Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) (16 page)

God, I'm being carried out of a room like a damsel in distress in a cheesy B-movie. I can't bring myself to feel embarrassed. I slide my arms around Tom's neck, clinging to him, pressing my eyelids together.

His heartbeat is steady. His muscles flex against my back, cradling me. He's strong. I'm going to be okay. As long as Tom is here, I'm going to be okay.

A door opens, and cool air rushes around us. The pitter-patter of the rain fills my ears. Something goes around my shoulders. My hoodie. My feet make contact with the ground as Tom sets me down. He leans me against the wall and presses his body into mine, holding me in place. There's something comforting about the weight of his body, like a heavy blanket warming me on a cold night.

He runs his fingers through my hair. Over my cheek. My guard is down. I'm defenseless.

He stares into my eyes with an intense expression. "Are you okay?"

I can't pretend I'm okay. That this is even close to okay. I shake my head.

"You want to go home or you want me to beat that guy bloody?"

"Home. Please don't hit anyone."

Surprise spreads over his face. "You sure? Guy needs to learn his fucking lesson, or he'll do it again."

I shake my head. "I don't want something to happen to you."

"I can knock that guy unconscious before he gets one punch in."

"But if someone calls the police..." I stare back into his eyes. "You could get arrested. Convicted. That will fuck up your life. Your tour. Your reputation."

"I don't care about that."

His voice is earnest. He really wants to kick the guy's ass. But for me or for some macho need to prove himself?

His breath is warm against my neck. His fingertips are soft against my chin.

My legs shake. I wrap my arms around him for balance but it isn't necessary. He keeps me pinned to the wall.

Anyone else, I'd be terrified. But with Tom, I know he'll take care of me. I know he'll protect me.

Tom's expression softens. He slides his hand to my waist. "Come on, kid. I'm a lot more concerned with getting you home than with teaching that little asshole a lesson."

"Matthew can do it for you," I offer.

"Yeah." He holds my body against his. "But only if you want him to."

"No violence on my account."

He nods. "You okay to walk?"

"Yeah." Still shaking but my legs are finally ready to cooperate.

Tom leads me to the street. He hails a cab, helps me into the backseat, and gives our address to the driver.

He pulls the safety belt over my waist. "You're doing a bang up job helping with my bad boy rep."

"Thank goodness."

"You really commit to your work."

"I try."

"Anyone can try. You accomplish shit."

My laugh eases some of the tension in my back.

Tom slides his hand under my chin. He nudges me gently.

I look up at him. His green eyes are filled with concern. The intensity of it takes my breath away.

Inhale. Exhale. There. I've got it, more or less.

Tom leans closer. "Your ex, he hit you?"

I don't have it in me to deny it. No. That's not it. I want to share this part of myself with Tom. "Not at first. At first, he was sweet with a bad temper. He'd blow up over the littlest things, but he wasn't violent." I swallow hard. "Then one day... he was. We'd been together about six months when he slapped me. We had been fighting. I'd said awful things. I thought it was my fault."

Tom wraps his arm around me.

"He apologized. I told myself he meant it. The next time it was worse. But his apology was sweeter. Flowers, chocolates, crying until I told him I forgave him. I really thought that he loved me, that he just got a little carried away sometimes. Even when it was so bad I was showing up to swim practice bruised enough the coach called my parents."

"What did they do?"

"Nothing. At first. Eventually they decided to let someone else deal with it, and they sent me to boarding school."

"Willow..." Tom's expression darkens. "Did he rape you?"

My heart thuds against my chest. "Only once. In the beginning, first eight or nine months, I said yes. I wasn't quite ready, but I wanted to make him happy. After a while, I couldn't take how empty it made me feel, and I told him I didn't want to have sex anymore."

"And after that?"

I take a deep breath. I've told people what happened but only in vague terms. Never in this much detail. Never the ugly parts that show off how weak I was to take him back again and again.

