Face the Music Page 18

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Ben!”

  “Fine, okay, but you have to promise me this won’t ruin our night.”

  “I promise.” Her jaw is hard and her petite nostrils flare.

  I laugh. “Ash, come on.”

  “Okay, okay…” She blows out a breath and shakes out her arms. “Okay.” She clears her throat. “Tell me.”

  She still looks too tense. I lean in, and as if on instinct, she does the same, maybe thinking I was about to tell her a secret. Instead, I press my lips to hers, parting my lips just enough to taste the sweetness of her breath. Blood fires through my veins, but I remain in control, kissing each corner of her mouth until a soft sigh falls from her lips.

  “Better?”

  She sucks in a shaky breath. “Much better.”

  I put six inches of space between us and ball my hand at my side to keep from putting my hand on her thigh. “She may have mentioned something about you and her ‘sharing your toys.’ That was it.” Mostly.

  I don’t know how she does it, but she manages to put distance between us without moving. Our legs aren’t touching anymore, and it feels as though she erected a wall around her.

  “Hey, don’t get upset.”

  But I can tell she can’t hear me around her protective wall.

  “Ash, look at me.”

  She blinks.

  “Please, babe.” I don’t know where the term came from, but it works.

  She turns to face me, her skin a little paler than just seconds ago.

  I push closer, our thighs touching, and grab her hand under the table. “Do you honestly think I don’t know you well enough that I could be persuaded by some off-the-cuff comment made by your roommate?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “I haven’t touched a woman in over six years. Haven’t even had the slightest desire to. Until you.”

  She smirks, and a cold indifference darkens her eyes. “Yeah, well, that’s kind of my thing. I’m the kind of girl who makes a man want to fuck.”

  I lock down the urge to recoil at the way she talks about herself.

  “I’m one-night-stands and kickass blow jobs. I’m not the girl who gets all this.” She whirls her hand around, motioning to the space.

  I pull her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles. “You deserve much more than all this. Trust me.”

  She studies the spot on her hand where I kissed her. “She’s right, ya know. Stormie. Our sexual history has overlapped.”

  “That information is irrelevant to me.” I make sure to hold her eyes so she can see that I’m not blowing sunshine.

  Her shoulders drop in such a subtle way, I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking for it. “How many women were you with before Maggie?”

  “Sexually? None.”

  “Oh my God.” She drops my hand. “How can you be even the slightest bit interested in me? You’re a goddamn pastor, for crying out loud. You’re the picture of purity and I’m, well…” She shakes her head and downs the rest of her drink. “I had a feeling this might happen,” she says almost to herself.

  “What?”

  “Being with you, like this, would only make me feel worse about myself.”

  “So what? It’s better to hang out with men who are unworthy of your presence just so you always feel like you have the upper hand?”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  “Look, first of all, don’t assume that just because I was married and faithful to one woman my entire life means I am somehow better than you. I assure you, I’m not. Because this is a date, I’d rather not explain to you all the ways I’ve failed myself, my brother, my wife…” Deceased wife. I clear my throat. “My kid, my church. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to share all the reasons why you shouldn’t be with me on date two, maybe three.”

  “So you’re saying they’ll be another date?”

  “If you don’t force me to tell you all the reasons why you’re too good for me and then decide you want nothing to do with me, then yeah.”

  A slow smile that starts on her lips reaches her eyes. “That seems fair.”

  “Good. And one more thing.” I hook her around the neck and kiss her as if we’re the only two people in the room.

  I lick into her mouth as if we’re alone in the dark and hidden from our individual lives, from the expectations and opinions of others, tucked into a bubble where we’re free of condemnation and rules. Right now, there’s only us and what we feel when we’re together. Her hand clamps down on my thigh, the force of her nails shamefully dulled by the denim barrier. I use my thumb to tilt her chin up, expose the long column of her neck, and feel her fluttering pulse against my fingers. Somewhere in the background, I hear dishes being set on the table, but the roar of my pulse in my head and feel of her slick tongue against mine makes every single other thing disappear. Her hand climbs higher up my leg, dangerously close to my dick that’s hardening by the second. As much as I want her to grip me, stroke me, feel what she does to me, I grab her hand and squeeze. With my forehead to hers, we pant, catching our breath.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my eyes still closed. “Not here. Not like this.” My body revolts against my words. It roars, yes here, yes, just like this.

  “I know.” She kisses me one more time, soft, gentle, a sweet dismissal.

  With a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I push away from her. Sure enough, long plates with rows of colorful sushi wait for us. “I thought I heard something.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, you’re more alert than me because I didn’t hear shit.”

  I throw my head back, laugh hard, and feel the tension from our earlier conversation dissolve.

  The tension in my jeans, well… that’s a different story.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ashleigh

  “We should probably get the bill.” Ben checks his watch, tilts to grab his wallet from his back pocket, and flags down our waitress.

  “Are we in a hurry?” I’m sipping the last of my second martini, feeling relaxed and wishing we could go somewhere private and pick up that kiss where we left off.

  That kiss.

