Rock Addiction (Rock Kiss #1)(18)

Leaning down over the side of the bed to snag a Swiss Army knife from his jeans, Fox used the corkscrew to pop the cork, then drank straight from the bottle. She must’ve made a sound, because bringing down the bottle, he winked. “I’ll replace it with something better.” Holding out the wine, he said, “Bet you’ve never done that before.”

Molly shook her head. “I don’t drink.”

“So this is all mine?” Fox grinned. “Excellent.”

Having braced herself for questions, she blurted out, “Most people ask about the not-drinking,” then wanted to slap herself for making it an issue. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut around Fox?

“It’s bad musician manners to bring it up,” he answered, “’cause you never know who might be in AA or detox.” Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he hugged her close. “But since you already did, and also since you don’t show any signs of an alcoholic jonesing for a drink, I’m guessing you’ve been around someone who drank?”

“Yes.” With that, she took a cracker, loaded it with a big hunk of cheese, and bit down. She might’ve made a mistake in her surprise, but the idea of discussing her mother with Fox had her chest going tight, her lungs strained—it was one thing to let go, another to trust him with the vicious pain that had shaped her. “Why didn’t you bring the grapes?”

Fox set aside the wine. “So you’d have to walk nude to the kitchen and get them.”

Relieved he’d taken the hint and dropped the subject of her aversion to alcohol, she shook her head. “Not happening.”

“Why not? You have an amazing body.” A bite on her shoulder, his hand sliding along the inside of her thigh. “Like that old painting of the redhead rising from the clamshell.”

The Birth of Venus.

Utterly undone at being compared to the sensually beautiful artwork, she thrust a cracker between his lips. “Shh.” His body might be so hot it should be illegal, but she was beginning to learn it was Fox’s mind that was his most dangerous weapon. Add that to his voice and it was no surprise women fell into his lap at the crook of a finger.

He ran his thumb along the inner seam of her thigh. “Want me to behave?”

Sensation curling through her body, Molly paused, not sure she did want him to behave—and he threw back his head. His laughter pleased every one of her senses, made delight bubble through her veins.

“I like the way you think, Molly,” he said, but stopped tormenting her, settling for claiming a kiss anytime he felt like it.

Fox, as she’d learned tonight, was a man who enjoyed kissing. It was an unexpected and wonderful discovery, and it made Molly realize she liked kissing, too. Especially the way Fox did it, with an exquisite patience that made her feel terrifyingly cherished.

It was only later, the bottle of wine still almost full—Fox had decided it was too sweet for him—and her lips wet and tingling, that he dragged on his jeans, held out a hand, and said, “Come on. I’m starving. Let’s go finish the takeout.”

Not hungry, but willing to keep him company, Molly said, “Pass me the robe on the back of the door.”

He picked up and threw her his T-shirt instead. Molly tugged it on, the scent of him a glove around her body. A deep warmth inside her, she got out of bed and took his hand, conscious all at once of exactly how tall he was.

“Did I tell you how hot you look when you’re dressed up all professional with your hair prim and proper?”

Molly certainly didn’t feel prim and proper now. “You just did.”

A slow smile that caught at her heart in a way that set off those warning bells again, but she didn’t want to listen. Not tonight, not when everything had been so wonderful.

“You ever wear those skinny skirts that go past the knee?” Fox ran his hands up and down her hips, the T-shirt moving softly against her skin. “The ones that look strict and professional and sexy at the same time?”

“Those”—she swallowed to wet her throat—“are called pencil skirts.”

A rumbling sound of pleasure when she shuddered at the kiss he laved on the curve of her jaw. “Yeah, you ever wear one?”

“No.” The shape hugged her body too closely.

Dropping kisses along the line of her neck, Fox shifted his hands to her backside. “I get hard just thinking about your ass in one of those skirts.” He nipped at her sensitive flesh. “Wear one for me?”

Molly thought she should probably refuse but couldn’t figure out a reason why when he was so close, the masculine scent of him short-circuiting her brain. “Okay.”

“Hot damn.” A groan, hands squeezing her lower curves. “I can’t wait to see your body in the skirt I’m buying for you.”

“Wait.” Molly pushed at his chest. “You didn’t say anything about buying it.”

“Semantics.” A hard kiss, one hand rising to grip her nape. “Be kind, Molly. Let me enjoy my fantasy.”

Her knees went weak at the rough appeal.

Molly had never been anyone’s fantasy, couldn’t find the willpower to stand strong against a rock god who saw something in her that she didn’t see in herself. For this one month, she’d be that woman, be that other Molly, the one who’d accept a rock star’s gift and who’d rise on tiptoe to tug on his lip ring. Yet even as she thought that, even as she fought the clawing echoes of memory, the panicked voice of the woman she’d spent years becoming yelled at her to stop, to think.