Page 33 of Dissonance

“Lachlan—”

“Not a negotiation, Thea.”

She starts to protest, then stops, letting me guide her across. I slide in behind her, pulling her back against my chest until she fits there the way she always has. Her hand rests on my forearm, her breathing starting to even out beneath my palm. There’s a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with what we just did. Something older and considerably more dangerous.

Dangerous fucking territory, Lockie.

I’ve always known that with her. The difference is that lying here now, her hair against my jaw and her heartbeat slowing under my hand, I’m finding it harder to care about the danger than I used to.

That should probably concern me more than it does.

Chapter Fourteen

Lockie

Twelve years ago, Miami

I could get used to this. The sound of the ocean, warm air drifting through the open balcony doors, carrying the faint scent of salt and sunscreen and something sweet from the fruit tray beside us. Silver domes sit crooked next to plates scattered on the floor, room service abandoned somewhere between bites and distractions.

And her.

She’s propped against the headboard, sheet gathered loosely around her, one knee bent beneath the linen, the other leg flat across the mattress. Her dark hair’s a mess, not styled the way it was last night, falling over one shoulder, slightly tangled like she’s already run her fingers through it this morning. Glasses perched on her nose, she holds a half-eaten strawberry mid-air while she talks.

I watch her without saying a word. I could do this longer than I’d admit, wrapped up in her talking about university.

“…and everyone else wanted to go into finance or consulting,” she says, gesturing with the strawberry, “but I always knew I wanted to work with bands.”

Her voice has a soft rasp to it from the hours we didn’t spend sleeping. I shift onto my side, one arm stretched beneath my head, watching her properly.

“Bands?” I ask.

She looks down at me, green eyes bright behind the lenses. “Yes, bands. Musicians.”

Her gaze tracks across my arm, over my bicep, and down my chest before returning to my face—a quick inventory she doesn’t quite manage to hide—pink rising in her cheeks as she twists the strawberry stem between her fingers before finishing it.

“That surprise you?” she asks after swallowing.

“A little.”

“Why?”

I shrug, letting my gaze wander lazily over her. The sheet’s given up on its job, slipping enough to show the soft curve of her stomach where the early morning Miami light falls across it. My hand moves, settling lightly against her ankle where it peeks out from the linen, smooth skin that makes it hard to concentrate on anything else.

She’s beautiful.

“Didn’t take you for the music industry type,” I say finally, making her laugh.

“Good.” She smiles. “People underestimate you when you don’t fit what they were expecting.”

“Ambitious.”

“Strategic,” she corrects, tossing the stem onto a plate. “I wanted to manage artists. Ones who actually care about the music, not just what it buys them.”

My fingers slide slowly up her calf, the sheet nudging aside as I go. Her skin warms under my touch, her knee shifting just slightly, giving me more without making a show of it. My cock twitches, wanting to hear the quiet little moans again that filled the room mere hours ago.

“So…” she says lightly, like she hasn’t just opened her legs wider. “What do you do when you’re not corrupting women at charity galas?”

“Is that your official read on last night?”