  I can still feel it. From a man who hasn’t had a lot of practice, I expected less-than-perfect kisses. Or at the very least kisses with less variety. But Ben kisses soft and deep, controlled and deliberate, not wet or sloppy—

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” He’s grinning as he hands his card to the waitress without her showing him the bill.

  “Like what?”

  His smile turns bashful. “Never mind. And yes, we’re in a little hurry. What we’re doing next has a start time.”

  Being on a date with a man who has a plan is so sexy. No discussions about what we want to do next, no offers for Netflix and chill, no indecisive moments that make me want to call off the night and return home to my pjs. A man who’s prepared and put forethought into the night. What an attractive quality.

  “A movie?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Not a movie?” What else could have a start time on a Monday night?

  “Don’t think too hard. Just relax and allow yourself to be surprised.”

  Our waitress comes back with our bill. “Mr. Langley…” Her eyes dart to his wedding ring and then tighten. “It’s been a pleasure serving you.” When she lifts her gaze it’s full of condemnation as she stares between my face and my ring finger that is wedding ring free.

  Oh no.

  Ben’s body went from fluid to solid. He’s staring at the bill but doesn’t look like he’s actually seeing it. His hands are on the table, his left proudly displaying his gold wedding band. She assumes I’m his mistress.

  “I’m sorry,” he says in barely a whisper.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s a reasonable mistake.” I don’t mind that he wears his wedding ring. After all, this is only our first date.

  With his eyes still lowered to the table, he shakes his head. “I didn’t think�
�fuck, Ash. I’m really sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, it’s fine.” Really, I’m fine.

  “It’s not.” He turns his head to meet my eyes, and I catch a glimpse of the battle he’s fighting in his soul. The war between his past and his present. The struggle between doing what he feels is right, honorable, and loyal versus what feels good in the moment. “You’re not the other woman, Ash.”

  I smile, trying to soothe him. “I mean, I kind of am.” And I’m okay with that, because I know Ben’s heart will always belong to Maggie. All women that come after her will be the others.

  “Fuck,” he mumbles and scribbles a tip and his name on the bill. “Let’s go.”

  I scoot out of the booth as he waits for me, then he puts his big hand on my lower back, guiding me out of the restaurant. We’re silent as we climb into his car, other than me thanking him for dinner.

  It’s a short drive to where we’re going next, and when he parks in front of the Musical Instrument Museum, I piece together why we’re here. I’ve heard the MIM has concerts throughout the week. Usually no one super well known, but more of the indie scene, the unsung heroes of music who play it because their soul demands it, even if they don’t make a living doing it.

  “I’ve always wanted to see a concert here. Who are we seeing?”

  His mouth lifts a little on one side. “Melancholy Blue. They’re a soul and R&B band out of New Orleans.”

  I touch up my lip gloss and stash forty bucks in my bra so I can leave my purse in the car. There’s nothing worse than being at a concert, wanting to dance and sing or jump around and being weighed down by your purse. Ben circles the front of the car and opens my door for me.

  “This was really cool of you, thank you,” I say.

  “Of course. Thank you for saying yes.”

  Oh Ben, if you had any idea the things I’d say yes to if you’d only ask.

  He takes my hand in a touch so innocent, yet it does wickedly delicious things to my body. His big palm pressed to mine, powerful fingers wrapping around to make my hand feel so much smaller. I’ve never felt as small and delicate as I do with Ben.

  He gives his name at the ticket counter and they hand us two tickets. I don’t know how much our seats cost, but we’re in the fifth row center. These seats at a Jesse Lee concert would be well into the thousands.

  “Do you want something to drink?” he asks.

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  We get there just in time, because soon after we sit, the lights go down and the room erupts in applause. The sound of the drums kicks off the concert and soon a guitar joins. When the lights come up, I see a guy with a saxophone and a guy with a trumpet. The lead singer is an attractive African American woman with braids that go to her hips. Her voice is smoky and reminds me of a jazz singer. Everyone stands, and Ben and I do the same.

  For the first couple songs, I almost forget Ben is even here as I fall into the music and performance. I’m swaying to the beat, clapping, dancing as well as I can in the cramped space.

  “They’re really good,” Ben says close to my ear.

  “So good!” I close my eyes, sway back and forth, lift my arms, and get lost to the soulful sound surrounding me.

  Another couple songs and I lean into Ben. He slips his hand around my back, his palm on my hip. The only thing between his skin and mine is the thin silk of my dress. Soon I’m in front of him, both his hands clasping my hips. My hands cover his, my fingers weaving through his—and I freeze. No ring. He took off his wedding ring. I’m about to turn around and tell him he didn’t have to do that, but he must know what’s coming and presses his chest to my back.

  “Don’t,” he says, his lips so close to my ear, I feel the heat of his breath. I suck in a gasp when I feel him run his nose up my neck, hear him breathing me in. “You smell so good.”

  His lips brush against the sensitive skin below my earlobe, and I’m helpless. I tilt my head, giving him access to my throat. He doesn’t waste the opportunity and kisses a path down to my shoulder. Our hands touching, his lips on my neck and his breath against my skin, I feel the coiling of an orgasm build with each tender brush of his mouth, every scrape of his teeth. When he nips at my throat, I moan. The music is too loud for anyone to hear it, but I know he feels it because I feel his satisfied smile.

