“Is this about yesterday?”
I averted my gaze. “My father was an alcoholic.”
“It was just once. It won’t happen again.”
“You didn’t hear me, Frank,” I insisted, my lower lip shaking. “I can’t deal with this again.”
“I heard you.”
“Promise me you won’t touch alcohol again.”
“I won’t touch it again.”
We fell into dreadful silence. Sweat began to coat our palms that were pressed together. Jaw stiff, eyes hooded, he withdrew his hand first.
“This band is going to kill you,” I said after a long pause.
“You want me to sit at home and receive handouts in the form of royalty checks while a bunch of impostors tour the world performing my songs?” he snapped. His voice was cold and bitter.
“Sometimes you’re so fucking conceited you can’t see past the end of your nose,” I countered. Anger pulled at me and settled in my chest.
“The fuck I am! I created this band from my fucking blood and sweat, and now they want me out.”
“Because you’re hurting yourself, Frank!” I wasn’t sure how else to get through to him. I was ready to pound the words into his head with a hammer if needed.
“At least I’m hurting myself for something that’s mine, for something I believe in.”
“You’re not in the army. You’re a musician. You don’t need to be in that band all your life to give people what they want—songs. How can you not understand that?”
“I happen to like that band, Cassy. I happen to have millions of fans because of that band, millions of people who care about me.”
“What about your parents? What about me?”
He stared at me unblinkingly.
“I care about you too. I don’t want you to drop dead on stage somewhere in Cambodia, Frank. I want you to keep making music in a way that doesn’t hurt you more than it already has.”
He remained silent, confusion and pain twisting his features.
“You were breathtaking today. You don’t need to be part of a band to write or perform music. You belong to you, no one else. Not your band, not the label. You have what every other aspiring singer on this planet wants, an incredible talent and an incredible voice, and you don’t need anyone to sign off on the new songs you’re going to write. You’re free to do as you please if you just let the possibilities in. If a nineteen-year-old girl with a disability can do it, why can’t you?”
My lungs needed more oxygen and every bit of me was trembling under Frank’s dark, arresting gaze.
“Ah, fuck. Why do you always have to do that?” he murmured under his breath and slipped his hand to the back of my head to cradle it. “Come here, Yoko Ono.”
There was an instant fire. My cheeks burned, my stomach lurched. I dipped my head and pressed my face against the hard curve of his neck. The hum of the engine droned in my ears.
“You know Paul McCartney admitted she didn’t break up the band,” I mumbled into Frank’s T-shirt.
“Too late. It’s already an urban legend.”
“I’m not trying to drive you apart.”
“Dang it.” I felt the smile. It colored him and everything around us. “And I was hoping to blame it all on you.”
“You could give it a shot.” I stifled a nervous giggle. “But I don’t think they’ll buy it.”
“You’re awfully smart, Cassy Evans.”
“And you’re awfully tempting.”
“Call it a match made in heaven.”
“You think?” I put my palm on his pec and felt the low rumble of his heart, wondering if he remembered what I’d said to him last night.
“I’m positive.” His hand slid to my neck and he tangled his fingers in my hair, tugging and playing with it. Pleasant shivers zipped down my spine. My panties were shamelessly damp against my swollen center.
Famished for his flesh and heat, I pressed a kiss to his neck. My lips slithered across his skin, stroking the ink lightly. I hadn’t considered myself an awfully sexual creature until I met Frank. Everything about him—his height, his scent, his voice, his laugh—made my pulse race.
He pulled at my hair slowly and carefully to bring my face to his. His lips ghosted over mine and my nipples stiffened inside my bra. The torture was deliciously dark, like a box of chocolate truffles. Our chests heaved. Our frayed moans clashed. I was tender and tight between my thighs and I felt a wave of painful need sweeping me under when his skillful tongue probed my lips. He tasted of sweet sensation and I responded with a hungry, wet lick.
“Come here,” Frank rasped into my mouth, resting his left hand on my ass to guide me.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to squash you.” Panic rushed through my stomach, tying it into a throbbing knot.
“As long as you limit yourself by riding my cock and not my broken shoulder, doll, we should be fine.”
Hesitant, I balanced myself on my hip.
“I just want to feel your body,” he whispered in my ear raggedly, pulling me over to his lap. Urgency was in his every movement. “We don’t have to do anything if you’re not comfortable.” His hand roamed and he touched me greedily. His fingertips traced strange shapes over my clothes. I couldn’t tell if he was writing something or simply drawing random pictures that came into his tired mind, but every inch of me was tense with desire. Thirst scratched at my throat. I straddled him, resting both hands on the seat behind his head. The leather upholstery squeaked under the weight of our bodies as we situated ourselves to get comfortable.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I confessed, brushing my lips over the stress line above his nose.
He laughed against my cheek and ran his palm up and down my back, wrinkling the fabric of my top.
Discussing sex safety with my lover was strange. I’d never had to think about where to grab him and how hard to ride him before the accident. But now he was a wall of fractured bones and broken plates wrapped in scars, and I wanted to cuddle him into the softest blanket and lull him to sleep.
“You were so good today, Frank. You really were.” I had to compliment him over and over again.
“Did you like the song?” he asked.
“I did.”
“She wrote it. It’s called ‘Afterburn.’ A beautiful composition.”
“I loved your voices together. You were magnificent. You should record it with her.”
“You didn’t even hear the beginning.”
“Trust me, I don’t need to hear the entire song to tell you whether it’s good or bad. I’ve been doing this way too long.”
“Have you now?” He tossed his head back and eyed me, his gaze rapt.
“Please stop flaunting your life experience in front of me, Mr. Blade.”
“Are you saying I’m old?”
“No, silly. You’re not old. You’re perfect.”
He stared at me with the intensity of a thousand suns. “I hate this.” His left hand slipped under the hem of my top. “I’m rich and hot and I can’t even rage fuck you in my own limo.” A smirk tugged the side of his mouth. Though miserable, he still found time to be cute.