This scene was deleted from the original manuscript of
by Olivia Cunning
Myrna wasn’t getting anything accomplished. Her entire reason for returning home–to get caught up on her research–wasn’t possible with Brian around. The man got bored way too easily. He watched some sports and Looney Tunes on TV (not quietly, he talked to the cartoon characters and yelled at the players the entire time), worked his way through her guitar riff collection looking for inspiration, declared he needed to utilize his muse and coaxed her into having sex in every nook and cranny of her apartment–she’d found the top of the washing machine during the spin cycle to be the most exciting so far. He was getting a lot of music written, and faxing it to Trey in Los Angeles, but she couldn’t get anything done.
Jeremy hadn’t called her in the two days since Brian had arrived. She could function without worrying about him constantly now, and she’d even opened the blinds and curtains in the living room. Not the bedroom though. She couldn’t stand the thought of him watching her while she slept. And if Jeremy was watching her anywhere in the apartment, he was getting an eyeful. Brian was insatiable.
He was currently digging through her hall closet looking for new forms of entertainment and pretending not to pout because she had refused to have sex with him until she finished entering the data from three weeks ago. Because according to Brian, he didn’t pout. Uh-huh. Sure.
She watched him pull a red and black plastic guitar from the deep recesses of the closet. She gave him grief about distracting her, but most of it was her fault. She liked looking at him. Liked it when he gave Wile E. Coyote advice. Liked it when he got excited by a home run, jumped to his feet and dumped his popcorn on the floor. Liked the way he put ketchup on everything and didn’t complain when she overcooked his scrambled eggs. Liked the way he looked at her when he decided it was time to compose yet another piece of music. She couldn’t think of a single reason why she shouldn’t be consumed by the man. Except fear.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding up the miniature plastic guitar. “Do you have a video game system? Have you been holding out on me?”
“It’s in there somewhere. I had to put it away because I’d waste hours playing the damned thing.”
She set her data aside again and helped him find the console, wires, controllers and games. She actually had a lot of games. She wished she would have thought to keep him occupied with the game system earlier.
“I didn’t know you were a gamer,” he said. He looked pleased. As if he’d just discovered a treasure map and the X was standing right beside him.
“Were, yes. I had to break my addiction to games.”
“You don’t want to play with me?”
“Maybe later. I still need to get that data entered.”
He pouted, though he continually claimed he never pouted. “I think you need to retire.”
“Retire? How am I supposed to support myself if I retire? I’m only thirty-five years old.”
“I’ll support you.”
She rolled her eyes at him and shook her head. She shoved the video game system into his gut. “Go play,” she demanded. “I’ve got to get my work done. We’ll be back on the road in six days and then I’ll have even more data to enter.”
He kissed her, his tongue thrusting into her mouth to caress the tip of her tongue. Her knees went weak and the expected heat, moisture, and achiness settled between her thighs. He drew away and gazed down at her, his eyes glassy with passion.
“When I’m done entering my data, we’ll play strip Guitar Hero,” she promised.
“Strip Guitar Hero? Never heard of it.”
“I just made it up. You better go practice. You don’t want to be totally naked, while I’m still fully clothed.”
“You think you can beat me?”
She grinned. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
She forced herself to concentrate on her work and not laugh at her lover as every note he missed on the game was met with a different expletive.
“I think a real guitar is easier than this piece of shit,” he growled. Missed another note. “Son of a fuck!”
He’d started mixing expletives at this point.
“Maybe you should play the Sinners song on there,” she suggested.
“I’ll make a real ass of myself then,” he said. “Unable to play my own composition on a frickin’ plastic guitar.” Missed a note. “Assbitch!”
“You should try easy mode until you get used to it.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Of course not.”
“You think you can do better?”
“I think my seven-year-old nephew can do better.”
“Low blow, Myr.”
“Besides I didn’t ask about your nephew. I asked if you can do better.”
She sighed and shoved her data aside. Again. She’d never get this finished with him around. She grabbed her spare guitar controller–a black and white one–and plugged it into the console.
“Prepare to get naked,” she said.
“I’m always prepared to get naked when you’re around.” He leaned over and kissed her temple.
She was a little out of practice, but still better than he was. She beat him at every song they played. She requested he remove his belt first, both boots, both socks, and his shirt. He was down to his jeans and boxers while she was still fully clothed. He took to cheating–licking her face during any sustained note. Free Bird had a lot of sustained notes. She wiped her face on her shoulder again and missed another string of notes.
