Perfect Pitch by Mindy Klasky

going to have to talk.” He tried to sound angry, but he didn’t come close to pulling it off.
    “Drink?” She completed distracting him by shifting on the couch, turning those long legs, and leaning forward a lot more than was necessary. A bottle and ice bucket sat on the coffee table, along with an empty glass. She didn’t bother with tongs, just dipped her fingers in among the cubes. His cock wanted to know what her hands would feel like—those long painted nails underscoring the contrast of hot flesh and cold ice, dripping wet.
    She was generous with his Maker’s Mark, curling her own drink to her chest as she lured him closer to her side. As if he needed any luring… He was ready to jump her then and there, tear off those increasingly distracting scraps of silk.  
    He forced himself to stay where he was. “I didn’t think bartending was part of the Summer Queen’s job description.”
    The look she gave him as she sipped her drink made him wonder how the bourbon didn’t boil dry. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.” She cocked her wrist again, another silent invitation.
    This time, he didn’t stop himself.
    He took the glass and tossed back a healthy swallow, felt the liquor burn all the way down. She laughed as she raised her own drink to her lips, but he growled and closed his hand over hers.  
    “Hey!” she exclaimed as he took the glass from her yielding hand and set it carefully on the table.
    That was the last careful thing he managed.
    He crashed onto the sofa beside her, ignoring her startled laugh. His hands closed around the nearest part of her, her ankle, and he measured her fine bones with the strength of his grip. His thumb stroked the sole of her foot, tracing the arch, steadying her against her own reflex. The motion pulled her leg up, and he nearly let himself be distracted by the sweetness revealed behind her scrap of crimson lace.
    Nearly. But not quite.
    First, there were those calves to pay attention to, the muscles tightening as her toes curled. He brushed his cheek against the tender skin at the back of her knee, breathing in the honey and cinnamon scent of her. Her skin flushed and he could make out the faintest marks, raised by the bristles of his day-old beard. He flicked his tongue over the abrasions, sucking, soothing.
    “DJ,” she breathed, and he knew that sound. He’d heard her sigh his name, over the phone and a thousand miles away. He’d imagined how she would look when he was touching her, when he was doing all the things he had whispered into his phone.
    His hands traveled the taut line up from her knee. His palms drank in the heat of her; she burned hotter than any slug of whiskey ever could. She shifted beneath him, softening, melting.
    He brushed the back of his hand against her panties. The wet silk launched a bolt of pride straight to his cock. He longed to work the button on his jeans, to ease the zipper and release the throbbing pressure. But not now. Not yet.
    He traced the lace with his fingertips, teasing at the tender flesh beneath. Every day of his professional life he read messages in the flash of fingers, in the brush of hands. Now he wove his own language, just for her. His rhythm was steady, driving, speaking through the silk.
    She writhed beneath him, lifting her hips. Her fingers slipped beneath the band at her waist; she fought to strip away the panties. They were burgundy now, dark as wine with her passion, but he caught her wrists in one of his hands, pinned them above her head. She moaned in frustration, and he laughed, using the distraction to slip his free fingers beneath the cloth.
    She was hotter than he’d imagined she could be, even when he’d heard her gasp over the phone. He traced the path between her folds, found her pulsing clit. One touch, and she caught her breath. A second, and her thighs tightened around his hand. He hovered over her, fingers ready.
    “Please,” she whispered. “Now. DJ.”
    He pulled his hand free, ripping