One- Jordin
The bass wasn’t just a sound; it was a physical presence—a deep, throbbing heartbeat that climbed up through the floor, vibrating through the soles of my shoes and settling deep in the marrow of my bones. It traveled up my thick thighs and created a relentless, intimate pulse that made the silky fabric of my halter dress feel like a second skin. I tried to anchor myself, leaning back in the leather chair, crossing my legs, using my notepad as a flimsy shield against the energy in the room.
And all that energy was coming from him.
Ciarán was sprawled on the couch like a king, legs spread, head nodding to the rhythm. His shirt was open, a deliberate tease, revealing a canvas of dark ink that mapped out a history I wasn’t supposed to wonder about. I loved my husband. So Ciarán was not supposed to be an option. Not a thought. Not a temptation.
But temptation had a way of making itself comfortable—like him.
I told myself it was the music that pulled me in, not him.
But it was him.
For three months, his gaze had been constant. I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t affecting me. But like I said, I loved my husband.
He was tempting though. I swallowed, fingers tightening around the arm of my chair.
Ciarán caught me watching. He tilted his head back. His voice, when it came, was a low roll of thunder that matched the track’s beat.
“You know you look good in that dress, right?”
The words slid over me, warm and dangerous. I dropped my eyes back to my notepad, staring at it until the words blurred.
“Ciarán, focus on the music,” I said, trying to sound firm—but there was a breathy edge to my tone. “We gotta finish this verse tonight.”
He laughed, and I looked up. His grin in my direction was wicked, filthy. And God, I hated how my body responded. Liquid heat spiraled down my spine, pooling low in my belly, making me shift against the cool leather beneath me.
I sighed. I was ready to go home. I’d blame my reaction to him on missing my husband, because men like Ciarán weren’t even my type.
He was younger, a storm of trouble wrapped in flawless dark skin and a jawline that could cut glass. A fuckboy with a legendary temper and a roster of Instagram models. Even if I wasn’t married, I wouldn’t fuck with him.
But the way he looked at me… it wasn’t just looking. It was consuming.
I couldn’t help how it made me feel. But I wasn’t stupid enough to fuck up my marriage over a little sexual chemistry.
He interrupted my thoughts. “If I hit these notes right,” he whispered, leaning forward, letting the scent of his cologne and pure male confidence wrap around me. I forced myself not to breathe him in.
“Can we get a drink after? I been wanting to take you out, but you stay running from me like you scared.”
The laugh that escaped me was thin and frayed with disbelief. He was bold. Terrifyingly attractive.
“I’m married,” I said, enunciating both syllables.
He leaned closer, his grin reckless.
“I know. But if it’s to the white boy you always show up with at industry parties, it don’t count. Nobody scared of him.”
This time, my laugh was louder.
“You say that until you got that white boy knocking at your door. He’s crazy, Ciarán. And I’m not exaggerating. Oak don’t play about me.”
His eyes darkened with a flicker of something—amusement, maybe a challenge.
“So your pussy that good?”
I shook my head, a fresh wave of heat flushing my skin.
“If that’s what you got from what I said…” I pointed a trembling finger toward the vocal booth, a desperate attempt to reclaim control. “Take these and get your ass in there and sing.”