“Knock it off,” she growled. “Stop being a sore loser.”
When the song finally ended, he came out two percent in the lead. “Hah, I beat you! I want your panties.”
“I have to remove my pants to take my panties off.”
“Exactly. I beat you. Beat you. Beat yoooou.” He pointed at her. “You have to do what I say.”
“You’re a sore loser, but you’re an even worse winner,” she grumbled.
She peeled her yoga pants down her thighs. While she was removing her panties, Brian stole her pants and stuffed them down the front of his loose-fitting jeans.
“Hey,” she complained, “give those back.”
She stuck her hand in his pants, and he caught her wrist. “I think they’re deeper than that,” he said, guiding her hand into his boxer shorts.
Her fingers brushed the warm, smooth skin of his cock. She stroked him until he grew hard in her hand and then moved away to start the next song. Apparently, having a hard-on improved his skills, or standing in the living room with a bare ass broke her concentration. Whatever the reason, he beat her again.
“Why didn’t you tell me to strum both up and down?” he asked.
“You weren’t strumming up and down? No wonder you keep missing notes.”
He grinned. “I want your bra.”
She weaseled out of her bra without removing her shirt and tossed it at him. “Heh, you thought you could steal my shirt too, didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I can beat you now.”
When he figured out that he could use hammer-ons and pull-offs in the next song, Myrna realized she’d never get him out of his pants. At least not by beating him at Guitar Hero.
“Well, I’m butt-assed-naked now,” she said, peeling her shirt off over her head and hitting him in the side of the head with it. “You win.”
He pulled her pants out of his jeans and tossed them at her. “You still have your pants.”
“You sure are cocky now that you don’t have to resort to cheating,” she grumbled.
“I’m having fun,” he said. He started the next song.
She scowled. “Are you saying you’d rather play this game than get me naked?”
“No, I’m saying I want to get you naked by beating you. Which is surprisingly easy.” He grinned at her.
Apparently, it was easy. She’d been naked through several songs when she finally got him out of his jeans. When she beat him on the next song, and he shed his boxers, she suspected he let her win.
“Did you let me win?” she asked.
“Maybe. Now we play for sexual favors, right? I’d say you already owe me a few.”
“No one said we were playing for sexual favors,” she said, taking her guitar off over her head.
“You don’t wanna?” His non-existent pout made an appearance.
“I have work to do,” she reminded him.
He shrugged and switched to one player mode. She sat on the sofa, still ass-naked, and reached for her laptop. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the other naked ass in the room. While she attempted to concentrate on the task at hand, he played his video game nonchalantly in the buff. Damn him anyway. She set her computer aside and moved to stand behind him. She ran her fingers over his hard chest, flat belly, the ridges of his hipbones. She loved his narrow hips, especially when they were nestled between her thighs. She stroked his hips up and down with the palms of her hand, then shifted her touch to his firm buttocks. She dropped a kiss on his shoulder blade.
“I thought you had work to do,” he murmured.
She didn’t take his bait, just kept touching him. Sliding both hands up his back, over his shoulders, down his hard biceps. She pinched his nipples between her thumb and the side of her index finger, and then raked her nails down his belly. He groaned, his plastic guitar now resting at an odd angle as he grew hard with desire. She grinned to herself, hands moving over his hips and inner thighs, but avoiding his cock.
Song Failed, the TV announced.
“You’re not doing so well, Master Sinclair,” she teased.
He sucked a breath through his teeth as her hands moved over his hips and back to his buttocks. He started the next song, playing with renewed concentration. She circled his body and kissed his jaw, fingers trailing up his spine as she gazed up at him, suggestion in her eyes.
“I can’t see,” he complained, craning his neck to see the TV over her head.
“Sorry,” she said, dropping to her knees in front of him. She didn’t touch him but he missed a long string of notes when she eased his guitar up to reveal the effect her teasing had on him. She gripped his buttocks with both hands and directed his engorged flesh into her mouth.
“Ah,” he breathed in. The plastic guitar landed somewhere on the floor and his fingers twisted in her hair to drive himself deeper.
As hard as it was for her to ignore him, she knew he couldn’t ignore her either. She wouldn’t allow it.
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