Читать книгу Under His Skin - Nicola Marsh - Страница 12

HOPE WENT THROUGH the motions of teaching piano to an uninterested, average student. The reluctant teen hadn’t practised since their last session so it made the forty-five minutes even more torturous than usual. Parents who pushed their kids into learning instruments when they’d rather be skateboarding had a lot to answer for.

She should know. Her parents had pushed her into horse riding and polo and chess when she would’ve much rather been jamming with the local kids in the village. Sure, they’d encouraged her interest in piano and violin but had been horrified when she’d mentioned the D-word. Apparently drums weren’t the preferred instrument for an aristocratic McWilliams’ child.

So she’d learned in secret, using some of her generous allowance to pay a teacher in the village, an ageing rocker who still toured on occasion. Harry Remme had been more attentive to her music career than her folks and posh music teachers put together. He’d introduced her to a world beyond Mozart and Chopin, to a world filled with guitar riffs, drum solos and the deep bass rhythms that she felt all the way down to her soul.

She’d been hooked.

From that moment she’d known what she wanted to do: create the kind of music that changed people’s lives, the way Harry’s music had changed hers.

Harry’s band hadn’t conformed. They hadn’t done covers. They’d written original material, recorded it in a tiny studio outside of London and distributed it online to whoever was lucky enough to hear it. She’d spent countless hours listening to their quirky songs and loving every minute of it. Harry had fostered her love of unusual music while teaching her everything he could about the drums. She’d been thrilled to be accepted into a premier international music college in Paris once she finished school but what she’d learned at that prestigious place hadn’t come close to fuelling her creativity the way Harry’s music had.

It broke her heart that eventually he’d betrayed her like everyone else in her life.

She’d never recovered from his deception so close on the heels of Willem breaking her heart but she’d always be indebted to him for encouraging her to break free of her parents’ expectations and choose her own path. If she’d done what her mother and father had wanted she’d be married to some uppity earl named Charles Butterworth with a brood of kids by now, a nanny, housekeeper and chauffeur, living down the road from her parents in a palatial country house.

They’d humoured her love of music by accepting she’d attend the college in Paris, never imagining she’d follow her dream all the way to Australia. They’d threatened to disown her, to cut her off. She hadn’t cared.

They’d lied to her like everyone else.

She benefited from her granny’s trust fund, meaning she never had financial worries. Sure, things might be different if she didn’t have that safety net, but she doubted it. Nothing would stop her from pursuing her dream.

Not even some six-four gorgeous guy who kissed like a pro and who’d almost made her come by groping her ass.

Heat flushed her cheeks at the memory of how turned on she’d been. If that student hadn’t arrived she would’ve screwed him on the piano stool.

Never in a million years would she have expected him to discover her dirty little secret: that she didn’t wear underwear most days.

Being so daring was her one concession whilst living a well-ordered life. It made her feel a little bad when her entire life she’d been so very good. A way of cutting free from the constraints of her past. A way to prove, albeit to herself, that she held all the power and was in control of her own destiny.

The more refined guys she usually dated had been repulsed by her lack of constraint. Logan had been turned on big time, the focus being on big.

He’d felt huge through his jeans and she’d been so close to riding that bad boy. She needed the release so badly...

The throb between her legs became insistent so Hope did the only thing possible: she locked up, picked up her mobile and headed for the bathroom.

It didn’t take her long to find what she needed: the picture of Logan on his company’s website.

The photo didn’t do him justice. Neither did the suit. She preferred how he’d looked today: a little rough around the edges with his scruffy dark-blond hair skimming his collar, his shirt sleeves rolled up, that denim hugging his ass and those eyes so penetratingly blue she could’ve sworn he could see right through her.

She leaned against the hand basin and stared into those eyes, remembering how he’d looked at her the moment before he’d kissed her. As if he wanted to ravage her.

She’d enjoyed taunting him, had liked how he stood up to her and gave as good as he got.

Her gaze drifted to his mouth as her hand drifted lower, her fingers seeking her clit. She was so wet, thanks to him.

She stared at his lips and remembered the feel of his tongue in her mouth, skilled and sure, and imagined what it could do where her middle finger zeroed in on now. Her pulse raced, the lightness in her chest making her feel as if she were floating as she circled her clit over and over, her excitement escalating too quickly. She didn’t care. She needed a release and, with the man who’d wound her up gone, she needed it now.

Breathless, she started panting a little. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment as she imagined Logan’s fingers touching her, Logan’s tongue licking her, Logan’s dick inside her... She tensed and came on a soft moan, sagging against the basin.

When she opened her eyes, he was still there, staring at her from that photo, looking way too smug and self-controlled.

He’d got her so wound up that she’d just masturbated away from home for the first time.

Time to ruffle him as much as he’d ruffled her.