Fox lifted his hand from her nape to run his fingers lightly over the side of her face. “Bastard has a lot to answer for.”
About to respond that her mother held half the responsibility for choosing to stay with Patrick Buchanan despite knowing what he was, Molly’s heart suddenly hiccupped, a wave of ice crawling over her skin. What was she doing speaking to Fox about things that made her feel as if she were that beaten, broken girl again? She knew how dangerous this was, how far she’d already fallen, how bad it was going to hurt when it ended.
She’d bleed the day Fox walked out of her life.
“The concert,” she said in a stumbling rush of words, “it was amazing. I’ve never experienced anything like that.”
It was about as subtle an effort to change the subject as a sledgehammer, but Fox let her retreat, maybe because he, too, didn’t want to go that deep. “Yeah? It’s a rush, isn’t it? I love performing, especially when the crowd is that pumped.”
Heart rate smoothing out as the ice eased its grip, she traced her fingertips over the ridges of his abdomen. “That teenager you let onto the stage to jam with you—he was so excited, I think he’s probably not going to sleep for a month.”
“Me, Noah, Abe, and David, we were all that kid once.” Bracing one arm on a raised knee, he said, “You really had a good time?”
Surprised at the note of hesitation, she pushed up so she could look into those gorgeous eyes, his lashes lush and thick. “Yes! It was my first rock concert and I think I’m addicted.” Fox’s slow grin was the reward for her honesty. “The energy, the primal power of it, and most of all the music… my God, Fox, you four make the most incredible music.” It pulsed in her veins even now, compelling and haunting.
“In the end,” Fox said, “it’s about the music. That’s why we’ve stuck together—the money, the fame, it’s peripheral. All the four of us ever wanted to do was make music.”
Filching one of his fries when he put the little basket on his lap, she crunched it. “I was talking to Maxwell and he said you guys stuck through everything.”
Fox nodded. “We’ve had a couple of really bad patches. Right back at the start, when we were young and stupid and didn’t know how to handle the pressure, and a year ago, when Abe’s divorce had him trying to drug himself into an early grave.” He fed her another fry despite her scowl. “Your mad face is cute.”
“You could get murdered for saying stuff like that,” she muttered, charmed regardless.
His dimple flashed at her, and she was expecting the way he drew her down for a lazy kiss. Her palm flat on his chest, she sank into the pleasure, her earlier fear tangled with a poignant tenderness that urged her to continue being brave, continue hoarding the memories. Because now that she was thinking rationally again, she knew she wasn’t her mother, would never be her mother—as tonight’s fight had shown.
Karen Webster had never screamed at her husband. No, she’d been the perfectly coiffed and poised political wife, drowning her pain in alcohol.
If Fox actually had slept with that groupie, Molly would’ve slammed the door in his face. She had enough respect for herself to never allow any man, even one who was her personal addiction, to treat her in such a way. It would’ve brutalized her, but she would’ve eventually picked up the broken pieces of herself. What she would’ve never done was crawl into a bottle, just as now she wouldn’t scurry back into the claustrophobic box in which she’d existed for so long.
Molly was going to live.
Even if it smashed her heart to splinters.
Chapter 19
They ended up sleeping in till noon, which wasn’t surprising given the late night. Molly woke to find herself tucked into Fox’s body, her br**sts pressed to his chest. One muscular, tattooed arm was locked around her waist while the other lay under her neck, his thigh—heavy with muscle and dusted with hair that rasped deliciously against her skin—thrust between her own. Yawning, she snuggled deeper and just wallowed in the feeling of warm safety, the emotional storm of the previous night having left her raw.
Fox had told her they had the whole day free to do whatever they liked, and what she liked was cuddling in bed with her rock star. At least until he woke up. Feeling him stir almost ten minutes later, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “Hey.”
“Mmm.” It was a deep, sleepy sound before he tugged her impossibly closer to his body.
With both of them naked, the sensation was sensual, but right then, it was also just good. He felt strong and solid and protective around her, as if he was cherishing her. Though he was clearly aroused, it was the lazy arousal of morning, and he seemed far more interested in cuddling her to his body than in sex.
It made her melt, the idea that her hardcore rocker might not be against cuddling on a weekend morning in bed. Rubbing her nose lightly over his skin, she pressed another kiss to his chest, licking out with her tongue to taste him.
That initiated a sleepy rumble. Deciding to behave, she stayed snuggled up against him in silence, her bones lax and her sense of well-being incredible. No one had ever held her like this, ever made her feel so protected and anchored.
It was more than fifteen minutes later that he stirred again, his jaw moving as if in a yawn. Smoothing his hand in a slow circle on her back, he nuzzled his chin in her hair. “I like waking up with a soft, sexy librarian.”
His sleep-roughened voice made her nerve endings vibrate. “I like waking up with you, too.” Nuzzling him after the honest confession, she said, “What do you want to do today?”