“That’s not up to me.” Before I truly realize what I’m doing, my hand is out of my pocket. Lark doesn’t break her gaze away from mine when I let my knuckles graze her bare arm, a slow sweep that goes from her shoulder, past her elbow, all the way to the edge of her hand, where it’s wrapped tight around the box. “It’s up to you. But I don’t want you to ever think I’m pushing you into it because of the way I feel.”
Lark swallows, her pulse a steady hum in her neck. “And how do you feel?”
“You don’t know?” I let my hand fall away from hers. She shakes her head. “Probably not the same as you. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“You sure about that?” Lark holds my gaze for a long moment before she drops her attention to the box in her hand. When she extends it in my direction, there’s very little I can tease from her expression. Her voice comes out quiet and a bit breathless when she says, “This is for you. But you can’t open it until I’m on stage, not until I give you a signal.”
“What kind of signal?”
Lark rolls her eyes and grins. “The bat signal. Duh.”
“Christ Jesus.”
“But the budget version. I’ll use a cheap flashlight with a half-dead battery.”
“You’re almost as big of a pain in the arse as Fionn, you know.”
“Oh stop. You love him and his teasing.”
I bite down on my tongue and taste blood.
When Lark rattles the box, I finally take it from her hands. There’s a small envelope fixed to the glittery black ribbon that secures the lid. The moment my fingers begin to tug the card free, she lays a hand over mine to stop me, just like I hoped she would. “I said no. Not until the gig.” She might appear annoyed, but I notice it takes her a moment longer than necessary to pull her hand away from mine.
“All right, I promise,” I say as I slide the box into my jacket pocket and raise my hands in surrender. “Whatever my duchess wants.”
Lark turns away to gather her coat, bag, guitar, and cello, but I pick up the instruments before she can sling the cases over her shoulders.
And then we’re off, leaving Bentley on the couch, where he faces the door to guard this space, one that feels more like ours with every day that passes.
When we pull up to the venue, there’s already a line out the door despite the shitty weather. People in the queue burrow into their coats and bounce on their heels to keep warm. A sense of pride floods my chest when I steal a glance at Lark. She looks out at the crowd with no evidence of worry or stage fright.
“You sure you don’t want me to drop you off while I find a place to park?” I ask as I slow the old Charger to a crawl, earning some appreciative glances as we roll down the street.
“No, you might have trouble getting in. I’ll take you in the back.”
My mind immediately empties of rational thoughts and refills with vivid images. “Take me in the back …”
“Yeah,” Lark says, giving me a confused, sidelong glance before I resolve to keep my eyes glued to the road. “The back entrance.”
I swallow.
“You know …? The back door …?”
I nod and shift in my seat.
“Are you okay? Do you have a thing about back doors?” Her hand shifts in my periphery and I snatch my arm away, narrowly avoiding her attempt at a reassuring squeeze. If she touches me, I’m damn well sure I’ll feckin’ combust. “Are they like, triggering for you or something?”
“No, Christ,” I hiss. I’m squinting. Why am I bloody squinting? I can see the road perfectly fine. I shake my head, trying to reset my senses. My clarity lasts just long enough to zip into a spot along the curb right after another vehicle pulls away.
“You could have parked it in the back,” Lark says, her tone quiet and innocent as I cut the engine and drape us in stark silence.
I drag a hand down my face but it does fuck-all to wipe my blush away. Lark opens her door with a creak of old steel. Since I don’t trust any words to reliably roll off my tongue, my only response is to shake my head.
A long, loud, dramatic sigh leaves Lark’s lips. “Lachlan Kane is an ass man. Good to know.”
With a snicker, all Lark’s innocence is swept away. She shuts the door behind her.
Fucksakes.
My forehead thunks down on the cold, unforgiving steering wheel. I’d melt into the footwell if I could, maybe ooze out onto the road or better yet, into some other dimension. But Lark, of course, has other plans, and whips my door open. “Let’s go, Batman. The back door awaits,” she declares as she skips away to wait on the sidewalk.
When I grab the instruments, slinging their straps over my shoulders before I join her, I’m pretty sure my skin is melting from the raging blush that heats my flesh.
“What? Nothing to be ashamed about, liking a bit of butt stuff,” Lark chimes as we walk toward Amigos Cantina, dipping down an alley to our left toward a metal stage door. “Anal is great. I like anal. This one time, I was on the road touring, and—”
Before I even realized what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed Lark’s waist and caged her against the brick wall of the building. A spike of fear hits my veins that I could have hurt her, but it’s washed away by the look she gives me as I loom over her. Even with the blur at this distance, I can still see it. Flushed skin. Blown pupils. A pulse that pounds in her neck.
Desire.
I lean in slowly, every heartbeat driving me closer until I can feel the heat of her unsteady exhalations against my cooling skin. “I am not ashamed, duchess.”
Lark holds my gaze and issues a dare when she whispers, “Are you sure?”
Consuming the little space that remains between us, I press my hips forward and thread one hand into her hair. Lark’s breath hitches when she feels my hard length against her stomach, my need for her painful, my cock begging to sink into her tight heat. “I cannot bear to hear about the way some other guy fucked my wife. Or the way she might have fucked him. Please. Not right now.”
