For a moment, I’m distracted by the fact that, unlike Killian’s urban-retro loft style, John’s place is decorated like something straight off the set of Pride and Prejudice. Massive Oriental rugs overlap each other. There are expensive antique furnishings, overstuffed chairs, and dozens of oil paintings in gilded frames. It’s so opposite to the rocker front John puts up that I gape, wondering if I’ve entered an alternate dimension.

But no, the music is as loud as ever. And I’m trespassing in this Buckingham Palace of an apartment.

To prove I’m not a total creepster, I call out as I slowly walk farther into his place. “John? Jax? Can you hear me?”

No. No, he cannot.

I know this because he’s standing on a faded red Persian rug, completely absorbed in the music, his fingers moving with crisp precision over the strings of his guitar.

And he is completely naked.

Jesus wept, I cannot look away. I. Cannot. Look. Away.

He is stunning. Breathtaking.

His is more of a long, lean body than big and bulky bruiser. Lovely square shoulders, trim hips, well-defined and surprisingly strong-looking thighs, and tight calves. Running clearly does a body good. And maybe guitar playing does as well, because the man’s forearms are pure poetry, ropy with definition.

This all goes through my head in a flash, because really I’m just gaping like a dying fish.

Holy hell, he moves his hips like he’s fucking, the guitar barely hiding his goodies. But then he lifts the neck and suddenly everything is on display. And all that … girth … swings. It fucking sways like a hypnotist’s pendulum. I swear I sway with it, utterly mesmerized.

That is until he whips around and his green eyes lock onto mine. It snaps me out of my daze faster than a bullet, and I fully realize that I am standing in a room with naked Jax Blackwood.

Naturally, I lose it.

John

* * *

It’s her eyes I see first. Wide, deep blue mirrors, reflecting something like horror but not really—closer to shock and mortification, like I’ve slapped her with my dick or something. And “dick” is definitely the theme of the day because, even though eager Little John is well hidden behind the guitar now, she’s staring at my crotch as if the memory of him is burned into her retinas.

“Oh my cock—god. My cock—godcockgod …” She flails her hands. “God. I meant God. God-cock. Argh!”

Her flustered blather ends in a gurgle and a new tide of rapid hand flapping.

Even though her sudden appearance scared the shit out of me—until I realized it was Stella and not some stalker who’d gotten in—a laugh escapes me. “My cock is godlike, so I can see the confusion.”

Her face flames bright red. “Dick.”

“It goes by that name too.” I wink at her because it’s fucking hilarious the way she’s practically hopping around but her eyes are glued to my guitar. “Although, you probably should get a proper look if you really want to be impressed.”

I move to lift my guitar, and her hands thrust out.

“Don’t you dare! You leave that guitar right where it is, mister.”

“You sure?” I hesitate, hand gripping the neck. “You’re staring awfully hard for someone who doesn’t want to see the goodies.”

Her eyes narrow on my face, her glare a death ray. “What the hell, Jax? Who goes around playing guitar naked?”

“It’s John.” For some reason, it bugs the hell out of me when she calls me Jax. “And I do. When I’m in the privacy of my own home.” I grin. “Though there was that one time on stage.”

“Well … put some clothes on,” she hisses.

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s my house. I’m playing naked. Deal with it.”

Stella huffs, which does fantastic things to her breasts. I’m momentarily distracted by the way they jiggle in that little top she’s wearing. Maybe I’ll keep the guitar in front of my junk after all. Because, now that I’ve got a good look at her, it’s hard to turn away.

With that red hair and those pouty lips, she’s a total Wilma. Tiny waist, swelling hips, curvy legs. And her breasts? Great Gibson’s ghost, why the hell does she usually hide those sweet tits behind baggy tops? She has the Goldilocks of breasts—not too big, not too small, but just fucking right. They’re perfect, perky handfuls. And I have pretty big hands.

“Are you staring at my boobs?” Stella snaps, grabbing my attention and making me flinch.

I don’t look away, though. Holy hell, they’re gorgeous. “You stared at my junk,” I say to her tits. “Just returning the favor.”

I have the pleasure of watching her nipples perk up and say hello. A grin spreads over my mouth. Damn, but they look perfect too, like little sugar candies. I want to see them. Now.

“Oy.” She snaps her fingers. “You had your look. Now eyes up.”

She’s right; there’s looking and then there is leering.

“Speaking of having a look …” I clear my throat. “Why are you trespassing?”

The flush reaches down to her chest. Lovely chest. Behave, John.

The voice in my head sounds disturbingly like my mother’s. Disconcerting, since I haven’t heard her voice for years. It kills any arousal I have going on faster than a gunshot.

“I tried to knock,” Stella says. “You didn’t hear me.”

“Therefore, you simply barge right in? Good to know we’re at that level in our relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship. And yes, I barged in. You’re disrupting my yoga time with all the noise.”

Seriously, this girl. She’s part excellent entertainment, part wet blanket. A complete dichotomy. “That wasn’t noise. That was music, Stella Button.”

“Whatever it … Argh. I cannot talk to you this way. Put some damn pants on, at least.”

Her agitation amuses me, and I’m tempted to refuse her request. But I’m starting to feel a bit ridiculous standing here bare arsed with only my Strat for protection. Plus, now that I’ve stopped playing, I’m getting cold.

“Fine.” I whip the strap from around my neck and set my guitar down. Much squawking ensues, which makes me grin wide as I grab my jeans and haul them on.

For all her protests, Stella watches with avid interest as I tuck myself into my jeans and pull up the zipper. I don’t bother buttoning. First of all, I know it will piss her off. Secondly, it will piss her off.

Her eyes stay locked on that open button, and I place my hands low on my hips, flexing my abs for added fun.

“You sure you want me to keep these on?” I ask, fighting a laugh.

Her sexpot mouth purses. “You have no shame, do you?”

I have tons of shame. Endless fucking shame. But about my body? “Nope.”

She shakes her head and sighs. But she can’t hide her smile from me.

“Then we’re agreed,” I tell her. “You won’t sneak up on me, and I’ll keep playing naked.”

“What’s with playing naked anyway?” she asks.

I shrug. “I got hot. Took my clothes off. No big deal.”

I don’t mention that I’m horny but have no outlet to relieve my needs other than my hand. And my hand isn’t cutting it. Playing naked takes the edge off. Call it weird, but there’s a certain eroticism in the act, the cool press of the guitar against my dick, the taut resistance of the strings on my fingertips, and the music. Music and sex go hand in hand for a reason; they are both forms of expression, release, creation.