Beautiful Player by Christina Lauren Page A

for several long, loaded beats. I could see her pulse in her neck, see the way her chest rose and fell with her quickened breathing. She looked down, put her hand on my bicep, and ran her fingertips over the tattoo of the phonograph I’d had done when my grandfather died.
    In unison, we stepped away from the group, sharing a secret little smile. Fuck, this girl makes me feel unhinged.
    “Tell me about this one,” she whispered.
    “I got that a year ago when my Pop died. He taught me how to play the bass. He listened to music every second he was awake, every day.”
    “Tell me about one I’ve never seen before,” she said, attention moving to my lips.
    I closed my eyes for a beat, thinking. “I have the word NO written just over my smallest rib on my left side.”
    Laughing, she stepped closer, close enough for me to smell the sweet plum drink on her breath. “Why?”
    “I got it when I was drunk in grad school. I was on an antireligion kick and didn’t like the idea that God made Eve out of Adam’s rib.”
    Hanna threw her head back, laughing my favorite laugh, the one that came from her belly and took over her entire body.
    “You’re so fucking pretty ,” I murmured, without thinking, running my thumb over her cheek.
    She jerked her head back upright, and, with a lingering glance to my mouth, pulled me out of the kitchen, a small, devilish smile on her face.
    “Where are we going?” I asked, letting her lead me down a narrow hall lined with closed doors.
    “Shh. I’ll lose my nerve if I say it before we’re there. Just come with me.”
    Little did she know I’d follow her down this hallway even if it caught fire. I’d come to this dirty bohemian party with her after all.
    At a random closed door, Hanna stopped, knocked, and waited. She pressed her ear to the wood, smiled up at me, and when we heard nothing, turned the knob, letting out a cute, nervous squeak.
    The room was dark, blessedly empty, and still relatively sterile from the recent move. A bed was freshly made in the middle of the room, and a dresser was pressed tight in a corner, but the far wall was still lined with boxes.
    “Whose room is this?” I asked.
    “I’m not sure.” Reaching around, she flipped the lock at my back, and then stared up at me, smiling. “Hi.”
    “Hi, Hanna.”
    Her mouth dropped open and her beautiful eyes went wide. “You didn’t call me Ziggy.”
    Smiling, I whispered, “I know.”
    “Say it again?” Her voice came out husky, as if she was asking me to touch her again, to kiss her again. And maybe when I’d called her Hanna it felt like a kiss. It certainly had to me. And part of me—a very large part of me—decided I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care that I’d kissed her sister twelve years ago and her brother was one of my closest friends. I didn’t care that Hanna was seven years younger than I was, and, in many ways, very innocent. I didn’t care that I’d probably fuck it up, or that my past would bother her. We were alone, in a dark room, and every inch of my skin felt like it was buzzing with my need for her to touch me.
    “Hanna,” I said quietly. The two syllables filled my head, hijacked my pulse.
    She smiled a secretive little smile and then looked at my mouth. Her tongue slipped out, wetting her bottom lip.
    “What’s going on, Mystique?” I whispered. “What are we doing in this very dark bedroom, exchanging flirty eyes?”
    She held up her hands, her words coming out in a breathless tumble. “This room is Vegas. Okay? What happens here stays here. Or, rather, what’s said here stays here.”
    I nodded, mesmerized by the soft curve of her bottom lip. “Okay . . . ?”
    “If it’s weird, or if I cross a friendship boundary that by some force of magic I haven’t yet crossed, just tell me, andwe’ll leave, and it will be the same level of ridiculous it was before we walked in.”
    I whispered, “Okay,” again, and watched as she took a deep, shaky breath. She was