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“Sorry,” he says. “If the height isn’t right, it will affect the sound on the recording. You won’t notice it until you listen to the playback.”
I tilt my head and eye him. “We wouldn’t want that,” I say, having no idea if what he’s saying is actually true or not. I can’t take my eyes off his handsome face. He’s like a tractor beam, drawing me closer, and we’re already very close.
He smiles, and there’s a wicked gleam in his blue eyes. He leans close, his hand skating across my shoulder. He’s only giving a final adjustment to the mic, but now my heart is beating so rapidly, I’m not sure I’ll have enough breath to sing.
“Let’s try the first take,” he says. “You’ve got the lyrics down for the demo tracks?”
I could lick him if I just stood on my tiptoes. Wow, where did that come from? “Yes,” I squeak.
Our bodies brush as he moves past me. On the opposite side of the window, he cues up the music and points for me to start. I find instant calm, the way I always do when I finally get a chance to perform, and soon, I’m lost in the song. The tune is perfect for me, and I don’t have to strain over the higher notes at all, but I wait for Tate’s appraisal.
He pushes the intercom button, and I hear his voice through the speaker above my head. “Gorgeous,” he says, locking me in his gaze once more. His eyes rake down my body and back up again. “Fucking perfect.”
“Thank you,” I manage through my nearly closed up throat, fighting to get the words out against a mix of nerves and lust.
“Let’s do your sister’s songs now,” he says with a mischievous smirk. I’m not sure what that expression means, but a tingle of warning runs down my spine. There’s no way he suspects that I’m not Ella. Right?
I push the thought away and focus on the first song. It’s the ballad I was singing when he came in. It’s calledStolen Away, and it’s an emotional song, full of sorrow and longing. I wrote it a few years ago after my grandmother passed away unexpectedly. I performed it at her funeral, but never sang it again until tonight. I don’t know what made me want to sing that particular song tonight, but I draw courage from my memories of the fierce woman who meant so much to me growing up.
I work my way through the song with a grace I’ve only ever had in my voice. In my movements, I’m a total klutz, but my voice is smooth and full. I close my eyes against the emotion that wells within me as the lyrics remind me of my beloved grandmother. They’re bittersweet memories now that she’s gone. She was the only person in my family who’d ever believed I’d make it as a singer someday, and I so desperately want to make our dream come true. So, I sing for her and myself, and the plans we’d made together. By the time the song ends, my cheeks are wet with tears. When I open them, I look at Mr. Bronson through the studio window. It’s hard to tell from this distance, but I’d swear his eyes are shiny with some unspoken emotion.
He doesn’t say anything over the intercom, but instead, comes back into the studio. He keeps walking until he’s close enough to reach out and touch me. I’m too shocked by the combination of awe and lust on his face to react, and before I know what is happening, his hands are on my hips, and he’s walking me backwards.
After only a few steps, I crash against the padded studio wall. His fingers tangle in my hair, and he pulls my head back, crashing his lips to mine. I’m overcome by his strong body pressing against me, his thick bulge hard against my stomach. My core clenches, and my nipples strain against my top as my breasts rub against his chest. I want to spread my legs for him, wrap them around his waist, so I can feel him where I need so badly to be touched, but I’m wearing this ridiculous pencil skirt and can barely move.
Pencil skirt. I’d never wear such a thing. That’s when I remember I’m not me today, I’m Ella. And I’m making out with her boss. His tongue is in my mouth, and I’m probably going to cry when it’s not anymore, but I clutch at my last remaining bit of sense and push him away.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking down at his chest, then further down at that big bulge straining at his pants. I nearly whimper at the sight and quickly look up at his chest again, unwilling to meet his eyes. “That was so unprofessional of me. I’m really sorry, Mr. Bronson.”
I wriggle out from the cage of his arms, frantic for a way to fix this without costing Ella her job.
Chapter 4
Tate
The poor sweet thing is about to short circuit from confusion. After all, she’s supposed to be Ella, and my staid assistant would never dream of grinding her body against me. I should send her home after assuring her we’ll never speak of it again, but I’m rock hard and want more of this sexy twin who sings like an angel. The way she was rubbing against me with those little moans was anything but angelic, and I can’t let her go.
“I know you’re not Ella,” I say, leaning back on the opposite wall of the booth. “I suspected it the second I heard you sing.” I raise my eyebrow at her and gesture to the small stand under the microphone. “I confirmed it when I saw that sheet music, Dani.”
She puts her hand over her mouth, covering those plump lips I want to get back to kissing. “Please don’t fire her,” she begs, “She just had something really important she needed to do, and—”
I cut off her adorable pleas to save her sister, sliding my tongue back between her lips where it belongs. I run my hands up her sides to cup her firm, small tits, stroking her nipples through what I can tell is a lacy bra. I want to see it, and I want to get it off her.
Her hands fly around my neck, and she eagerly pulls her body close to mine again. We’re like wild animals, and I drag her over to a small table that usually holds refreshments for the artists but is now gloriously empty. I lean her against it, so I can push up that tight skirt she’s wearing. As soon as I see the lacy vee of her panties at the top of her thighs, my cock throbs against my pants. They’re pale pink, and when I spread her legs and pull them to lock around my hips, I can see how wet her pussy already is through the sheer fabric.
She gasps when I pull her blouse up and push her bra out of the way so I can dip my head and draw her tight nipple into my mouth. She smells like cherries and tastes even sweeter. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and her breath hitches as I lick her nipples, then kiss my way down her belly.
“Mr. Bronson,” she says, tugging on my hair.
“Call me Tate,” I growl, finally at the top edge of her panties.
“Tate?” she says, her voice growing urgent. As urgent as my cock is to sink inside her wet heat. She tugs harder.
I push her panties aside and kiss her mound, anxious to get to her clit, so I can make her moan. “I want to hear you say it when I lick your pussy.”
“Tate, I’m a virgin,” she blurts out in a high-pitched voice.
I look up at her, just inches from that swollen bud I’m craving to taste. “You’re kidding.”