Her lips part. Her brow furrows. Her grip on my arm tightens.
I lean closer still, touch my lips to her ear. With one long, slow thrust of my hips, I grind my erection against her. Lark presses into me in return. A whimper escapes her control. “It is agonizing, Lark. It is fucking torture to imagine. To know it’s not me. Don’t you understand …?”
When I pull away, I let my lips graze her cheek. Not a kiss, but a caress. A promise. That I’ll let her go. I’ll back away.
Except she doesn’t let me.
Lark moves with me, both hands gripped tight to my arms. She doesn’t let the space between us widen. There’s a plea in her eyes. Don’t back away.
“Lachlan,” is all she says, her eyes fixed to my mouth.
I should pry myself free. Maybe I’ve gone too far. I just can’t seem to make myself do it, even though I’m determined to earn Lark’s forgiveness before we start down another path. I gave her my word. But when she inches closer and my hand caresses her face, a touch she leans into, I’m afraid it’s a promise I’m about to break.
Lark rises on her tiptoes. Her scent envelopes me. Every breath she takes mixes with mine, becomes part of me.
I’m about to beg. For what I don’t know. For anything she’ll give me. For her to back away. I’m not sure what will come out of my mouth when I open it. “Lark, I—”
The door next to us swings open and crashes against the brick. Two men engrossed in an animated conversation stride into the alley. A third man remains in the doorway, his eyes shifting between me and Lark. A faint grin spreads across his lips, but there’s confusion in his eyes he can’t quite hide. A bit of jealousy too, I think.
“Hey, Lark. Right on time,” the guy says. His head tilts as he regards us. We still haven’t moved, and I realize how this must appear, Lark with her wide eyes and her mask of innocence so perfectly crafted, me with my leather jacket and Lark’s blond waves twisted in my tattooed hand. I probably look about ready to fuck her right here against this wall. I would do it too, if she asked me. Lift this dress and slide into her with a single thrust, and then—
“You okay?” the guy asks, and with an unsteady breath, I release my grip on Lark and take a step away. A crease notches between her brows and a flash of pain seems to flare in her eyes when she lets my arms go, but only because I leave her no choice.
“Yes,” she says, and clears her throat when that confirmation comes out breathless. “I’m great.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. Xander, this is my husband, Lachlan.” An electric charge bursts through my heart at the word husband. “Lachlan, this is Xander. He plays bass guitar and sings backup for KEX.”
I swallow my spiteful feckin’ glee and manage to trap it in a smirk that might come off as welcoming to someone who doesn’t know me. But Lark knows better. I can feel her warning glare drill into my temple as I extend a hand.
“KEX. Cool.” That’s it. That’s all I can manage. Anything more and I won’t be able to contain myself.
“Husband? That’s a wild turn of events, Lark,” Xander says as he releases my hand and pins his attention to her. “When did that happen?”
“October.”
“Huh. Didn’t hear about it at all.”
Lark shrugs and tugs me toward the door as Xander turns to lead us into the dark corridor. “Guess I was too busy making promotional posts for KEX to splash it all over social media,” Lark says.
I nearly fail to repress a snort as Xander gives her a questioning look over his shoulder. Lark just smiles innocently in reply, and I can tell he’s flummoxed. He strides a little farther ahead down the hallway and Lark squeezes my arm.
“What is it with you and KEX anyway?” Lark hisses.
I lean in and whisper, “Irish slang. Means underwear.”
She puffs out a little laugh as Xander pushes open a black door and heads into the shared dressing room. Lark stops at the threshold and I relinquish the instruments for her to set them aside. “Well, that’s ironic, seeing how I usually prefer to not wear any.”
She winks. I feckin’ die.
“Go on,” she says, amusement a flare behind her eyes. “Anyone gives you trouble, just say you’re married to the chick who likes to go commando and digs ass play. Bye.”
She wiggles her fingers as she waves and shuts the door in my face.
I’m still standing in the hallway like a feckin’ dumbass when the door opens again. She pokes her head into the hallway. “Oh, and don’t you dare open that present until I give you the bat signal or I swear to God, I will make your balls into snow globes. Okay, bye.”
With a sardonically blown kiss, Lark shuts the door.
And I still haven’t moved an inch.
I mutter a string of hushed swears as I drag a hand through my hair. “Christ Jesus. I need a feckin’ whiskey.”
“Ooh, get me a Diet Coke, please,” Lark chimes from the other side of the door, and with a demonic little cackle, I know she’s finally leaving me to my suffering this time.
I weave through the labyrinthine passageways and exit next to the stage where the opening act is setting up. If they give me suspicious looks, I don’t notice. My thoughts are only on the bar ahead and the images of pantyless Lark.
I send a Diet Coke back to the dressing room for Lark and down my first drink as the opening act starts up, managing to somehow pace myself as they play out their set. When they finish an hour later, a couple of guys transition instruments to and from the stage for KEX, and I feel a brief flood of adrenaline in my veins when I spot Lark’s cello. Finishing my drink doesn’t dull the sensation. Nor does it help make the wait more bearable, a wait that feels decades long.