Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(10)

There wasn’t a chance—negative chances, in fact—that Sarge could back up the talk with the walk. She’d dated plenty of men who spoke a big game and failed to handle business in downtown Ladyville.

Oh, but he’d been so convincing. So specific. There had been knowledge in those baby blues she didn’t recall from before. Honestly, she didn’t recall that kind of try-me-you’ll-love-me attitude from anyone she’d spent time with. Coupled with that moan? That moan that made her body feel like an object to be lusted after? In the mirror across the room, she could see herself in her white nightshirt, and the image sent a flush climbing her neck. Nipples distended against the cotton material, lips parted as she struggled to regain composure. So very non-Jasmine.

Co?o. Knock it off. It was River’s brother she was thinking about. She’d attended his middle and high school graduations when she was already in her twenties. This little bud of attraction—and it was little…teeny tiny, minuscule, a speck, really—she’d felt between her thighs when the silk of her underwear had slipped down his rigid fly, it had to have been a fluke. An unwelcome one.

Jasmine went on occasional dates, enjoyed male companionship, and afterward, she slept the sleep of angels. No second-guessing her actions or wondering what would happen when the sun came up. No replaying interactions or trying to recapture the feel of a man’s body with a now-scandalized pillow. God, if anyone in Hook knew she was lusting after a man seven years her junior—a famous musician nonetheless—she would never live it down. Everyone in this town had a long memory, and they remembered just-watch-me-blow-this-town-and-your-mind Jasmine. What’s more, they remembered her failure to succeed almost as well as she did. They would view her taking up with Sarge as an attempt to recapture her youth—the future she’d never lived up to—and she wouldn’t be able to stand the sympathy that would garner.

Especially if it turned out they were right. Less than a week until her thirtieth birthday, she could be having a one-third-of-life crisis. There was simply no other way to explain why she felt like she might suffocate if a certain honor-defending, potty-mouthed musician didn’t follow through on his threats.

She sighed. Tomorrow, he would find another place to crash and she could put the embarrassing crisis behind her, never telling another soul as long as she lived. Poof. It would be gone. Never happen—

“You awake in there, too, Jas?”

Jasmine’s back arched on the bed as Sarge’s voice shimmered along her spine, down the small of her back. God, had she been breathing heavily? Had she voiced her inexcusable thoughts out loud?

“I know you are,” he continued, his tone dark and teasing.

“How?” Jasmine answered, before her brain could intercede.

Sarge was silent a moment, but when he spoke, he sounded different. More… aware. Heated. “I can hear your legs moving in the sheets.”

Jasmine turned her face into the pillow to release an unsteady breath. “You shouldn’t be listening that closely.”

Another heavy beat passed. “Who’s to decide what we shouldn’t do?”

Lord save me from this guy. Had this seductively masculine man been hiding under the surface the entire time she’d known him, just waiting for an almighty growth spurt to make the results known? Because goddamn, someone needed to alert Guinness to make Sarge’s changes a matter of public record. Her eighteen-year-old self would have called him “diesel” and sucked her teeth when he walked by. “Do you always have trouble sleeping?” Jasmine asked weakly.

“No,” came his voice. “The trouble usually comes when I’m awake.”

Crazy enough, she knew exactly what he meant. Sleep was the time to block everything out. Forget all the self-doubt and fear of the future and just…drop off for a while. But why would Sarge have a need to block out anything? He was internationally renowned, loved, and emulated for his work. If she’d reached his heights, she would never want to sleep again. “Maybe it’ll help if you play your guitar.” No answer for long minutes. “Sarge?”

“I can play you something, but I can’t sing.”

She arched an eyebrow toward the ceiling. “Why not?”

His laugh sent her right hand fluttering to her belly, where it flattened and rubbed in a needy circle. “You banned me from using my gutter mouth around you.”

Her hand stilled. “All your songs require gutter mouth?”

“All of them,” Sarge said huskily, making the darkness pulse around her.

Before she could stop herself, Jasmine trailed her fingertips up her stomach, to the valley between her breasts. No one could see her. It was fine. The shame was hers alone to bear. “Fine. Just play something slow.”

For the next few minutes, she could hear Sarge getting out of bed and padding over to his luggage before flipping open the locks on his guitar case. The guest bed creaked as he sat back down and plucked a few strings. A trail of cohesive notes danced in the air, accompanied by his steady breathing, the gentle tap of his hand against the wooden instrument, as he kept time. The melody was so bold and full—almost tangible—she could feel every pluck of the strings in her middle, deep, deep, deep down. She tried to keep her legs still in the sheets, but they wouldn’t stop moving with the beats and pauses. Her eyes drifted shut, heightening her sense of hearing…and swore his intakes of air grew shorter as the music swelled.