Page 91 of Not Another Love Song

“I don’t really compose,” she said, brushing sleep out of her eye. “If I hear a melody in my head, I don’t have a need to get it outside of me. And I wouldn’t even know what to do with it once I’d gotten it out.” She laughed lightly and stretched.

“Is there anything you’ve had in your head recently that maybe I could hear?”

She glanced at him. His eyes were bright and eager. Like there was nothing he wanted more in the world than for her to say yes. He sat in his boxers and undershirt, staring at her and waiting.

“I…There’s something I was thinking…” He seemed to lean forward into her hesitance. “Well, the song you were playing yesterday. I had an idea for a violin part.”

He was up and out of his chair, grabbing his Stradivarius before she could talk herself out of it. Grabbing Squeaky’s case, he pulled his chair right in front of her, set up his cello, and offered her the violin.

She took a steadying breath. “It’s not…I mean it’s not as good as what you do—”

“Gwen,” he whispered, “please don’t try to convince me that you’re not talented.”

She rolled her eyes and took the neck of her violin from him. He brought his bow to his strings, and when she nodded at him, he began the love song he’d been writing. Of course, she couldn’t be sure it was a love song. But the way it made her feel…the care he took with it…

He was only a few measures in, but she brought her instrument to her chin to prepare. There was a swell in his phrase, something rich and yearning with held notes and climbing tones. She entered over the top, singing back to him. It wasn’t like with Fugue No. 1 where they took turns. It was a rhythmic dance—swooping low to catch each other, breathing through the rests, and twirling around each other’s melodies.

It only took him a few phrases to figure out her patterns and her composition. He supported the movements she made with a flourish, holding down a rhythmic pattern while she sang. It was different from how he usually played. Usually he showed off. Usually when Xander Thorne played his cello, the song was for him— he was the feature. But it was fascinating to watch him support a different instrument and complement a different melodic line.

She was becoming predictable, she knew. He was anticipating her movements to create a beautiful latticework of melodies. So she brought in an accidental in the next phrase, completely ruining the melody he was working on. He pulled a face, and she laughed, her bow bouncing off her strings.

She was smiling, just about to finish the phrase, when he pulled his bow up and said, “I love you.”

Blinking, gasping silently, Gwen stopped playing. It felt like the sound had been sucked from the room while she stared at him, begging for him to say it again in the silence.

His lips were moving with unspoken words, like he couldn’t form the sentence. “I’m sorry,” he said, standing quickly and moving to place the cello back on the stand. Her throat closed tight with the words to say. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Alex. I love you too.”

With his back turned to her, he whispered, “Don’t. You don’t have to say it—”

“I do. Alex.” She jumped to her feet and placed the violin down safely. “I love you.”

His eyes were glassy when he turned around to look at her. He bent swiftly, placing the cello on the wood floor, and took three large steps to her before wrapping her in his arms. Gwen’s feet lifted off the ground as he kissed her, holding her body close to him.

She smiled against his lips and pulled back to say, “Go put your cello away properly, Mr. Thorne. That thing is worth almost a million dollars.”

He curved his hands under her thighs and encouraged her legs to wrap around his waist. “I’m taking care of something much more valuable,” he murmured into her ear, walking them out of the studio and into the bedroom.

She tried to protest again, but he kissed her and set her down on his bed. His shirt was up and over his head, then his boxers pulled off. He ripped her underwear down her thighs as she rucked up her T-shirt. Her body was humming with the way he was looking at her, like she was the answer to everything.

“I love you,” he whispered again and cupped her face as he pressed her to lie back. He worked quickly with a condom, and then his lips were on her neck, kissing and sucking over her collarbone, siding down to her chest.

“I love you,” she echoed. His fingers glided down her stomach to her core. “Alex. I do.”

He looked into her eyes, his fingers teasing her, as he said softly, “I love when you call me Alex.”

She smiled up at him. “I love calling you Alex. I wish I’d met you before ‘Xander.’”

He pressed a kiss to her lips. “No, you don’t. Alex cared too much about what everyone else wanted.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as he pushed a finger inside of her, thrumming her clit with his thumb. “I love Alex,” she said. “Those are the parts of you I fell for.”

He watched her face as she started to come apart, his brows pulled together. “You think so?”

She rocked against his hand, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him close. She could feel him heavy against her thigh, and she reached down to wrap her fist over him. He groaned, and she felt his teeth graze her skin.

“Alex, please—”

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