"I guess... back then I still thought that love could be that ugly. That it could include calling someone a cunt or a bastard until they were crying. My parents were vicious with each other. Our place was nice by San Francisco standards, but it was small enough that I could hear every insult, every sob. Bradley, my ex... at first he seemed safe. He was older, a college football player. Even after he started to lose his temper... he always tried so hard to apologize, to prove he loved me. I guess I wanted to believe in love. That someone loved me."

I lean into Tom. He still feels good, safe. There's no way I can be just friends with him. There's no way I can do anything but fall in love with him.

"We were together for such a long time. It got all mixed up. I really believed that he loved me, that he only hurt me because he lost control. Things were bad with my parents. I didn't have anyone to talk to. Drew thought they couldn't get divorced fast enough. But I couldn't stand the idea of our family being torn apart. It feels stupid now—"

Tom presses his cheek against my neck. "Everybody wants their family together."

"I'm sure you went through worse than I did."

"It's not a competition."

"You can talk about it if you want." I play with my skirt. "I'm a pretty good listener."

"Another time."

"I want to know you, Tom. All that pain that you pretend you don't feel."

"Not right now, kid. I want to hear this."

I nod. "The night that it happened... That he raped me... It was right after my parents announced the divorce. They got into this horrible fight and they kept going at it. I snuck out sometime after midnight. I had to be somewhere else."

"How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

"Jesus." His expression darkens but he says nothing.

"Bradley was in a bad mood. Drunk. Like normal, but he didn't stop at normal. He didn't stop when I said no." My fingers brush his palm. "I didn't fight back. He was bigger than I was. There was no point in struggling. In trying to leave before he was asleep or passed out."

Tom squeezes my hand.

"Drew showed up sometime that night. I don't remember exactly how it went, just that he took me home, made sure I was safe, and left to settle the score. I was sure Bradley was going to kill him. Or that he'd end up in jail. I cried so hard my throat closed." I take a deep breath. "He came home bruised and bloody. His hand was broken. The doctor told him he might never be able to play guitar the same way. If he lost that... I would never have forgiven myself."

"Do you parents know what happened?"

"Bits and pieces. I filed for a restraining order. A few months later, mom sent me to boarding school. I'm not sure if it was because she was sick of me lying or because she was worried about my safety. It didn't matter. It was better than seeing them fight all the time."

"That must have broke your heart."

I nod.

Tom runs his hand through my hair. "I'm sorry you went through that."

"Thanks."

He looks out the window. His expression hardens. "I doubt it's what you want to hear at the moment, but if anyone ever hurts you like that again, I'll kill him."

I shouldn't want to hear it. But I do. I want Tom protecting me. I want Tom in every way it's possible to want a person.

The ride passes in silence. Just our breath and the quiet hum of the car's hybrid motor. When we get to the hotel, Tom pays the driver and helps me out of the cab. He slides his arm under my shoulders, holding me upright.

Tom takes over, leading me to the elevator, punching the button for the proper floor, fishing my key out of my purse and opening the door.

It's hard to navigate the room in the dark. It's already a mess—clothes and suitcases spread out over the floor, photo equipment all over the table.

Tom helps me to the bathroom then steps back. He stares at me, his expression filled with uncertainty.

I grab my toothbrush and squeeze a little paste on it. It's late. I'm ready to collapse in bed but not alone.

I turn back to him. "Will you stay with me tonight?"

He thinks it over for a minute. "You've got two queens. I can stay in the other."

"No." I bite my lip. "Will you sleep with me? Not sex. But in my bed. Holding me. I get nightmares sometimes. After tonight... I don't want to wake up alone."

He runs a hand through his hair. His eyes go to the ground. "I don't know if that's a good idea. I don't really do that."

"You don't hold people?"

He shakes his head.

"You never want that kind of comfort?"

"An orgasm is more than enough." His expression is confused.

Does he really mean that?

I can't tell. I want that comfort, but not if it's going to make him feel as shitty as I do. "It's okay if you don't want to hold me. I understand that it's not a normal request." I turn back to the mirror and get to brushing my teeth. It's strange, him standing behind me as I get ready for bed. Intimate.

