Page 44 of Not My Little Drummer Boy
“You’re not the extra. You’re the pulse they move to. They need you, Teddy. Maybe no one says it out loud often enough, but I will.”
His mouth twitches, doubtful. I press a kiss to the corner of it, barely there. “When you play, people let go. They don’t even know why—it’s you. I’ve watched the band; I keep finding you.”
I could say the bigger thing—how even without the drums, he rewires a room—but that’s a step too far. I press it down and let the lighter truth through. “You make me forget I’m supposed to be sensible.” A smile slips out. “That’s a trick.”
His doubt flickers, fades. “Write the thing you playin the dark when nobody’s watching. Let me be the first to hear.” I rest my fingertips along his jaw, feeling his breath steady under my hand.
I want Teddy. Badly. Not just for the sense of moving on after my breakup. Not just because he’s a truly beautiful man, with the face of an angel and a strong body I want to possess mine in a hundred different filthy ways.
I want Teddy because with me he’s quiet and honest. He hands me the fragile thing and trusts I won’t drop it. That kind of trust is new. The feeling that I could return it? New, too.
Chapter 14
Rachel’sfingersrestonmy jaw, but she isn’t pulling me closer, simply studying me. She smells of flowers, a sweetness overlaid with smoke, like the fire burning between us has singed the very air.
I’ve spent years treating sex like an encore, a bright, breath-stealing number that told everyone, me included, the show was already ending. I’ve fought that habit for days, determined not to fall back into my old pattern, but Rachel’s chipped away at me until my resolve cracked. So I came up here tonight—her room, her terms—because I crave the possibility of her in my life beyond this week. I know she’d ruled me out for anything like a relationship; her words the other night were clear: short-term fun with the safety of an end-date.
But tonight, her quiet admission that she sees more of me than the ‘don’t care’ playboy I show the world makes me think this might be the opening number. Maybe what I overheard isn’t where she is anymore. It gives me permission to reach for her slowly, gently, like we’ve got all the time in the world, not just a few days.
I skim the pad of my thumb along her lower lip, tracing the shape of the invitation.
Her smile is small, a little unsure. I catch a flicker of hesitation—surprising, but telling. She knows I can read the bruise under the bravado, that what she really hungers for is tenderness, no matter how casually she frames it as just heat. She wants to be seen—properly seen—even as every instinct in her screams to pull the mask back on.
“I wasn’t fishing for praise, you know.” My voice is too low, my words almost lost in the thudding of my heart. “But I’ll take every syllable if it comes from you.”
I lean in, soft, deliberate, and press my mouth to hers.
“Good,” she breathes into the kiss. “…because I’m not finished talking…or anything else.”
She takes my hand, moves it to her waist. The other finds its way to her arse, and I cup it, lowering her onto the bed. Her hands twine around my neck, fingers buried in my hair, insistent for more.
Her sharp gasp as I snake one hand beneath her jumper sends a current skimming through me. There’s nothing underneath, bare heated skin, so smooth across her belly. A mewl as I find a perfectly formed nipple growing erect under the lazy arc of my thumb. She draws back a moment, sits up, eyes determined. With one decisive tug, her jumper’s over her head, and off. She’s half-naked in front of me, the lamplight gilding her skin.
I sit back on my heels, mapping every inch of her. Slight rounded breasts, rosy-tipped. A tiny gem embedded in her bellybutton flashes summer-sky blue, the colour of her eyes. The sweet curve of her stomach begs the shape of my hand.
Rachel’s eyes flick away from my face to the bedside lamp. One arm drifts across her body, sheltering herself from my gaze. The line between her brows creases; her shoulders rise a fraction as though she’s bracing for a verdict.
“Let me look at you, Rachel.” I gently take her hand, move her arm away.
She tips her head back to me, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. It isn’t me; it’s doubt in how she thinks I’ll see her.
I lean in, drop my head to the space just above her jeans, dotting little kisses across the soft expanse of skin. The heady fragrance of flowers fills my nose as I work my way up.
“This—” I press a kiss to the skin below her breast, flicker my tongue across a nipple. “...is perfect.”
“You—” I whisper, pressing kisses along the scattering of sunlit freckles on her neck, tiny timestamps of the summers she’s lived, “...are perfect. All of you. Exactly as you are. Even the parts you think you have to hide.” With each brush of my mouth, I feel the tension in her ribs ease.
Her breath hitches a little again as I move my hands to the button of her jeans.
“Is this okay? Can I see more of you?”
She nods,the small motion carrying a world of trust. I ease the button open, slide the zip down a breath—just enough. My fingers slip beneath the waistband, meeting the faint rasp of lace before finding the silk-soft heat of skin.
One slow stroke west, then south. Her stomach flutters beneath my knuckles like the final shimmer of a cymbal singing in the air. I draw another lazy line, and her ribs expand on a soundless inhale, hips tilting in quiet permission.
I test a quicker pulse—two light passes, then a pause. She follows, breath hitching in the same staccato, nails tightening on my shoulder as though keeping time.
Settling into a languid rhythm, I trace small circles just inside the denim edge. Every circle earns a softer body, a deeper exhale, until her whole frame moves in sync with the pattern I set: touch, breath, lift; touch, breath, lift.
