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.

But here, with Brenna’s funny little snores buffeting my chest, it hits me with a calm certainty that music isn’t the entirety of my heart and soul. It no longer owns me completely. She’s there too, in my heart and soul. A touchstone in the darkness of uncertainty.

The truth of that overwhelms me, and I squeeze my eyes closed, press my lips to the top of her warm head, and just breathe. But it doesn’t help. There’s a hole opening up in my chest, getting wider and wider. Because this isn’t real. It’s stolen time.

Maybe I’m holding her too close or too tight because she stirs, flipping over to face me then letting out a small sigh as she stretches. I loosen my hold and watch her wake. Her lashes flutter, then her eyes open, revealing true amber irises flecked with gold. And I swear to God, sap that I’ve become around her, my damn heart clenches.

It takes a moment for her to focus, and I probably shouldn’t be lying here, staring, but I can’t help myself. She’s adorably mussed, soft and sleepy.

Given that I am staring, I don’t miss her slight confusion at seeing me. Maybe she doesn’t fully remember last night, or maybe she simply regrets letting me stay. It’s going to be awkward if she’s upset I’m here. Then she blinks again, her gaze growing clear. A small smile quirks the corners of her pink lips.

“Hey,” she says, her voice sandy with sleep.

Relief is a rush of air through my lungs. With the tip of my finger, I ease a strand of her hair away from her forehead. “Hey.”

Her palm is on my chest. I’m not certain she’s even aware of it. Her fingers drift over my pecs, stopping to toy with the silver bar piercing my nipple. Pleasure arrows through me, and I feel like purring. Yes, purring; I’d do it if I could.

I lean in, brush my lips over hers. Once. Twice. She sighs again, a soft sound that I feel all along my skin, and I pull back just enough to meet her gaze. “You want breakfast?”

“You making it?” she asks with an expression that is at once hopeful and doubtful.

I laugh lightly. “Of course.”

Her nose wrinkles as she peers at me. “You can cook? Because I have never seen it.”

“I can scramble eggs, dole out yogurt and fruit.” I kiss the tip of her nose, because I need that touch. “I can even blend up one of those health smoothies you seem to like.”

“They are quick and refreshing.”

My lips skim the line of her jaw. “We don’t need to be quick today, Berry.”

She makes a noise like she’s trying not to laugh. Her hand keeps drifting over my chest, along my side. God, she smells good, not flowery or fruity but pure, heady pheromones that work like a drug to my system. I burrow my nose in the warm curve of her neck and breathe deep.

Brenna chuckles then, her fingers threading through my hair. “I’m so tired. I don’t want to move.”

“So don’t.” I curl further into her, cuddling close. I’ve decided: I fucking love cuddling. “We make our own rules here.”

She’s running the tips of her fingers along my scalp. It feels like heaven. “We do, huh?”

“Yep. Here, we’re free.” A nice fantasy. One I want to make real.

She murmurs something, her touch already slowing. Her body is melding with mine, warm and relaxed. And then we drift, talk of little things, laugh at inside jokes only we know. Like I said, heaven. It occurs to me that I should talk to her about why I’m really here. But I can’t. Right now, everything is perfect.

After a while, I make her breakfast then offer to take her on a drive. I keep a matte chrome Harley Fat Boy at the house. At first, I worry that Brenna might want a car, but, when I tell her about the bike, she gives an un-Brenna-like squeal of delight and puts on stellar ass-hugging jeans, a baby blue tee, and a pair of purple wicked-high heels. My tongue is likely hanging out, but it can’t be helped; I love dressed-down Brenna.