“Stop it.”
Sarge leaned back, allowing his gaze to travel up her stocking-clad legs, over the curve of her hip. “I think we’ll have snow for Christmas.”
A white cloud of air puffed from her cranberry lips. “I’m going inside.”
Jasmine took one step to bypass him, and just a simple brush of their shoulders seemed to break them both. She made a small sound, heels scuffing on the concrete. Sarge snagged an arm around her waist and dragged her back around, into the warmth of his body. Right where they fit. Right where she belonged. The pastry box plonked onto the ground, but neither one of them moved to pick it up as Sarge walked them back, using a van to hide them from view.
“You’re so angry.”
Hardball pitches, one by one, landed in his midsection, hearing those whispered words. But denying the accusation in them would be a lie. “Of course I’m angry. You looked nervous to see me. You know how much I hate that?”
“Not nervous.” She wet her lips. “Okay, maybe a little nervous.”
His forehead dropped to rest on hers. “Baby, you want my mouth.”
It hadn’t been posed as a question, but it was still for her to answer. “I don’t…know if that’s wise. I haven’t—”
“Changed your mind. I know.” Or he did now, anyway. Sarge ignored the drilling pain and focused on her eyes. She shook her head and started to speak again, but he pressed a thumb to her lips. “We can go back to bullshit and small talk afterward. I’ll just need your taste on my tongue to get through it.”
Her eyelids fell. “We can’t keep doing this.” She struggled a little in his grip. “After what you told me, I have no excuse. I would be leading you on.”
“Lead me on, then.” He lifted her off the ground, planting her backside against the nearest car trunk and fusing their bodies together. “I’m asking you to lead me on. There’s your permission. Make me believe this is real.”
“You can’t ask me to do that—”
Sarge kissed the words off her mouth. He could almost feel them crumbling under the impact of his lips and tongue. The occasional raking of his teeth over her full lower lip. Wind whistled past, but couldn’t drown out their mutual heartbeats. His galloped like a runaway horse in his ears…and Jasmine’s. He could hear it, would hear it a country away, wouldn’t he? It sounded like he’d heard it eight thousand times, when logic told him that was impossible. Her body shifted between him and the car trunk, her hands tugging him closer…then pushing him away. Away. Away?
“Sarge.”
He’d been expecting Jasmine’s voice, but it was Adeline, calling him from the church entrance. He and Jasmine traded breaths for a heavy moment before he turned his head and called, “Yeah?”
A low chuckle. “Your band is ready, but they have no lead singer. Know anyone who could help them out?”
“Be there in a minute.” He returned his attention to Jasmine.
“Go,” she whispered.
He hated that word coming from the swollen mouth he’d just kissed. “I smeared your lipstick.”
“I know.” Her tits were lifting and falling so fast. Up and down. Dragging over his chest. “It’s all over your mouth.”
Sarge couldn’t resist. “Wipe it off.”
She looked to be considering it, but shook her head. “No.”
“Wipe it off or I’ll be wearing it on stage.”
“Jesus.” Jasmine actually laughed, and it calmed some of the thunderheads clashing in his brain. Using her thumb, she wiped away the cranberry coloring, pulling away quickly when his tongue licked out to taste her. “You’re good to go.”
Cursing church people for being so damn punctual, Sarge backed away. “I’ll find you afterward.”
She didn’t say anything for a long beat. “I don’t doubt it.”
There was something unusual in the way she said it, but Adeline shouted his name again, giving Sarge no choice but to solve the puzzle of Jasmine later.
If Sarge would’ve given Jasmine a minute to speak, she would have told him.
She wouldn’t be letting him go.
Since that night in the Third Shift when she’d stood up to Carmine and felt the transformation in herself, Jasmine had given herself one long, continuous wake-up slap in the face. Sarge was a man with the ability to decide his own life path. He’d determined that path would be walked with her. It meant staying in Hook. It meant she had to trust him to know what he needed.
It also meant she needed to trust her own gut. Needed to listen to her mind and heart when they sang in perfect harmony for one man. There would be people, like Carmine, who took bets on how long their relationship would last. There would be laughing behind their backs—probably even a lot of uttering of a certain word that started with c and ended with ougar. But none of it would register when she and Sarge were together. Alone or in public, the outside world only ever seemed like a minor detail. What mattered was them. How they made each other feel.
And God, he made her feel so much.
It hadn’t felt right kissing him in the parking lot. Not when he thought she’d let him go without a fight. God, he’d already looked haunted, his kisses feeling so final. Tonight. She would tell him tonight. When they weren’t in a freezing parking lot, being peeped on by passersby in the parking lot.
Jasmine eased out of her coat and took a spot at the rear of the hall, just in time for Old News to walk on stage. A low thrumming started in her belly at seeing Sarge in his official front man capacity. Already he was a sexy, charismatic package, but it was amplified when he picked up his guitar. He played a few strings, winking at the crowd when they howled in response. Then he found her through the crowd and made a growling sound into the microphone.
Dios. As soon as this party ended, she was taking him home and rocking his ever-loving world. The neighbors might even call the police.
Let them.
“Okay, this first song is for my niece, Marcy, the coolest kid in Hook.” He smiled down at the front row, where all the children, including Marcy, were lined up. “Did you guys know she taught me how to play the guitar?”
A chorus of laughter went up, from the children and parents alike. Several mothers relaxed a little when it became obvious Sarge and Old News would be making the show kid-friendly. Jasmine’s smile widened when he launched into an acoustic version of “Frosty the Snowman,” signaling to his bandmates to come in on the second verse, since clearly the band hadn’t rehearsed. Somehow that made it even more special. When a man leaned against the wall beside Jasmine, she recognized him from being in the parking lot with Sarge. He was tall, with a slight dusting of salt and pepper at his temples and stress lines around his eyes, but he couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. Handsome in a hard, distinguished way. Against a backdrop of ill-fitting Christmas sweaters, his polished appearance stood out, making him look more suitable for a polo match than a casual church function.
“Merry Christmas,” Jasmine murmured, unable to stop herself from facing the stage, where Sarge was now using his fingers to mimic antlers. “How do you know Sarge?”
The man followed her line of vision and dipped his chin. “I manage Old News. Although I’m not sure who’s managing who anymore.” He extended a hand. “I’m James Brandon. Nice to meet you.”
Jasmine shook James’s hand, seeing him in a new light. This man had spent years on the road with Sarge, probably making a boatload of cash in the process. How would he feel when Sarge decided to stay in Hook? “Nice to meet you, too.”
They were quiet for a time, but there was an air of discomfort between them. She could feel James building up to something and started to excuse herself, somehow knowing she wouldn’t want to know, but he beat her to the punch. “Look. Jasmine.” He straightened his collar. “I’m going to be blunt with you. If tonight turned out to be the final time Old News played together, I wouldn’t try to talk them out of it. I could walk away.” A glance toward the stage, specifically the drummer. “From most of it.”