One Wicked Lick from the Drummer (The One Book 3)

warned me.” He should come with a hazard grading.
“They’ve honored me. I’m going to play now,” he said, eyes already on the musicians in the water.
He left her, dry-mouthed, pulse ragged, heart utterly unmoored.
And furious with herself.
She’d known going informal was a bad idea. She’d gotten on the back of a black chrome Triumph with a gold-record drummer in the middle of a work day. Nothing good ever came from that kind of behavior. She’d known from the moment she staggered into the boardroom and saw Grip, felt him in that part of herself long denied, that she needed to back away.
The moment he returned, she’d tell Mark there was a Swire and Yallop associate more suited to his needs. She’d tell Mr. Grippen she didn’t feel best placed to help him and she was sorry she’d wasted his time and she’d deal with Caroline’s disapproval.
And then she’d tell Grip she was inappropriately attracted to him and that it wouldn’t be inappropriate if she was no longer working for him and if he was so inclined and attracted to her, she’d like to spend the night with him.
One more night.
To sweeten the deal, she’d tell him she’d been fantasizing about him since their first meeting and what she’d like to do to him and more importantly, have him do to her.
She pulled her feet from the sucking wet sand and they promptly sank again.
No, she would not tell him any of that.
She had his tattoo on her hip. It was stupidly overcomplicated.
Wait, maybe she could work around that. Vera was in her head. Stay in the dark, and use the sheet strategically, keep him in front of you, wear his T-shirt, don’t stick around in the morning light, theatrical makeup, and if all that went to shit, lie. Assuming he was even curious about it and look, worst case, if he asked, it was just a common word, a wild coincidence. She could even bluff it out by saying she really had been a fan, young and silly enough to get a Property of Paradise album-like image tattooed on the back of her hip.
Except he’s already called you extraordinary.
And he had her career in his hands.
And he’d already bought up too much real estate in her head. He had no idea how much power he had to mess up her life.
The sun was almost gone, a golden glow as dusk rose. She pushed his glasses to the top of her head. Grip was in the lineup of women, the only male, waist deep in the water. At some point while she’d been blindly fuming, he’d dunked himself under and his hair was smoothed back against his skull, showing off his cheekbones and that wide laughing grin he wore on stage when he was free inside the music.
He was inside it now, abs tensed, biceps and triceps bunching, arms moving, hands slapping, curving, scooping, stroking. There were a dozen or more types of splashing motions and the song being playing was fast, something like a storm coming.
It built, high and low pressure, fermenting in Mena.
She felt every slide of Grip’s hand over the surface of the water as if it was on her skin, a satin ripple down her spine, a lift and squeeze of her breast, a pinch of her nipple, a lingering kiss on her throat. Every scooping motion he made was a caress, and every slap was a welcome sting and another notch in the belt of her tightening desire.
She could not hate him more when he turned his head as the song ended to see if she was watching and he knew she could not look away.
She could not look away when he hugged his fellow musicians. His posture showing deference. She could not look away when he walked out of the rockpool, his body emerging slowly from the blue green; waist, pelvis, thighs, water rivulets scoping his muscle structure, sluicing over bumps and ridges as he strode towards her.
She could not back away when he shook himself like a dog, spraying water all over her. The joy in his face was the fatal agent of infection that hooked her deep and stuck her to the spot.
“Ah, Mena, that was fucking fantastic. Can you see it? Can you see why that makes me happy?”
All she could see was the jewel colors of his tattoo, paradise in bright greens, and vivid reds, royal and sky blue, magenta, orange and sunny yellow. Tropical flowers, colorful parrots, lush trees. He’d had part of that tattoo, a few vivid flowers and the birds linked by vines when they’d met and he’d told her what his vision for it had been. He’d seen the vision through. It was a major artwork now, the ink glossy in the growing twilight.
Under the slick of moisture and the green feather detail of a parrot’s wing, his skin was warm. She traced the color up his forearm, until it became midnight blue and then the red, pink of a flower petal on his bicep, the yellow of its stamen. His breath caught, and he grabbed her hand when she traced a water droplet across his pec.
“Mena.”
“This is a lot now.”
“Now?”
“I remember it. It wasn’t so detailed.”
“You had to have been quite a fan to have seen this.”
“You had imagery of your band’s name tattooed on your skin. You had an artistic vision for it. I read about it somewhere.”
He still had her hand. “You read about it?”
“You’re my client, it was part of my desk research.”
He let her hand go. “Ah-ha, and what was touching me like that part of?”
Like he’d thrown her in the ocean, she came up from the trance she’d been in as if she’d been frightened of drowning and grasped a lifeline. She’d overstepped. He didn’t feel