Page 55 of The Downside of Love
“Let It Be.”
“Oh, I was hoping they’d play this song.” Leaning deeper into Stryder, I rest my head against him and relax, letting the song speak to me. The lyrics are too powerful for this moment, when Stryder is wrapped around me, his presence and close proximity doing something unexpected to my body, causing my stomach to flip, my heart to sputter, my mind to wander.
What would it be like if I was his?
Would this be what weekends would be like? Lounging together in a park, listening to music?
Would it be this easy? To be with him?
God, what am I even thinking?
Instead of focusing on all the raging emotions flowing through me, I close my eyes and listen to the song like I used to so many years ago.
Let It Be.
Just let it be, Rory. Don’t overthink it, just let it happen.
Stryder’s grip on me grows tighter, the corded muscle of his arms tightening, flexing as I shift against him. Our bodies entwined together, the intimate positionnotunnoticed by people around us. Other women look over, jealousy in their eyes when they take in six-foot-two, black-haired, blue-eyed Stryder Sheppard.
Feeling territorial—as a friend, of course—I nuzzle my head against him, taking his arm and protectively draping it across me as a hug to keep me warm.
He hums into my ear, the noise vibrating down my spine, warming me inside.
And then the most unexpected thing happens.
Stryder’s voice filters through the air, his alto tone soothing and beautiful. When I lift my head to face him, he just smiles at me and continues to sing softly so only I can hear him. A private concert for me.
His voice grips my heart, seizing it in my chest.What’s happening here?
It’s sweet, a moment I never dreamed of having with this man, this tough, rugged, and damaged man. But here he is, singing in my ear, arms wrapped around me, heart beating in sync with mine.
It’s almost perfect.
And when the song changes, the tempo picking up, the familiar guitar chords for “I Want to HoldYour Hand” coming through the speakers, I can’t help but smile.
Turning toward him, I say, “It’s your song.”
His smile is so damn big, so happy, that I have to look away . . . because I very well might cry.
This is him. This is the Stryder I met at the party.
Fun and brilliantly charming. The Stryder I’ve wanted so desperately to come back, the Stryder who won me over as a man I wanted to know when I first met him.And he’s directing that gorgeous smile at me.
Gripping me tighter, his lips move close to my ear as he sings the lyrics, a pep in his voice, the memorized words falling easily. He has a beautiful voice, and I doubt he’s shared this with anyone else since he’s so careful about who he lets in on his real character. I feel privileged to have him so focused on making sure I’m having a good time and to be exposed to a little piece of him I’ve never experienced before.
I’m . . . happy.
I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in a very long time. It’s innocent fun and exciting and electrifying all at the same time.
I’m unsure of what’s going to happen next, what move he might make, and I wait on bated breath to find out. As much as I’d like to believe we’re really only close friends, a part of me can’t help but wonder,what if we were more?
Stryder’s large hand moves down my arm, soft with a few rough spots grazing over my skin. Close to my ear, he sings the words made popular by The Beatles. The wordshold your hand, sticking in my mind as, his hand floats farther down my arm. His fingers entwine with mine, so warm and protective. His cheek is pressed against my face, his heart hammering into my back. His lips are a whisper from my cheek, erupting goosebumps all over my body.
Losing all train of thought, my mind is a whirl, my pulse erratic with the feel of Stryder holding me.
Holding my hand.
Entwining every piece of me with a piece of himself.
