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

“Maybe I do,” he said. “I just know that when I find a woman who can see me through the noise, I am sticking to her like shit on a shoe. You can put that in my financial plan.”
They were standing close enough to touch now. Close enough for Grip to see what he’d said affected her. She unfolded her arms, dropped them to her sides so her forearms didn’t end up pressed to his chest. “I don’t have anyone special in my life.” She had to clear her throat past the tension. “The crushes of my youth were more satisfying than the real thing.” It was the best she could give him for his heartfelt confession.
He gave her a lopsided smile. It was directly connected to her unbalanced libido. “Had crushes, huh?” When the walls shifted, he took a bigger step forward.
He was in her space now. He was all her needs and wants. “Stop doing that.”
Soon they’d be forced to actively avoid touching. The next time he laughed, she’d breathe his humor in. She glued her eyes to Grip’s trainers to avoid looking at him, to avoid falling into the thrill of his closeness, bound up in the swirl of memories and the satisfaction of knowing her goth-self had an impact on him.
Fire as fuck. He thought that of me, fifteen years ago. He remembers Philly.
It was as startling as it was gratifying.
“You’d be too proper to have had crushes on band members,” he said, voice turned so soft she jerked her head up to see his face. Nothing soft in his features, but the angles and planes of his cheekbones and jaw demanded touch.
“You’ll never know.” Though he could probably tell her bra size by the way he was looking at her. Didn’t help that she was seriously short of breath from this mechanical ride, a physical mind trip.
“Ah huh.”
That superior smirk required a rebuttal. “I did think Jay Endicott was amazing.”
He looked at the ceiling, which thankfully had stayed high above their heads. His posture had a kind of abandonment about it. As if he might throw his head back in the throes of ecstasy for her once again. Curse her conflicted heart, she wanted to make him do that from her knees with his hand in her hair.
“Jay Endicott has bad breath and dandruff.”
She laughed. “He does not.” She had no idea if he did, but it was a devious deflection.
Grip refocused on her. “He has a very territorial girlfriend.”
Mena was the one with the rose-colored glasses, romanticizing a past that needed to stay hidden and a life that would never have worked out. Grip was a free spirit, living a large life and Mena had only been borrowing that essence for a teenage rebellion. She was a rock world tourist with a temporary visa, and he was a fully-fledged, tax-paying resident. He was utterly unfiltered, and she was every available disguise.
And if she wanted to protect the life she’d built, which had a lot more structure to it, a lot more constraints and rules, she needed to concentrate on doing that.
“The entertainment industry is fickle. Musicians are notorious players. Their relationships are transient, so I hear.”
“Not Jay and Evie.” Grip drew a heart in the limited space between them with the index fingers of both hands.
He might have been drawing on her soul, sketching the risk of him into her skin. They both took another small step forward. Mena’s breathing hitched. One more step and they’d be pressed against each other. “This is, um.” It was too much and hopelessly magical. “You have stuff in your hair.” She reached up and pulled the strands of fake spider web from his hair, feeling it feather through her fingers.
“Thanks,” his breath ghosted across her cheek and his hands went to her waist, making her flinch. “Is this okay?”
It wasn’t okay, and it wasn’t enough. Lemon scent and lust in the air. Her pulse thudding in her ears. “We don’t have much choice.” They did, there was just enough space not to be body to body, but neither of them wanted to be in it. She put her hands to his shoulders, fixed on his green eyes as her anchor.
“There’s a panic button. Should we panic?” he said.
Racing heartbeat, a tremor in her legs, wings beating in her chest. All the signs of panic, but his words were like a caress. “This is fine.”
He edged a little closer, far closer than they needed to be, his hands sliding around her back, hers sliding around his neck, bringing their bodies completely flush together. “It’s only for a few moments.” His cheek brushed her temple. “They’ll open the escape hatch.”
They breathed each other in. It was the kind of breathing that had nothing to do with life support and everything to do with desire. It tasted sweet and heavy in her mouth. She felt for notes of regret and knew their absence was betrayal. The trapdoor would open, and they’d separate, and this would be one brief stolen moment of inappropriate attraction they’d both knowingly submitted to and would never discuss.
“You have any crushes on drummers?” he said.
She smiled into the hollow of his throat, floating on the fresh beachy scent of him. “I’m not answering that on the grounds it might incriminate me.”
The slight whirring that was the movement of the shelf walls stopped and the light went out, tipping them into blackness.
Grip’s arms tightened around her. “That’s not supposed to happen.”
There was a crackle of intercom. “Hello occupants, this is the linen press operator. We’ve had a slight equipment malfunction. Nothing to be concerned about. You are perfectly safe, and in no danger, though it’s a little squeezy. If you’d like to exit the room, press the let me out button and the main door will open.