Consumed(9)

“I want everything from you.”

“You told me that already,” I tease as his hand tangles into the hair at the nape of my neck. Warmth spreads through my body, from my scalp to between my legs, and I move my hips.

He lets out a low growl and sits up a little so that his mouth touches the delicate bones of my throat. “No, I mean, I want you to work for me.”

When I realize he’s said these exact words to me before, the day he offered me the opportunity to save my grandmother’s house by working as his personal assistant for ten days, I frown and push him away from me, leaving us eye-to-eye. “We’re not role playing, are we?”

The fact that I’m pushing him away doesn’t deter him from touching me—his fingers are still in my hair, and he drops his other hand to the curve of my hip. “As hot as that would be, no, we’re not. YTS is going on tour in a week and a half.”

YTS, Your Toxic Sequel, is the band Lucas fronts. They’re best known for their raunchy lyrics, kickass live performances, and well . . . Lucas-Fucking-Wolfe himself. I’d forgotten that they were going on tour this summer, even though I frequently talk to Lucas’s sister, Kylie. Aside from last night when she told me to watch the music video that he had dedicated to me as an apology, she hasn’t exactly mentioned her brother, his music, or the band.

“On tour?” I repeat, and he nods.

“Different city every couple nights, big-ass bus fill of shitheads with too many vices.” He lifts his broad shoulders. “You’d like it.”

I’m certain I know where this conversation is going, and suddenly I’m nervous. I manage a shaky laugh. “You’re not asking me to be a back up singer, are you? Because I seriously blow at music.”

Releasing my hair and my hip, he moves both his hands down so that he can grip my ass. “I don’t know about all that. Never met anyone who plays piano like you.” He looks so ridiculously sexy right now that I can’t resist moving my face closer to his until our lips touch. “Besides, if I wanted you to sing, you’d do it,” he says in a low voice between kisses.

“Abso-f*cking-lutely not,” I murmur as he moves his erection up against me.

He shifts his hips, rolling me onto my stomach in a couple of well-executed motions. “Put your hands against the headboard.” I am utterly vulnerable to him—completely his—and I feel the wood against my fingertips just as he nudges one finger inside of me. I cry out.

“Come on tour with me, Sienna.”

And there it is. Five words not spoken in a question, but a statement, and each word scares the hell out of me. Not even 24 hours have passed since Lucas literally forced his way back into my life. Since he ran out on me earlier this year, I have an entire new list of commitments.

I still haven’t talked to Gram to let her know I’m okay—I had simply left a note and a voicemail when I picked up and left last night.

“I need you with me.”

I peek back over my shoulder at him. “What about—” I start to mention my job, but he glides another finger into me, and I splay my hands out on the headboard and squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck,” I groan, burying my face into pillows.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m getting there, Sienna. After you say yes. And before you ask, you’ll have a job,” he says, and I open my eyes to look at him. The grin he’s wearing widens. “I need your wardrobe expertise, but I’m not going to lie and tell you my reasons for wanting you with me aren’t mostly fueled by greed.”

The part of my brain that’s not a blurry hot mess from what he’s doing to my body realizes just how much sense this proposal makes. I’ve been working as a personal wardrobe consultant ever since I moved back to Nashville—and I’ve worked freelance for a few musicians. Plus, Lucas’s music and my job are the reason why we initially met two and a half years ago in the first place. I’d worked wardrobe on the set of the “All Over You” music video, and Lucas and I had hit it off. Clearly, it hadn’t worked out, but my time on set with his band had a lasting impression on me.

“I’m not much for cramped spaces,” I blurt out.

“I am.” He gives me a wicked smile as his fingers pick up speed inside me. I dig my fingernails into the pillows, the headboard—whatever my hands come in contact with— and he rubs the pad of his thumb around my clit. “And don’t worry, we’ll be in a hotel more than on a tour bus.”