Page 58 of Sweet Surrender

“You need to loosen up, Cookie. Wasn’t that part of you agreeing to do this?” He leans back so his face is within inches of mine and reminds me solidly of how damn handsome he is. “To live a little? To not be normal?”

“Wanting to be photographed in a bikini is not living a little, Jase. It’s terrifying.”

“No, but not giving a fuck is.” He winks and then throws his head back and laughs. “So let’s go. Lesson number one in Operation Live-A-Little—”

“Operation Live-A-Little?”

“Yeah.” Those boyish dimples deepen. “My way to make you live up to the rashness that made you accept my very romantic proposal.”

“We’re not doing this.” I roll my eyes.

“We so are,” he says, imitating me by rolling his eyes and then winking at me. “C’mon.” He tugs on my hand and brings me with him over to the drum set.

“I think you’re crazy,” I say but a smile is on my lips.

“Perfect. That’s better than being a dick or a prick or whatever you called me.” He takes a seat on the stool behind his drum set and holds out his hand to me. “You know you want me to show you how to play.”

Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. All I know is that I don’t want to go back to my room or the emptiness of the gorgeous house beyond.

“I don’t have a musical bone in my body.”

“Everybody does. It just takes the right person to bring it out of them.”

“And you think that would be you?”

He purses his lips as he studies me. “Your husband is a man of many talents, Hendrix.”

And the way he says those words, the double entendre, has my body heating.

This time when he tugs my hand, he does it so I stumble and am forced to sit on his lap. “Oh,” I yelp as he helps to position me, my legs straddling one of his thighs.

First the hug.

Now me on his lap.

Someone is playing with fire.

I’m not doing a particularly good job of remembering to separate church and state right now. I mean, what red-blooded, normal woman would when they’re sitting on Jase’s lap with his body framing hers?

His chin brushes over my shoulder and his breath ghosts against my ear, making me forget every reason I should get up and move. “It’s simple, really. Playing the drums. Just a bunch of motions with your body to create a desired outcome, both of which are guaranteed to make you feel.” He reaches to the table behind where we’re sitting and holds out two drumsticks. “Here.”

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter and hold the sticks awkwardly.

His chuckle vibrates against my spine even though I’m desperately trying to keep space between us. “It’s only ridiculous because you’re making it that way.”

His hands slide over mine and adjust my grip. They’re warm. Strong. A little rough from years of playing.

“Loosen up, Cookie,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “They’re not weapons.”

I scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Ah, yes. The serial killer notion returns.” He chuckles, and the sound wraps around me like a song. “You’re going to have to let me lead you. Help you. Control your movements. Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” I don’t trust myself to speak. I’m so very aware of his every breath and my every nerve.

“The snare. The hi-hat. Kick drum . . .” he continues with his quick lesson of the various parts to the set, using our connected hands to point to each one as he goes.

“You think I’m going to actually remember this?”