Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2)(26)

“Come home with me,” he whispers near my ear, one hand above our heads on the ladder, the other wandering beneath my dress to squeeze my butt. Just that gentle squeeze has me clenching again in my panties. With reason my only weapon, I fight my way back through the fog.

“Rhyson, we need to talk about how this will be.”

He drops his lips to mine, feeding the scent of my body to me in light kisses.

“Better than cake,” he whispers against my lips. “You taste better than cake. Come home. I need to be inside you, Pep, so bad.”

I squeeze my thighs together against the pleasure his words dart through me. His words stroke me as surely as his lips and tongue. I tuck my head under his chin and grip his elbows.

“If I go home with you, I’ll end up in your bed.”

Laughter rumbles deep in his chest, and he pulls me so close it reverberates through me. He pulls back just far enough to tip up my chin.

“Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind.” He drops a quick kiss on my lips.

“If we make love . . . have sex . . .” I falter, not sure how to articulate what I’m thinking. “If we sleep together—”

“Is this conversation supposed to be making me less horny? Because that’s not what’s happening.”

“Rhyson.” I laugh up at him, happy to be with him, even with all the complications. Even with the threat of exposure. “I’m just saying we haven’t seen each other in two months. We haven’t resolved anything. Sex is always right between us, and it’ll only give us a false sense that everything is right, when it’s not yet. Let’s just take it slow.”

“Slow.” He pulls a breath in through his nose, expels it in a rush. “We can do slow.”

“And not public.” I glance up at him. “For now it would help me a lot if people don’t know we’re back together.”

He stiffens against me, his arm dropping from overhead, his booted foot leaving the ladder to hit the barn floor.

“Not public?” Irritation clouds his face. “Why?”

“I’m back on tour in just a few days.” I touch the lapel of the jacket he retrieved. “All the crazy viralness is just now dying down from that fight everyone saw. I’m starting to make my mark, and people are paying attention for the right reasons. For my music, my performance on tour. Can I just have the rest of this tour to let it be that without all the speculation about us? To prove myself before it becomes about us again?”

There was a time when everything I just said would be the truth, and to a degree, it is true. Those are all valid reasons, but if it wasn’t for this video, I honestly wouldn’t care if the whole world speculated about Rhyson and me. I’d do my thing on tour and proudly be his girl. But there is the video, and I have to find out who’s behind it.

“So you don’t want to be public?” His eyes fall to the barn floor. “You don’t want people to know we’re back together?”

“Just ‘til I’m done with the tour,” I rush to say, cupping his chin. “Just give me this next month. We won’t be together anyway ‘cause I’ll be on the road.”

He clears his throat and steps away from me, sliding his hands into his pockets.

“I’ve done enough to set you back.” He looks up, wearing his disappointment and his acceptance on his face. “If that’s how you want it for now, then okay.”

“Just until I get off tour. I promise.”

If I haven’t found out who’s blackmailing me by then, I’ll have to confess, but I’ve at least bought myself another month to work on this. I tip up on my toes, one hand gripping the back of his neck and the other wandering into his hair as I open his lips with mine. Our tongues tangle, our bodies swaying into each other while I lose myself for precious seconds in this kiss, as intimate and as binding as a covenant. His hands tighten at my waist, lifting me up higher until my toes barely brush the ground.

“We need to go,” he says against my lips. “We don’t want to miss Grady and Em.”

We walk back to the orchard, our fingers linked until we reach the edge. I know he’ll hate it as much as I do, but I drop his hand before we arrive at the small clearing leading back to the wedding and to the guests and to the speculation and to the camera phones. To exposure. Back to the world we’ve escaped for the last half hour.

“You go first.” I hang back in the shade of an apple tree. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the studio.”

“I hate this,” he says through tight lips. “I don’t care who knows.”

“Just ‘til I come off tour, Rhyson. Please.”

He bites the inside of his jaw for a second before nodding abruptly and turning to leave. He disappears into the thicket, broad shoulders pressing through the foliage. It sounds stupid, but I miss him already. My resolution to find out who’s behind that tape calcifies into absolute necessity.





I CAN’T REMEMBER A TIME WHEN I’ve been nervous in the studio. Producing is something I learned, a skill I’ve honed over years. So much of my talent with the piano was just there, a natural foundation my parents built on. Producing is different. My time at Full Sail, years in the studio producing for other artists when I took a break from performing, even the lessons I learned at The School of the Arts—it’s all converged to make me a sought-after producer. I don’t do it as much as I used to, but for friends like Luke, or for projects that excite me, I will.