Once Upon a Sure Thing (Heartbreakers #2)(24)
“You want me to pretend I want to get it on with my singing partner?”
She lifts an eyebrow playfully. “Kind of? We had a sort of sexy energy the other day. Let’s try to recreate it.”
She jerks her chin toward the studio door, the twinkle in her blue eyes saying, C’mon, partner.
“Let’s do it,” I say confidently.
She pushes on the door and heads back inside, her tight ass looking edible in those painted-on jeans. And hey, she’s giving me permission to think of her this way. I return to the studio, letting my dirty thoughts come out to play.
*
She’s inches away and her voice is thrumming through me, her energy filling my motherfucking head with thoughts, with wishes. I pour them right back into the lyrics, letting my newfound desire fuel my performance.
“Maybe, if you come back to me . . . Maybe if there was a way,” I sing to her.
“Maybe if there was a way . . . you’d be mine,” she belts out in that throaty, sexy new voice of hers.
“Tell me again,” I croon.
“You’d be mine,” she sings right back to me, flashing the sexiest smile I’ve ever seen. It turns me on wildly.
I let it turn me on.
She gives a little nibble on the corner of her lips, a shake of her hips.
I’m dead.
Just fucking dead with desire for her, and when the next line comes around about how I’d run to her, I go all in. I grab her waist, threading one hand around her hip, and pull her close, singing about looking into her eyes.
In hers, I see the same fire and heat that burns through me.
And just like that, I know we’re in this together. We’re performing. We finish the song, barely any space between us, and it’s hot as hell.
She thrusts her arms into the air. “That was amazing. See? You let go and got into it. That’s how I do my audiobooks. I tell myself I’m Princess Malindia, and I’m vanquishing all my enemies.”
God, I want to vanquish her.
I want to conquer her in my bed, and on my kitchen counter, and in the shower . . .
We rehearse a few more songs, and when afternoon rolls around, Jackson arrives. He shoots some footage of us prepping, then we decide to tackle our original song one more time.
He joins us in the studio, but I pretend he doesn’t exist. I sing to Ally, only she’s not Ally. She’s Honey, this brand-new woman, and I don’t take my eyes off her.
She doesn’t look away either. Those sapphire eyes pin me the whole time, and when we hit the chorus, I’m on fire.
Flames lick my neck, and my blood heats, roaring to temperatures I’ve never experienced before. Call the fire department. When I sing the words about making her mine, I go bigger, yank her close, and I swear no one else is here. When we near the end, I let instinct take over. I thread my hand around her neck, and her breath catches as I sing the last words. I run my hand up into her fake blonde hair. She gasps, and I growl.
Everything goes quiet as the notes fade out.
Jackson clears his throat. “Want me to get a fire extinguisher?”
*
An hour later, Jackson waves like a madman from the booth, calling Ally and me over. He points wildly to his phone. “Dude. You have to see this. This is on fleek.”
“Courtesy to speak English.”
“It means on fire,” Ally says.
Jackson stabs the screen. “I posted it to YouTube. It has sixteen hundred views in thirty minutes. Look at the comments.”
Must leave work now to go jump my BF.
I just combusted.
OVARIES!!!!!!
That song is hot, but the way they look at each other is hotter.
Ally turns to me, wide-eyed. “Virtue Moir,” she whispers, wonder in her voice.
“What’s that?”
She fans her face with her hand then grabs my shoulder. “They think we’re Virtue Moir.”
“Courtesy to speak English.”
Ally’s words tumble out in a rush. “They’re a Canadian ice-dancing couple from the recent Olympics. Audiences obsessed over them. They’re crazy talented, and they’re also beautiful and sexy, and he skated with her like he was in love with her.”
I wrench back when she says those words.
She rolls her eyes and laughs, slugging my arm. “Don’t worry. I know you’re not in love with me. But he skated with her like that. It was gorgeous, and you couldn’t look away.” She raises her hand to her neck and drags her fingers along her skin. “He’d kiss her neck and run his hands down her arms,” she says, and I can’t look away from her hand. I want to travel where those fingers are visiting. I want my lips to map that path. “He’d lift her high above his head, and when he lowered her, he’d stare at her like he wanted to rip her clothes off.”
I understand this man completely.
I want to know what Ally looks like under those jeans. What color panties she’s wearing. If they’re tiny and pink and covered with hearts. If they’re wet. How she looks when I tug them off her.
“And that worked for them?” I rasp.
“Audiences went wild. They were the talk of the games.”
She grabs her phone and does a quick search right here in the booth, showing me video after video, gif after gif of the skating duo. Holy fuck. She’s right. They’re so hot, they’re turning me on, and I’m not into ice dancing.