Chapter 2: The Foxy Lady Serenade
His stride didn’t break as he carried me down the short hall, his mouth never leaving my skin. He tasted the frantic pulse at the base of my throat, a low sound vibrating from his chest into mine. My back met the cool wall just outside my bedroom door, and he pressed into me, pinning me there.
“You heard that?” he murmured against my collarbone, his voice that same rough gravel from the song.
“I felt it,” I gasped, my head tilting back. “In my teeth.”
He shouldered the bedroom door open, the room dark save for the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. He didn’t throw me on the bed. He laid me down, his hands sliding from under my thighs as he followed me down, covering me. The weight of him was perfect, anchoring.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his fingers working the buttons of my dress.
“Which part? The part where I ached for you?” I helped him, shoving the fabric off my shoulders.
“The part where you touched yourself thinking of me.” His eyes caught the slatted light, gleaming. “Tell me what you thought about.”
“Your hands on the microphone.” The dress was gone. “Your mouth so close to it.” His belt buckle was cold against my stomach. “The way you closed your eyes on the riff, like you were feeling it in your bones.”
He swore, softly, and stripped off his shirt. His chest was broad, a map of old scars and hard living. I ran my palms over it, learning his geography. He was real, solid, here. He caught my wrists, gently, and pinned them above my head on the pillow.
He looked down at me, his breath coming harder now. “Nobody watches that close.”
“I do.”
He kissed me then, deep and consuming, and the world dissolved into sensation. The scratch of his beard, the warm slide of his tongue, the absolute mastery of his hands as they explored me. He knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure to use, as if he’d been studying me as long as I’d been studying him.
It was overwhelming. His touch was confident, patient, utterly focused. He drew sounds from me I didn’t recognize, my hips arching off the bed. “Jesse.”
“I’m here,” he breathed against my stomach, his lips trailing lower. “I’m right here, Lena.”
His mouth was on me, and I cried out, my fingers twisting in his hair. It wasn’t just skill. It was devotion. He listened to every hitch in my breath, every shudder, and answered with relentless, exquisite attention. Pleasure coiled, tight and electric, threatening to snap.
When I broke, it was silent at first—a wave of pure white heat that stole my breath, my vision blurring. Then a raw, fractured sound tore from my throat. He held me through it, his hands steadying my hips, his mouth gentle now until the last tremor passed.
He moved back up my body, kissing my stomach, my sternum, the hollow of my throat. He released my wrists, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down to kiss him, tasting myself on his lips.
I rolled us over, straddling him. His hands settled on my waist, thumbs stroking my hips. The look on his face—rapt, hungry, almost reverent—unlocked something deeper in my chest.
“My turn,” I whispered.
I took my time. I explored the corded strength of his arms, the planes of his stomach. I tasted the salt on his skin, learned the rhythm of his breath when it hitched. He let me, his eyes heavy-lidded, watching my every move with that fierce, quiet intensity. His control was a tangible thing, a leash he held onto tightly.
“Lena,” he warned, his voice strained, as my mouth traveled lower.
“Let go,” I said, looking up the length of his body to meet his gaze. “For me.”
A shudder ran through him. His hand came to rest on my head, not pushing, just resting. And then he did. His control shattered beautifully, quietly. His hips lifted off the bed, a harsh groan ripped from his lungs, and his fingers curled gently in my hair.
Afterward, he pulled me up, wrapped me in his arms, and just held me. Our breathing slowed, syncopated in the dark. The heat of his skin seeping into mine felt more intimate than anything before it.
We didn’t speak for a long time. The city whispered outside. A siren dopplered in the distance. His heartbeat was a steady drum under my ear.
“That song,” he finally said, his voice rough with spent passion. “I hadn’t sung it in ten years. Not since my old band fell apart.”
I lifted my head to look at him. “Why that night?”
He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, his touch surprisingly tender. “Saw a woman with hair like burnished copper sitting alone at the bar. Looked like she’d already heard every lie in the book.” He shrugged, a small movement. “Wanted to offer her something that felt true.”
The confession landed in the center of my chest, warm and solid. This wasn’t just a night. It was a collision.
I kissed his shoulder, the taste of him and me and sweat forever mingled. “Stay. Past sunrise.”
He didn’t answer with words. He just tightened his arms around me, his lips pressing against my temple. In that silence, in the quiet anchor of his hold, I felt the trajectory of my entire life shift.