Under His Skin - Nicola Marsh

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and hours of practice. Listening to your instrument. Feeling your instrument. Stroking your instrument. Caressing your instrument—’

      He kissed her. He couldn’t fucking help it. All that talk of feeling and stroking and caressing had got to him.

      Her mouth opened to him and her tongue sought his, teasing his, taunting, demanding to give whatever he could. And fuck, did he want to give her everything and then some.

      She clutched at him, her hands pawing his chest, and when her fingers slid between the buttons of his shirt and grazed his chest he felt as if he’d stuck a sander into a tub full of water.

      She moaned as he palmed her ass and dragged her onto his lap, grinding her against the fly of his jeans, leaving her in no doubt how far he wanted this to go.

      When she started to writhe against him, as if she wanted to get closer, he slid his hands under her kaftan, encountering the soft, smooth skin of her thighs, then slid higher to her...bare ass.

      Hot damn. The prim princess went commando.

      ‘Fuck, you’re full of surprises,’ he said, squeezing the perfect handful of ass.

      ‘I’m not who you think I am,’ she murmured, nipping his ear with a sharp bite that bordered on pain, until her tongue darted out and licked it all better. The touch of her tongue lapping at his earlobe sent a jolt straight to his rock-hard cock.

      Eager to feel her wetness, he slipped a hand over her hip and between their bodies, when the blast of a trumpet made him jump.

      ‘Shit, that’s the entry bell, which means my next student is here,’ she said, scrambling off him and tugging down her kaftan. ‘You have to go.’

      He stared at her standing in front of him, wild-eyed, flushed and dishevelled, and thought he’d never seen anything sexier.

      ‘Hey, calm down—’

      ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do.’ Her lips pursed in disapproval as he watched the woman who’d been willing and wanton on his lap a moment ago morph from warmth to cold disdain.

      ‘Fine.’

      But it wasn’t, and as he stood and readjusted himself so he could actually walk out he shot her a curious glance. How could someone change like that so quickly? He was an open book. Upfront to the point of bluntness, people knew what to expect from him. It pissed him off when people said one thing and did another, or vice versa.

      When she turned her back on him and started flipping through a music book, he said, ‘For the record, you came onto me.’

      She spun around to face him, that spark back in her eyes. ‘Go. Please.’

      She almost whimpered the last word and rather than push the issue he took pity on her. She had a student waiting and, by the way she vacillated between poised and uncertain, she needed time to pull herself together.

      ‘I’ll email you the formalised quote.’ He headed for the door leading to the front of the shop and paused. ‘And I’ll be here Tuesday morning to get the boys set up.’

      She gave a brief nod, her gaze riveted to his mouth. Yeah, this one was full of contradictions. Fire and ice. Unexpectedly scorching one minute, frigidly chilling the next. The contrast only served to pique his interest further.

      ‘Unless you want to see me sooner?’

      He could’ve sworn the corners of her mouth twitched before she shooed him away. ‘Go.’

       CHAPTER FOUR

      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:

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