Page 59 of Sweet Surrender

“You’re a drummer’s wife, knowing them is a requirement.”

I start to say something, to make a quip much like he does, but then, without warning, he lifts my hands and brings them down in a steady rhythm.

My words fail as I try to follow what he’s doing.

It’s useless and yet we’re creating a rhythm. One that I actually like. I’m under no pretenses that my skill has anything to do with the sound—he’s the one moving my hands with the tempo and location to hit—and yet I have an odd sense of satisfaction.

The sharp crack of the snare drum jolts through me as we hit it and then he drops our hands to the tops of my thighs.

“See?” he says, his lips brushing just behind my ear. “Not so hard.”

Easy for him to say. My body is hyperaware of him—his chest pressed against my back, the solid weight of his thighs beneath mine, the slow inhale and exhale that keeps time better than any metronome could.

“All right, let’s try it again. Another something simple.” He guides my left hand to the hi-hat, my right to the snare—at least I think that’s what they’re called. My lesson was quick and his presence is distracting. “One, two, three, four—” He taps his foot against the pedal, the steady thud of it matches the beat he whispers against my skin.

I try to follow along, but I’m awkward and my arms move like I’m fighting off an invisible attacker with zero grace.

Jase groans playfully and chuckles. “Jesus, woman, you’re as stiff as a board.”

“Says the musical prodigy who can probably just hear something and play it,” I say.

“No. That’s Rocket,” he says, referring to his bandmate. He shifts slightly, and I jolt when his fingers graze my waist. “See? There’s your problem.” His voice dips lower, teasing. “You’re too tense, Cookie. Drumming’s all about letting go. Feeling it.”

I huff. This is clearly not my forte. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

He tightens his grip around my waist and pulls me flush against his chest—the exact position I was avoiding.

Heat blooms across my skin as chills tighten my scalp.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Stop thinking.”

His hand skims up my arm, causing my breath to hitch. He adjusts my grip again, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

“Close your eyes,” he says quietly.

I hesitate.

Jase presses a lazy, barely-there kiss to my shoulder, but it’s enough to make me question if he did or didn’t. “Trust me,” he murmurs.

That’s the problem. I do.

But last time I trusted someone I was blindsided.

I let out a shaky breath and surrender as my world shrinks to the warmth of him behind me and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my back.

“Now,” he whispers, “this time just feel it.”

I strike the snare, then the hi-hat, my body falling into the pattern he set. Jase’s voice guides me through each motion, each calamity of notes that sounds nothing like his did.

Or maybe it does. I can’t tell because Jase is the master of distraction with how his lips brush against my temple as he continues to count out the beat.

For a short span of time, I finally hit the components, the pieces, the whatever the sequence is called, in the right order and it sounds kind of decent.

“Attagirl,” he says. A smile tugs at my lips as his arms tighten around me ever so slightly. “Told you I could teach you.”

I turn my head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes flicker with something dangerous. Something enticing.

Something I’ve told myself is simple flirtation from a playful man and nothing more.