Wicked Beat

“Sounds fun.”

“We’ll stop by the shelter and sign up tomorrow.”

“I should sign up the guys too. I’m sure they aren’t doing anything important for Thanksgiving.” And they could protect him from Rebekah’s parents, if necessary.

“Perfect. I’ll call my mom right now and let her know we’ll be over for dinner.”

She took her cell phone out of her pocket and dialed her parent’s house.

“Dave!” she said when someone picked up on the other end. “How are you?”

Eric could hear a bit of Dave’s voice, but not his words. “I can’t wait to see you,” she said. “Can you let Mom know I’ll be over for dinner Saturday evening?”

Eric stiffened. Saturday? Saturday wasn’t Thanksgiving.

“Yeah, and tell her I’m bringing someone special.” She paused. “Yeah, it’s a guy. No, I’m not telling you who. You’ll have to wait and see.”

She shifted her body to hold Eric down when he tried to get up.

“I’ve got to go. Don’t forget to tell Mom.” She paused. “I love you too.”

“Saturday?” Eric said. “I thought I was going to meet them on Thanksgiving.”

“You’ll see them again on Thanksgiving. You’ll probably see a lot of them. They’re my family, and you’re my guy.”

Oh no, she was using that smile he couldn’t resist. Stick to your guns, Eric. You can do it. Tell her you’re busy Saturday. “I’ve got stuff… to do… on Saturday.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Work on the car!” he said as he fabricated his excuse.

“We’ll work on the car tonight and tomorrow. Eric, this is important. Please say you’ll come with me.”

He sighed heavily. “Okay. I’ll go. But I’m warning you again. Parents do not like me.”

“Doesn’t matter. I like you.”

She smiled and slid up his body to kiss him. Soon her tender kiss turned deep and passionate. “Did you bring any costumes in the house?”

“Just the rock star one.”

Her breath caught, and he could practically see her inventing a naughty scenario. Dear lord, he loved this woman. He’d never let anything take her away from him.

“Will you play your drums for me?” she asked.

“Why?” He chuckled. “You hear me play them practically every night.”

“Yeah, from the middle of a stadium as part of my job. I want to show you what I want to do to you when you’re onstage playing before a crowd of thousands.”

“You want to do stuff to me when I’m onstage?” He shifted his head to look at her.

“You’re not the only one with fantasies, you know.”

“Tell me.”

“How about you start playing and I’ll show you.”

As if he could say no to that. He climbed to his feet and sat behind his ancient drum kit. The one he’d found in a junkyard in the eighth grade and hid in an abandoned warehouse because his foster family at the time had insisted rock ’n’ roll was the devil’s music. He hadn’t lasted long in that house, but he’d held onto the drums for over fourteen years.

“Did you say your dad was a minister?” Eric reached for his drumsticks.

“You did not just ask me about my dad when I’m thinking about jumping your bones, did you?”

He glanced over his shoulder sheepishly to find her scowling. “Sorry.”

“Yes, he’s a minister.”

Eric cringed.

Rebekah lifted an eyebrow. “You better start looking sexy, or I’m going in the garage to start tearing an engine apart.”

He shed his leather vest and peeled off his white T-shirt. “How’s that?”

“It’s a start.”

He found the bass drum pedal with one foot and the high-hat pedal with his other. It had been awhile since he’d only used one bass drum. He used three when he played onstage. “What should I play?”

“Something slow and sexy.”

“You know I don’t do slow, sweetheart.”

“Try.”

Since there was only one Sinners’ song that was remotely slow, their ballad “Goodbye Is Not Forever,” he started with that. When Rebekah pressed against his back and let her hands roam over his chest and belly, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the mixture of rhythm and sensation. He soon abandoned the song and let her touch dictate how he thumped the bass, tapped his cymbals, hit the snare, or followed a progression around the various tom-toms in his kit. He usually wailed on the skins as hard as possible, but he kept his pounding to a minimum so it wasn’t uncomfortably loud. Just rhythmic.

Sensual.

Rebekah’s lips pressed against his shoulder. She kissed a path to his ear, matching his tempo with each sucking press of her lips.

Eric shuddered. Mixing his three loves—music, sex, and this woman—stole his ability to think beyond the moment. The rhythm consumed him. He allowed it to rule his current existence.

Rebekah’s fingers found the tiny hoop in his left nipple. She rubbed her thumb over it, tugging it gently with the beat he set.

His c**k began to rise, hardening in pulsations that matched the rhythm. When Rebekah drew away, he gasped in protest.

Her T-shirt landed on one cymbal, her bra on his cowbell. Then she was against his back again, the hardened tips of her naked br**sts pressing into his flesh. She rocked against him, rubbing her ni**les into his back. “I love the tattoo on your back,” she said.

She probably wouldn’t if she knew what the fiery crack in the earth and the demon hand emerging from it symbolized.

Her lips returned to his neck. Her left thumb to his piercing. Her right hand slid south. She released the top button of his fly on one beat, the next button on the next beat. When his fly was open, she slid her hand into his underwear and freed his cock.

He’d already lost himself to the beat, didn’t think it was possible to feel it more than he already did, but her hand circled him and began to move along his length. Up on one beat, down on the next. There wasn’t a solitary cell in his body that wasn’t consumed by the rhythm.

“Rebekah,” he gasped.

“Shhhhh. Just feel it. What your rhythm does to me. What I want to do to you every time you play.”

Man, he would never play without a boner again.

He increased his tempo slightly, so she’d stroke his c**k faster. She followed his lead without hesitation.