  If he were anyone else, I’d ask if we could get out of here, go find the nearest bed, and put an end to all the sexual tension building between us. But this is Ben. Pastor Ben. First base feels like the equivalent of a home run.

  His fingers tighten on my hips. The teasing brushes of his lips, feather-light against my skin, work me over until I’m breathless and boneless. My breasts are heavy, and I feel my pulse between my legs. Arching my back, I rub my ass against his semi-hard erection, and he groans in my ear.

  “Ash.” My name is a helpless plea from his lips. “Don’t do that again.”

  “Do what? Dance?” I smirk. With my hands on his, I pull them up my ribcage until his palms brush the underside of my breasts.

  He growls and bites my shoulder, then kisses the same spot and backs away. I sway on my feet, my head light with euphoria. He wraps a powerful arm around my back, steadying me with a proud grin.

  The band plays without a break and we stand the entire time. Ben doesn’t dance, but he seems to get a lot of joy from watching me. When the final note rings through the room, I’m sorry it’s over.

  The house lights come up, and Ben grabs my hand, leading the way, parting the people with his broad shoulders. I can’t stop smiling, can’t stop feeling Ben’s hands on me, his mouth on my neck. I have a brief thought of never washing my neck again.

  “That was amazing,” I say as soon as we’re in the parking lot. “Thank you for planning this.”

  “I’m happy you enjoyed it.” He squeezes my hand.

  Once we’re in the car, he pulls out his phone and punches out a quick text before firing up the engine.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, just letting Donna know when I’ll be home.”

  I wonder how long he told her. Long enough for an extended good night kiss? I hope so.

  “How old were you when you started playing music?”

  He’s the picture of masculine confidence, slumped a little in his seat, knees wide, one hand on the wheel. The streetlights illuminate his perfect jawline, strong brow, and kissable lips in quick bursts, and his dark hair looks nearly black. Such a handsome man.

  “Our parents started Jesiah and me as little kids. Maybe four or five. It wasn’t something we were given much of a choice in.”

  “Is that why you stopped playing? I didn’t even know you could play until you played that show with Jesse. You’re so good.”

  “Thank you. Yeah, music was his thing, ministry was mine. I played until…” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I hadn’t played in about ten years before Jesse’s concert.”

  “Ten years! Wow, well, I certainly couldn’t tell.”

  He shrugs as though his immense talent is no big deal. “How about you? Did you ever play an instrument?”

  “My parents made me take piano lessons for a few years, but it wasn’t my thing.” It was more than not my thing. It was torture. I was horrible at it, and my parents were convinced that if I worked at it hard enough, I’d excel. I had to play until my fingers cramped, and when that happened, they’d punish me for getting sloppy. “Do you play anything besides guitar?”

  He peeks at me from the corner of his eye, but only briefly. “I can, but I prefer guitar. Did you have any other hobbies growing up?”

  If making out with half the male student body could be considered a hobby… “Not really, no. Does Elliot play?”

  He doesn’t answer, just looks at me thoughtfully as we sit at a red light.

  “What?”

  “You don’t like talking about yourself.”

  “Yes, I do!” I sound way too defensive. “I do,” I say in a much calmer tone.

  “Tell me s
omething I don’t already know about you.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” I shift in my seat, recrossing my legs. “You already know everything. I’m a bartender, have been for forever, never graduated high school, moved here from Texas a million years ago.”

  “That’s all the information that encompasses you?”

  “Pretty much.” I stare out the window, because of course that’s not all the information that encompasses me. I just don’t want to tell him the rest.

  He gasses it through the light and hops onto the freeway. “You’re way too complex for that to be all.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Oh, I’m not disappointed. Far from it.”

  That makes me smile. “Good.”

  Which is exactly why I’ll keep my demons locked tightly in the closet where they belong.

  By the time we pull up to my apartment, we’ve covered every topic of surface conversation. Rather than pull up at the curb, he parks, comes around to let me out of the car, and walks me to my door.

  “I know I’ve said it a million times, but I really had a great time tonight.”

  He slips his hand in mine. “Me too. We should do it again sometime.”

  I can’t help the toothy smile that takes over my face. “I’d like that.”

  The rest of our walk is silent as he follows me up the stairs to the door. I turn to say goodbye and he’s still holding my hand. Still no wedding band on his finger.

  “I’d like to kiss you good night. If that’s all right with you,” he says.

  “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  He steps in close, tilts his head, and presses his lips to mine. The touch is too soft, too quick, and when he backs away, I chase his lips and have to catch myself from face-planting. “Good night, Ash.”

  My hand falls to my side after he releases it. “Night, Ben.”

  His big body moves smoothly down the stairs, but rather than head to his car, he stops, turns, and looks up at me. His eyebrows are pinched together. “Aren’t you going to go inside?”

  “I wanted to watch you walk away.”

  He plants his feet. “I’m not going anywhere until you’re safely inside.”