“I’ll tell him tomorrow that you called him sweet. He was worried you’d be angry at him.” There was a time before she left when she walked up behind him just as he told me I should f**k her and get it over with. And now this mistake.

I take off my jeans, lie down on the bed on my side facing her, and prop my head on my upturned hand, my elbow pointed toward the wall. “What were you playing?” I ask.

“Nothing yet,” she says with a smile. “I can take requests.”

I shake my head. This is one area where I can’t bond with her. “I don’t know anything at all about music,” I say. “Sorry.” I know it’s important to her. Kind of like a mainstay in her life.

“You can’t hear this at all?” she asks. Her fingers strum across the strings again. “That?”

I shake my head. I wish I could hear it, but I can’t.

“Can you hear any music?” She’s curious. I like that.

I nod. “I can hear the rock bands at the club. Or rather, I can feel the beat and the rhythm of the song when rock and roll is playing.”

“Can you dance?”

I roll my eyes. “Can I dance? You have to be kidding me.” I motion to my body. “I have rhythm.”

Her face colors. That’s not quite the rhythm I meant, but I’ll take it. “Someone is thinking naughty thoughts,” I tease.

I reach for her toe, but she jerks it back before I can tug on it. “I’m sorry I can’t enjoy your music,” I confess. “There’s nothing I would like more than to hear you play. I want to experience everything that makes you happy.” I shake my head. I don’t usually feel left out of anything, but I do now.

She sets her guitar on the floor. “Thanks for hanging onto my guitar for me,” she says, leaning toward me. She gets up on her hands and knees and crawls over.

“Why did you leave it?” I ask as she rolls herself into my arms.

“I knew I’d be back. I just didn’t know when,” she says. “I wanted to be sure you knew, too.”

“I knew. The minute you made your big announcement on TV, I knew.” When she went back home, there was a press conference and everything. She announced that she would be coming back to New York. Back to me.

I slide my hand under her shirt to rest on her waist, and I draw little circles above her panties. I lift her arm and kiss my way up her tattoo that has my name in it. “The tattoo helped.”

“You can thank Paul for that,” she says, giggling as I tickle her lightly across her stomach. I slide my hand into the edge of her panties, and she stills in my arms. “This okay?” I ask.

She nods, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. “You want to try out one of those cherry-flavored condoms?” she asks.

“I don’t particularly care if my junk smells like pie,” I say. She laughs.

I hook my fingers in the sides of her panties and pull them down her legs slowly. Her exhale brushes against my forehead as she lets out a deep breath. She kicks her feet when I get to her ankles, and her panties go flying.

I inch her shirt up her belly, placing quick kisses to all the skin I uncover. Her belly quivers when I lick the underside of her breast. With a quick jerk, she reaches down and pulls the shirt over her head. She’s naked. Completely, delightfully, wonderfully naked.

“Damn, that’s pretty,” I say. She giggles, and her stomach ripples.

Her ni**les are rosy and tight and reaching for my mouth, so I don’t hesitate to lick across one of the turgid peaks. I spread her legs and settle between her thighs. She taps me on the shoulder, and I look up at her, not breaking the seal my mouth has on her nipple. Her lips fall open, and I imagine a sound comes out but I have no idea what it is. I raise my brows in silent question, wondering why she tapped me.

Emily grabs my shirt at the back and pulls it over my head. I lift my face from her breast long enough to help her. She likes my body art, and her hands tickle across my shoulders as she explores my tattoos with her fingertips.

Her hands trail down my chest, and she rolls the bars that pierce through my ni**les. I bury my head in her shoulder and breathe against her skin. I just had her last night, but I need her again. And again and again. I suspect that I will never tire of her.

Her hands slide down my sides, and she shoves my boxers down over my hips. Her greedy little palm wraps around my dick, and I’m immediately fighting the urge to come. I pull my hips back in warning. She lets me go but not without a pout. I pull that lower lips of hers into my mouth and slide my tongue across it, nipping her gently. Her breaths are broken, and her legs open even wider so I can press my dick against her wetness. She rocks her hips.

“Not yet,” I chide.

She groans, the rumble of it moving from her chest and into mine. I slide my fingers into her wetness, parting her lower lips so that I can pull forward some of the slickness that is her desire for me. I circle her clit, and she arches against my hand. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and she pulls it until I look at her. “Now,” she pleads.

I’ve been with a lot of women, but I’ve never been with one who works so hard to communicate with me. She knows I can’t hear her cries or moans or even startled gasps, but I never feel disconnected from her.

“Do you want me to use a condom?” I ask, lifting my lips from hers long enough to watch her face.

She shakes her head.

“You sure?”

Her eyes meet mine. “If you need one, I’m fine with that. But don’t do it for me.”