Free Resisting the Musician (a Head Over Heels Novel) (Entangled Indulgence) by Ally Blake Page A

timing. Maybe the last remnants of scotch in his veins and osso bucco warming his belly came together to create some kind of short circuit in his brain. Maybe it was the fact that in rubbing him the wrong way, the sparks she enkindled bordered on pyrotechnic.
    It didn’t matter. The thought was out there now.
    She hit the living room and perched on the edge of his couch, lush and warm-blooded, and when she opened the guitar case it revealed classic black lining, thank everything good and holy .
    “Go Barbarella.”
    Oblivious to the battle being fought inside his head, Lori followed the direction of his gaze and asked, “Is that the company who made her?”
    Dash’s cheek twitched. “She’s a custom Alhambra—I bought her during our first pub tour through Spain. Her name is Barbarella.”
    “Dare I ask?”
    Barbarella was one of his oldest guitars, but not his first. Sofia—named after the girl he’d had a crush on when he’d been given his first guitar at the ripe old age of thirteen—was long gone; smashed against a speaker at one of The Rifts earlier pub gigs. Mourned deeply. Last time he’d had more than a sip of Dutch courage before performing.
    He watched as Lori slid the strap over her waves and tucked Barbarella onto her waist, leaving her long lithe legs bare below, and her breasts resting on top. “Barbarella was all about the curves.”
    “Of course it was.” Then, “Give me a minute to see if I can remember this, okay? Then we can get back to your terrible teaching.”
    “Done.” Dash forced himself to lean back on the couch when every part of him wanted to lean in, to drink in her scent, to glean an accidental touch or two.
    While Lori lined up the music in neat straight lines and then blinked at it as if it were a dragon about to devour her whole. Lucky dragon. For it was some kind of woman sitting on his couch. Lush lips smeared in some kind of gloss that made them look recently-licked. Taunting eyes that made a man want to immortalize them in song. Curves that begged to be traced by a kiss, a palm, a tongue…
    Lori took an inordinate amount of time to get herself set up, then, brow furrowed deep enough to leave marks, she strummed. The sound was terrible. Dash stuck a finger in his ear and gave it a wriggle.
    “Shut up,” she said, and proceeded to attempt the next note.
    “I’m at your service.”
    The glance she shot him made him wonder if she was aware of the kind of service he was contemplating. What she’d do if he leaned in, slid a hand into her hair and kissed her. Would she moan against his mouth? Would she taste as good as she smelled? Would she feel as warm and soft as she looked?
    She went back to attempting to play.
    Which was the smart move. Because despite her efforts to follow his house rule, s he was a pain in the rear of mammoth proportions. A woman who had a near breakdown at the thought of losing her phone was the embodiment of everything he vowed he’d never let back into his life.
    Every touch, every kiss, every tumble between the sheets would have consequences. Making a move on a woman like Lori would be akin to forcing a continental shift.
    And yet, after her next horrendous note, he leaned in, instinctively reaching for Barbarella before he whipped his fingers back. Frustration, sexual and otherwise, sluiced through him.
    “Relax,” he barked, with more force than he’d intended.
    She glared at him. “ You relax.”
    “Relaxed is my default position.” He held out his arms. Wide. Easy. Not a care in the whole damn world. “Don’t I look relaxed?”
    “You look…” She swallowed, fraught eyes landing everywhere, making him sure he wasn’t the only one waging internal battles.
    Hell, this was going to get messy.
    “I’m trying,” she said on an expulsion of breath. “But here’s another free hint—telling me to relax , or chill is like telling a bee not to sting, or a bull not to charge. It’s not going to help the situation.”
    Dash shifted,