“You wrote a song,” I say, still marveling. “A great one.”
“Wewrote it, and we’re not finished yet.”His fingertips skim across my ribcage. “Still got room for the rest of the album all over this beautiful body.”
The rest of the album.
“Are you saying what I think you're saying?”
“Mm.” His eyes are dark and steady on mine.
“Walker Rhodes is making a new album.” I can hear the delight rising in my own voice and I don't bother tamping it down.
“Sadie Sullivan,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Don’t tell me you’re turning into my number one fan?”
I take his face in my hands, those green eyes going dark right before I close mine, and I kiss him hard.
“Jury’s still out,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Let’s see how the rest of this album turns out.”
He laughs, low and warm, then reaches out and traces his thumb slowly along my collarbone, over the words he wrote there, down to the curve of my breast.
“Lucky for us,” he says, “I just found my new favorite way to write. And my all-time favorite subject.”
From my collarbone, he kisses down to my breasts.
“You can't write a whole album about my tits,” I tease.
He sucks my nipple between his lips and releases it with a pop, grinning insolently. “Try me, baby.”
His eyes roam over me as I straddle him, topless and covered in his song lyrics. The heat in his eyes smolders into something deeper, and he reaches for the marker.
I watch as he slowly, carefully draws a heart on my ribcage.
I laugh. As the fireworks continue in the sky, it feels like there are pyrotechnics going off everywhere inside me too.
“Are we in sixth grade?” I say, unable to hide my giddy smile.
“Seventh, at least.” He writes something else, then caps the marker, completely unrepentant. “I've got range.”
I look down at the heart on my ribs. There are letters he’s written inside, and since I’m looking at it upside down, it takes me a second to decipher it.
When I do, my breath catches in my throat.
WR + SS
4 ever
God. This man. My grumpy, guarded, impossible cowboy. Full of surprises.
“Walker Rhodes.” I shake my head. “Country music's biggest star. Drawing hearts on girls like it's the last days of summer camp.”
“Just the one girl.” His eyes find mine. “Just the one summer.”
I feel those words move through me like the first sip of whiskey. Warms you up at the same time it burns.
He's not pretending this is more than it is. He's also not pretending it's less.
“Is this your version of ‘property of Walker Rhodes?’” I say, throat tight.
He looks at the heart on my ribs. Then at me. “This says it better.”
