His dark lashes are wet and his brown eyes are lined with worry. He’s looking at me as if I might fall to pieces at any moment. I want to reassure him. To comfort him, as crazy as that sounds.
“I’m OK, Tyler. No permanent damage.”
“It looks bad.” His voice is hoarse; he was probably every bit as scared as I was.
“I’ll heal. Maybe there won’t even be scars.”
I look down at my kneecaps and I doubt it. They’re a pulp from the rough, gravel-strewn asphalt where I fell. My palms aren’t quite so bad but my chin took a definite beating. I’m not looking forward to seeing a mirror.
Tyler stares at my knees and he bends, squatting to see them closer. Like he did Tuesday night, he extends a single finger to touch my knee, carefully skirting the bloody mess and sending more shivers through me as he traces the side of my leg along unbroken skin.
“That scared the shit out of me,” he confesses and straightens up, shaking his head as if to clear the memory from his mind. “I saw you go down. I saw the fence knock you down and people just jump on top of it. I saw the security guards too far away to do anything about it.”
I wrap my arms around his waist and press my face to his chest in pure gratitude. “Thank you. You saved me.”
Tyler stands stiff and awkward, until his body relaxes and his arms circle me. We stand together on the bridge for a long minute and I listen to his heartbeat. It’s racing faster than mine, I think.
I pull Tyler tighter against me and snuggle into him, his green button-down shirt soft, his skin smelling of sweat, soap and spice, and his muscles hot and hard beneath his thin shirt.
Tyler saved me and it was an incredibly stupid thing to do. He could have been crushed too. He could have been mauled by a bunch of fans. But he jumped off the stage and pulled me out from where I was suffocating.
I draw a deep, ragged breath of relief as I keep holding Tyler, and I feel his halting breath as he responds. I’m aware that people are passing us on the bridge deck but I’ll ignore them as long as I can.
I’m in a perfect little bubble, throbbing knees and chin aside, and I’m not ready to leave it just yet.
A whistle and a boom pops the bubble. I hear a crackle and a sizzle and look up to see a firework’s white sparks rain down. More whistle-boom-crackle-sizzle and umbrellas of color splash across the sky.
I sneak a glance up at Tyler and he’s smiling. “Good timing.” I grin up at him as explosions light up the night.
“Best seat in the house,” he agrees, still holding me tightly against his chest. He pivots our bodies so we’re both looking to the side to see the show. “You in a rush to get home?”
“No. I thought you were.” His manic pace leaving the concert venue certainly suggested it.
“I was just freaked out about what happened. I wanted to get away, get you somewhere to get fixed up.” He looks at me closely. “Are you really OK? I didn’t think we’d be able to find a cab right by the concert, but I probably shouldn’t have made you walk. I’m sorry.”
I squeeze him a little more tightly and love how our bodies fit together, his so much longer than mine but each curve on my body fitting with the planes of his, as if we are two pieces of a puzzle. As if we are meant to go together.
“I’m going to be fine, Tyler. I’m tougher than I look.” The words are truer than he could know. “Just because I’m short doesn’t mean I’m fragile.”
“Short-ish.” He chuckles and I remember our conversation from his loft. “You just prove good things come in small packages.”
Tyler thinks I’m good? When I left his loft two days ago he implied I was a bad friend and a back-stabbing reporter.
I’m afraid he’s only being nice because of what’s happened tonight and I frown. I can’t blame him if he thinks bad things about me. I did stab my friend in the back. I deserve it.
No amount of apology can erase my record. Only goodness, like Beryl said. Only right choices, from now forward.
A crackle close to my ear rattles me and I look up to see an enormous firework rain down on us. The proximity scares me and my body’s on high alert as each sizzling point of light falls, twinkles, and burns out.
Tyler looks down at me and our eyes lock, my neck craned back and my mouth inches from his. I want to explore his face, his soft lips, his smooth jaw, but instead I let his eyes hold me as tightly as his arms are around me. We reestablish the connection that took my breath away when he was onstage. When he looked at me then, I felt like an audience of one.
Tyler drops his head lower and if I stand on tiptoe, I could reach his lips. But he’s not doing what every other guy does—tongue down my throat, hands on my tits, the sex-charged promise of more.
I want more. The heat in his expression has me boiling over with desire, and after a night like tonight, sweaty sex and several shots of booze would definitely help me sleep better.
Maybe you’re not good enough for him. The guilty voice in my head shames me again. It crushes me. When I was under the spell of Dixon Ross, that fear hung over my head like a spider dangling from the ceiling.
I feel Tyler’s breath against my face as the fireworks continue around us, but I don’t want to make the next move. I can’t. I tried that once and he rejected me, and I can’t take the humiliation of it happening again.
But I also can’t take the fact that Tyler’s been an incredible tease, on one hand touching my kneecap like he wants to put his hands everywhere on me, and on the other hand pushing me away.
The reversals are maddening.
I still my body against his, fight off the trembling, fight against my desire to grab his face and devour him. He has to make this move. I have to know he wants it as much as I do.
I swallow and involuntarily lick my dry lips, mentally kicking myself for the come-hither gesture. But Tyler’s eyes darken, his pupils dilate, and his gaze drops to my mouth. His lips find mine with a whispering touch, and he’s so gentle I’m afraid to kiss him back and frighten him away.
He deepens our kiss and I moan—I swear I did not mean to do that!—and I open my mouth to his exploring. I pull Tyler closer to me and my hands move up his back on either side of the guitar and backpack. His tongue traces gentle strokes at the corners of my mouth.
I try to be still, try to contain my enthusiasm, but when I feel his teeth nibbling my lip, a dam breaks inside me and I kiss him back with a hunger that shocks us both.
I unwind into Tyler’s arms, letting all of the night’s tension go. Feeling me pliable in his embrace is all the encouragement Tyler needs to pull me closer to him.
I let his tongue stroke mine and I savor his taste, like mint and marshmallow. I recognize the latter as Vocal EZE, a throat spray that many performers use.
I wrap my arms around his neck as he runs his fingers up and down my back and finally lifts me off my feet in a slow spin. We kiss like movie stars. Or rock stars. One of us, anyway.
When we break, I’m breathless.
And Tyler? He’s actually … panting. Oh, Lord, what have I done to this guy? He doesn’t let go of me as we take this much-needed breath.
“You are … you are just …” Tyler opens and closes his mouth like a fish, struggling for words. It is adorably awkward and I want to rescue him.
“You’re my hero,” I whisper, and put his hand against my heart. It rests just above my breast with my hand on top of it. I feel the heat from Tyler’s hand through my top and I hope he can feel my heart beating hard in my chest.
Tyler reaches for my other hand and I grimace in pain. He rolls my wrist over and sees bloody scrapes and dirt embedded along the base of my palm where I hit hardest when I fell.