Page 67 of Not Another Love Song

Her hands were on his shoulders, just gripping him as his mouth turned her incoherent.

His teeth nipped her, running down her jaw, and sucking at the places on her neck he’d already become acquainted with. His breath was hot on her skin, heaving air before diving back to her throat.

She ran her hands up to his neck, sliding into his hair, holding his head to her. His teeth grazed her neck, and when she moaned and tugged at his hair, his hips snapped forward, slamming against her and pressing her into the door. He was hard in his tuxedo pants.

“Sorry,” he gasped.

His hands slid down, gently, slowly, cupping her backside as his tongue laved her neck. She groaned. Dragging his face back to hers, she barely registered his red lips before he dove into her mouth again, his fingers starting to knead into her backside, squeezing and pulling her close.

His tongue spun delicious melodies into her, sucking the breath from her lungs until her head floated away from her body. A slow rolling pressure surged through her veins, blossoming from where he connected them.

There was a sudden sharp knock behind her head. “Five minutes until top of act two!”

His lips paused on hers. Her heart drummed. She listened to the footsteps trot down the hall. And the room spun back toward her. They were in the middle of a concert. At Carnegie Hall. And Xander Thorne’s hands were on her ass.

“Oh my god,” she whispered.

He jumped, moving his hands to her face, holding her jaw. “Don’t run—”

“Oh my god—”

“Just talk to me about this—”

“Oh my—”

“Gwen—”

“You have my lipstick on your face,” she said, staring in horror at the red smudges on his lips. “Oh my god.”

She batted his hands away and ran for the sink, gasping when she saw the state of herself. Her hair was falling out of its pins even though she didn’t remember his hands there. Her dress was mussed and her face flushed.

“Oh my god.”

“What does this mean, Gwen?” she heard from the door. “What does this—what do you want this to mean?”

She looked at him in the mirror. He leaned one hand on the door, bracing himself, but maybe also keeping her here.

“I can’t think. I need to focus—”

“We have five minutes. We’ll be fine—”

“Fix your face!” she hissed at him, pushing pins back into her hair.

He moved to the sink, cautious and slow, but didn’t turn to the mirror. He stood watching her. She huffed and grabbed a few paper towels, wetting them and turning to rub his face with them. He frowned and took them from her. She grabbed more for herself.

“I want to be clear,” he whispered, as she focused on the rose-colored smudges around her lips. “I want you. In every way.” She swallowed, and he watched her throat move. “I want to see you. And fuck you. And play music with you.”

She dabbed her lips manically, the color already removed. She could feel her pulse in her face. His fingers touched lightly on her waist and turned her away from the mirror, her back to the sink and her face to his.

“Tell me you want even one of those things.” His lips twitched, and she stared up at him.

His brown eyes flickered between hers, a deep color. And really, what was the point of lying to him now. After she’d thrown herself at him.

“A few of them, yeah.”

His eyes drank her in, fluttering over her face and drawing a smile from her mouth. She held her breath as he dropped his lips to hers again.

“No, don’t.” She stopped him just an inch from her mouth. “The lipstick.”

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