He slid off the couch with a predator’s grace.
“All right, boss lady,” he teased. “I’ll behave. For now.”
The moment he was in the booth, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The air felt lighter. Cooler.
I called the sound engineer and his producer back into the room. Ciarán liked to write in private—but really, I just think he made any excuse so we’d be alone, hoping I’d fall for one of his lines.
Moments later, his voice poured from the speakers, and my world narrowed to that sound. Smooth. Raw. Hungry.
It was aural silk, dripping with need and lust.
And then it got filthy. He deviated from the script, grabbed my eyes, and wouldn’t let go as he sang:
“I could spread you open slow, taste every inch, make you quiver…
Have you screaming my name, dripping wet, begging me to go deeper.
If you let me.”
My eyes snapped shut. The lyrics I’d written were there, but he’d twisted them—poured his own filthy, beautiful truth into them.
He wasn’t just singing the song.
He was singing to me.
Hours later, the session ended, and we were alone again. He emerged from the booth glistening, sweat tracing the paths of his tattoos. He grabbed a towel, his eyes performing a slow sweep of me—from my heels to my eyes and back again—leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
“So… where you headed, Jordin?”
I blinked, pulling my gaze from the sparrow on his pec.
“Home,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I gathered my things. “To my man. I’ll be back in a few days. I informed your manager.”
He stepped into my space, and the air changed. Whatever was dripping from his pores must’ve been some type of primal aphrodisiac, because my nipples hardened to aching points against my dress.
“How you thick and tiny at the same time?” he mused, his tongue swiping his bottom lip like he could already taste the answer.
“Where your woman at, Ciarán? One of the girls you fuckin’?”
“I don’t have one or the other. I’ve been celibate for the last few years.”
I shook my head, rolling my eyes.
“You lying.”
His head snapped back. “Why I gotta lie?”
I waved him off. “It don’t even matter, really. It’s none of my business. Goodnight, Ciarán.”
He moved—a fluid step blocking my path to the door. He leaned into my space, his face inches from mine, his breath warm on my skin.
“You really love your husband like that, really?” he whispered. “A lot of women say they do, but just don’t give a fuck when faced with the chance to fulfill a fantasy.”
A shaky chuckle escaped me.
“So you think you’re my fantasy?”
“I do. But you didn’t answer me. Do you love your husband, Jordin?”