Tom goes to the door. The deadbolt clicks. Locked. Then he's back, behind me.

"I want to," he says. "You have an extra toothbrush?"

I shake my head, spit, and offer him my toothbrush. "You can use mine."

"I usually sleep naked."

So my body can still feel desire. A hell of a lot of desire. Enough to push away everything else.

"Boxers okay with you?" he asks.

"Naked is okay with me."

"Nice try."

There's a heaviness to Tom's smile. This whole night is heavy. I miss our easy conversation, the way he makes me feel light and free. No one else has ever made me feel like that, like I could float.

I wash my face, change into my pajamas, and wait on the bed.

Tom takes his turn in the bathroom. He steps into the main room and strips. Once he's down to his boxers, he slides into bed and lays his body behind mine.

He's awkward, stiff. He really doesn't do this.

I press my back against his chest, my ass against his crotch. His cock stirs but I know better than to read into that.

He feels good. Hard. Safe. Strong.

After a few minutes, Tom relaxes enough to pull me closer.

"I shouldn't have pushed you that hard," he whispers. "This wouldn't have happened—"

"You want to know the truth?"

"Yeah."

"I only let him kiss me because I wanted to make you jealous." I press my eyelids together. "I really like you, Tom. But if you only want to be friends, I understand. I'd rather be your friend than nothing at all."

"You're a sweet kid."

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. If our roles were reversed, I would have asked you to kill that guy."

"Would you really kill him if I asked?"

"Maybe not kill, but I'd get pretty close." He exhales slowly. "Why? You want me to?"

"No. Violence only begets violence."

"See what I mean?"

"You're a good guy, Tom."

"We'll have to agree to disagree on that point."

I shake my head.

He runs his hand through my hair. "Try to sleep. We can talk in the morning."

I still can't relax. My thoughts are racing. My shoulders and neck are tense. Hell, I'm tense everywhere.

Keeping this up is impossible. Giving him up is worse.

What the hell am I going to do?

I take deep breaths, willing the answer to float into my brain.

It doesn't.

I shift closer to him. "Are you up?"

He runs his fingertips over my shoulders. "Yeah."

I turn around, bringing us face to face. Even though it's dark, I can see all this affection in his eyes. How deep does it go?

Friends?

Or more than that?

Tom rubs my shoulder. "You're tense."

I nod.

He looks me in the eyes, studying me.

I reach for him, run my fingers over his cheek. Words form and dissolve on my tongue. There's no easy way to explain my feelings, so I say nothing.

"Close your eyes," he whispers.

I do.

He drags his hand down my neck and shoulders. I gasp. A groan of pleasure escapes my lips. I need Tom's fingers on my skin, erasing the memories of anyone else touching me.

He lets out a deep sigh. The good kind of sigh. He wants to do this. Needs to do it.

He drags his fingers over my chest, over the neckline of my tank top. Then under it. Just barely. The lightness of his touch sends shockwaves to my core.

All the ugly parts of the day fade. My body takes over. It doesn't care about tomorrow. It doesn't care about defining our relationship. It only cares about one thing: Tom's hands on my skin.

I dig my fingers into his bare torso, soaking in the feeling of his hard muscles. "Please."

He presses his forehead against mine as if to say yes.

His fingers brush against my nipple. I gasp, arching my back and squeezing my toes to contain the desire that spreads through me.

Yes.

He moves slowly. Peeling my tank top off one shoulder then the other. Teasing one nipple then the other. His touch is soft, precise. He brushes his thumb over me. Again and again. My breath hitches. My heartbeat picks up.

He stays slow, patient. The tension in my neck and shoulders melts. Everything else melts until I'm pure need. By the time his hand slides down my stomach and into my pajama bottoms, I'm too desperate to think anything but
now
.

His forehead is warm against mine. He's looking at me with hunger and need, yes, but there's much more to it. He's giving something of himself to me.

He brings his other hand to my shoulder, cupping my chin, my cheek, my neck. The intimacy of it leaves me breathless. I have no choice but to close my eyes.