Page 74 of Never Been Worse

I give him a small shake of my head. “I tried three different instruments in middle school and sucked at all of them. In eighth grade, my music teacher, Mr. Fieldman, very kindly and very gently told me maybe I should try something else. Anything else, I think.”

“Maybe you’ve just never had the right teacher.”

“No, I unfortunately have absolutely no rhythm.”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe it, then tips his head toward the giant drum set. “Everyone has rhythm. Come here. I’ll give you a quick lesson. Drums are a good one to start with.”

I step back with a laugh. “Oh, god, no. No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” I pause unsure of how to answer. “That must be worth a billion dollars,” I whisper, indicating his drum set.

“It’s replaceable.” And then he stands, grabbing my wrist in his calloused fingers and moving me until I’m standing before the massive set. He fiddles with the stool, lowering it so my feet can touch the ground, then pulls me down to sit. Next he messes with the heights of some kind of cymbal.

“Wes, you don’t have to mess with your whole setup,” I say.

“Every time Reed is down here, he fucks everything up. I’d much rather have my pretty wife doing it than his ugly mug.” I try to protest again, but he ignores me again before grabbing a fresh pair of drumsticks from a container. He then pulls up another stool to sit behind me so my back is to his warm front. The heat of him sears through my shirt.

“We’re going to do the first song I ever learned on drums.” I look over my shoulder and smile.

“So, the musical memory associated with it is learning how to play drums for you?” I ask, referencing the game we played on our honeymoon.

He stares at me, long and hard, before smiling.

“Not for long.” A chill runs through me before he moves, his hand covering mine to show me how to hold the drumstick. “Like this. Hold them steady, but not too tight. You want some looseness. Same with your wrists—you want control, but you also want to be able to easily move them.”

“That kind of sounds dirty,” I say with a laugh, and Wes is quiet before he clears his throat. “I’m sorry that was?—”

“Nope, nope, just trying to distract myself. Would be weird to get a boner right now.”

I snort out a laugh and shake my head. I follow his instructions, then hit the drum in front of me a few times.

“Good, you’re doing great. Now you can add in the kick,” he says, praising me before moving his hand down the outside of my leg and to my knee, rough fingers wrapping it and moving my leg in toward the larger drum on the floor until my foot is resting on the pedal. He shows me how to hit the kick drum, snare, and hi-hat cymbals together, and after a few minutes, the familiar sounds of “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire can be heard.

“I think I’ve got this. I could put Beck out of a job,” I joke. He laughs, and the rumble of it along my back is distracting, making my hand lose the beat.

“Hardest thing to do as a drummer is keep time,” Wes says, and I let out a small laugh.

“You don’t say,” I say, going back to the moves he taught me, but then he presses his lips to the spot beneath my ear. A shiver rolls through me, my hands hesitating and losing that beat again.

“Not so easy, is it?” he asks, his hand on my knee moving up just an inch, and, despite myself and all common sense, I shift ever so slightly, my legs sliding open a bit further. The skirt of my shirt dress I threw on this morning slides up my thighs, leaving little to the imagination. The groan he lets out reverberates through his chest and into my back, forcing a soft gasp from my lips.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks, his breath ghosting along my neck.

“Not sure, but I think you’re doing it right back,” I whisper like I’m worried that if I speak out loud enough, I’ll break this moment, and Ivery muchdo not want to break it—not when his fingers are slowly grazing along the inside of my thigh, teasing and taunting. Until his hand is under the fabric of my shirt dress, meeting the delicate lace of the thong I’m wearing.

“You know, I saw these in the laundry and wondered just how flimsy they’d be.” A finger slides under the lace as his lips leave wet kisses along my neck, sucking and nipping, my body reacting with heat and need, and again, I spread my legs just a bit, letting him have more room if he so desires.

God, Ihopehe desires.

Thankfully, he uses the invitation, sliding along the band of my underwear to my hip then down toward my aching core, then back up. He continues the circuit until I’m about to go crazy. My body melts into his, the drumstick falling to the ground with a clatter just as his fingers move further under the fabric at my hip, twisting, then tugging until a tearing sound fills the room.

“Wes!” I yelp, turning to look at him, a small smile on his lips.

“Just as I thought.”

“Those were expensive,” I say remembering the trip to the lingerie store with Ava before the wedding even though I told her Wes Holden wasnever going to see them.

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