the haze in her mind. His fingers pressed over hers, forcing them into the position he wanted.

Oh God, she couldn’t breathe.

“This is a C chord.” He brought his right hand around and strummed lightly on the strings. The sound resonated in the bowels of the instrument, vibrating into her where it rested against her body.

“You try.”

Sage ran her right fingers over the strings. A scattered ping of sounds filtered into the air. Hank chuckled.

“They’re stiffer than I thought,” she said by way of apology, only realizing after the words left her mouth that they could be taken more than one way. God, could she crawl into a hole now?

Hank’s rough laugh said he knew all the implications of what she’d said, but he was gracious enough not to point any of them out. “Mm-hmm. Try again.”

Sage tried hard to ignore the sizzle arcing between them and strummed again. This time the individual notes blended together a bit better.

“Good,” Hank said again. He adjusted their fingers on the frets. Her core clenched tight.

“G chord.” His stroke of the strings was strong, the vibration adding to the rioting sensations taking over her body.

Sage’s try this time was better but still nothing like Hank’s confident strumming. A couple of other chords yielded the same results. Finally, unable to take the rising pressure inside her without doing something really stupid, Sage dropped her hands. “This isn’t as easy as it looks.”

Hank’s breath tickled the skin at her nape, bared from the ponytail she’d worn to work this morning. “Usually isn’t,” he murmured. Without asking permission, he tucked the guitar even closer to them and began to play the song he’d been singing earlier.

Sage closed her eyes. It was agony and ecstasy, having him surrounding her, the reverberations of the instrument, Hank’s voice rumbling in her ears. She wondered idly if it was possible to orgasm just from a guitar pulsating against her. Hank’s heartbeat throbbed at her back, keeping counter time with her racing pulse and strangled breathing. He had to know what he was doing to her, but he didn’t stop, just played along as if there was nothing unusual going on between them. Before long she realized he was rocking himself into her, the slightest nudges, rolling her pelvis forward against the bench with the press of his hips against hers. She also realized he was hard. And big. And his corded arms and the instrument in front of her wouldn’t allow her to escape.

She could feel it come over her, the slow slide of submission, the sinking of her will beneath the man controlling her. So dangerous—Hank was strong, powerful, and dominant to a point, but he was also easygoing. Most Doms she knew, while not outright assholes, took control both in the bedroom and out. Cops, soldiers, CEOs, men who dominated their environment no matter the circumstances. Hank seemed to have abandoned that life, learned to roll with the punches. She couldn’t imagine him spanking her, whipping her.

Her body wept at the thought, and she knew she had to stop this now. She couldn’t afford to surrender, couldn’t afford climaxing in this man’s arms with little more than imagining him as her Dom.