An angsty new trilogy is kicking off this week from author Piper Lawson, and I have an excerpt for you. And if you’re familiar with the Wicked series, the heroine in this new trilogy is the daughter of rock legend Jax Jamieson, while the hero is his protégée.
“This is for you.” I set the guitar case on the bed. “Because you believed in me enough to help me. And I believe in you.”
Tyler opens the zipper with calm hands, pulling back the soft top to reveal the guitar inside. His long exhale has the hair standing up on my neck. “Annie. I can’t accept this.”
He tries to shut the case, and I grab the top at the same time.
“You know,” I say, my voice rising, “most of the time, I let you be an idiot.”
His jaw tics, eyes flashing. “I’m an idiot?”
“Yes, because you won’t take the things you want. This guitar is made for a man who trusts himself enough to take what the world gives him and then some.”
He doesn’t release my hand as I stare at him, my eyes burning as the weight of the last few days builds up on me.
“Do what you want with it, but I won’t take it back. You can break it or sell it or throw it in the pool. But if you’re going to throw it in the pool, at least wait until I’m gone.” My heart twists at that sickening thought. “It’s so beautiful—”
“You’re so beautiful,” he interrupts. “Do you know that? How beautiful you are?”
My heart thuds as he steps closer, stops in front of me.
Tyler fills my vision, his sculpted chest and shoulders making me feel small but not weak.
“You’re worth a thousand of every person in that school,” he states. “When they’re assholes, you fight back. You survive everything that gets thrown your way.”
Tyler cups my face, that firm, perfect mouth descending toward my cheek. The first brush of his lips on my skin sends a jolt of awareness through me, electricity that has my lips buzzing and my breasts aching.
I circle his wrists with my fingers to keep him from moving away.
He doesn’t. He moves to the other side of my face, and as his lips descend, I lift my face.
This time his lips brush the corner of mine, cling for a moment. It’s open-mouthed and deliciously sexy.
My fingers creep up his face, curl in his hair. I tug at the ends of the soft strands. Not hard enough to bring his mouth to mine, but enough that when my tongue darts out to wet my suddenly-dry lips, I taste him too.
I want him closer. Want more of him, all of him.
Holding back nearly breaks me, takes every ounce of control I have plus some borrowed from tomorrow, next week, next year. Tears sting the backs of my eyes from the effort until one spills over, tracing a bold path down my cheek.
“You can’t kiss me now,” I breathe.
“I want our first kiss to be perfect.” I reach up to swipe at the tear, the evidence that this isn’t going how it’s supposed to.
“Really?” His breath dances across my lips and his warm palms cup my neck. “Because I just fucking want it.”