“I’m sorry?” Shock strains my voice.
“One of the songs you brought in today sounded familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. Covers aren’t illegal, but taking lyrics and claiming them as your own is.” She looks down her nose at me. “We don’t take on clients who are a copyright lawsuit waiting to happen.”
My ears ring, heat claws at my face. “I assure you, I’ve never stolen lyrics from another artist. I take great care in ensuring my songs are authentic.”
She isn’t convinced and flicks her gaze to the door, dismissing me. Her colleague stands there awkwardly. I should go, leaving my bridges unburned, but that’s not in my nature.
“Can I ask who you’re claiming I stole it from?”
She rolls her eyes. “We’re not at liberty to disclose any information.”
“Can you tell me which song?”
She huffs, and it takes all my willpower to keep my cool. “The breakup song.”
I’ve only written one breakup song, preferring songs about love and redemption. That song is 100 percent not stolen. I save my breath, knowing an argument will get me nowhere. Itry to remember if I’ve ever posted the song to my page or performed it for an audience and come up blank.
“Thank you again for your time. Have a good day.”
Out the door, past the receptionist, through the parking lot, I keep it together. It’s only when I climb into my car that the hold on my frustration falters. I breathe slowly through my nose as hot tears of embarrassment prick my eyes.
God, what a steaming pile of crap.
There are zero silver linings to be found.
With no appetite to listen to the radio, the drive home is silent. I ignore texts from the girls and Warren, needing to wrap my head around what happened before anything. Not even the sight of my little cottage cheers me up.
I flop onto my bed, a bristling ball of overworked brain cells and frustration. Too amped up for a nap. Too tired to move a muscle. I count the number of panels in the tongue-and-groove ceiling until my mind wanders.
A flash of brown eyes and broad shoulders fills my vision. Exactly the distraction I need. He wasn’t wearing his suspenders yesterday, but a girl can reimagine. The temptation to rub against him like a cat when I was shaving his beard was overwhelming. Beingnearhim is overwhelming.
His reaction was abrupt but also welcome, because if we spent another minute pressed against each other in my tiny bathroom, one of us—probably me—would’ve crossed a boundary.
Talia was right: I need to get laid.
Yeah, because who’s going to want to sleep with a pregnant lady?
Suddenly, I remember the email that popped into my inbox this morning from the erotic audio app I’m subscribed to, informing me of a new episode—Strict,older male.
Sold.
Headphones connected and Do Not Disturb mode activated, I settle into my pillows and shimmy out of my leggings, leaving me in my panties and oversized sweater. My libido has returned full force in the last week and a little me time will do the trick in helping me forget today’s meeting.
I click Play, and a deep, spine tingling voice husks through the headphones.
“You’re not in charge tonight, baby girl. I want you on your knees, hands behind your back, pretty little mouth open.”
It can’t be helped; I’m too desperate for release to pretend I’m not imagining a certain firefighter. I remember how Warren gripped my hips, the rough pads of his fingers scratching my skin deliciously. How the coarse hairs of his beard tickled the insides of my thighs. The dark mop of hair moving between my spread legs. The stretch of his cock as he filled me for the first time.
I slip my hand under the waistband of my underwear, finding my center slick and warm, and move in slow, concise circles.
“Open. Take me every inch.”
My eyes clamp closed. I can taste the peak of my pleasure, sweet and tempting on the tip of my tongue. I spread myself wider with my other hand, increasing the pressure.
“Gag on it. That’s it. You’re doing so well.”
Legs shaking, back arching, moans rising, I’m almost there.
