I sat there on Naya’s sofa, holding her delicate frame as she sobbed in my arms. Her body shook with each ragged breath. Anger bubbled in my gut, hot and acidic. I stroked her back, murmuring a mix of soothing words and gentle nonsense.
But even as I soothed her, my mind was working on the problem, running scenarios. I didn’t believe any of that haunting bullshit, but someone definitely had it out for Naya. Someone had the fucking nerve to want to upset this girl. She was innocent, fragile, yet strong in her own way. Talented and pure of heart. The last person anyone should want to terrorize.
When her tears slowed, I grasped her hand. “Who would want to hurt you, Naya? Anyone you can think might want to upset or frighten you?”
She shook her head, wiping away her tears. Faded streaks of eyeliner and mascara on her cheeks left a map of her pain.
I noticed her reluctance to meet my gaze and gently placed a finger under her chin, turning her face towards me. “I’m not here to judge you, Naya. I just want to help.”
Naya sighed. “My former manager, Damien. We were together for over a year. He controlled every part of my life. What I did, who I saw, everything. My music, my career—even what I thought and felt. Leaving him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Good for you, Naya,” I replied, my voice raw. That fucking bastard. I needed to stay calm to keep her calm, but I wanted to find and pummel this Damien to a bloody puddle on the ground.
“How’d you get away from him?” I asked.
She took a deep breath as if gathering her strength. “It took months to prepare. I had to leave behind everything – my record deal, my old band…” She paused, her eyes growing distant for a moment before she continued. “I was left with only my name and my voice.”
As Naya spoke, her voice grew louder and more confident. Her shoulders pulled back, and her eyes shone with determination. I couldn’t help but think that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. The fire within her, fueled by her hard-won independence, was impossible to resist.
“Starting over wasn’t easy,” she admitted. “I had to learn everything about the music business anew, booking my own gigs, managing myself… It’s been confusing at times, but I’ll never let anyone else control my destiny again. My life belongs to me.”
This slip of a girl had endured hell yet emerged unbowed. And still so sweet and open to a world that hurt her. It was inspiring. And arousing. I traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up. Her lips parted on a soft gasp. I leaned in without thinking and brushed my mouth against hers.
For a breath, Naya went still. Then she came alive, kissing me back with a hunger that stole my breath. Our tongues tangled as I pulled her onto my lap. Her body molded to mine, soft curves and warmth. When she moaned my name, lust spiked hot in my blood. I wanted her. Needed her. But this was too fast, too soon. She was vulnerable and deserved more than a quick fuck on her sofa.
I set Naya away from me, ignoring my aching cock. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Hurt flashed across her face before she masked it. “Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this mess.” She stood, smoothing her clothes. “You can go now. I’m fine.”
“I don’t want to leave.” I stayed seated, trying to read her expression. “I want to get to know you, Naya. If you’ll let me.”
A smile teased at the corner of her mouth. “Even after I threw myself at you?”
“You didn’t throw yourself at me.” I patted the sofa beside me. “Come sit. Let’s talk.”
Naya sank onto the cushion, close but not touching. “About what?”
“Anything you like.” I slung an arm over the back of the sofa, fingertips brushing her shoulder. “I’ve got all night.”
Naya studied me for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to trust me. I kept my expression open, hoping she’d see I meant what I said.
Finally, she began talking about her music, the songs she was writing, her dreams of where she wanted her career to go. The more she spoke, the more passionate and animated she became. I found myself asking questions, truly interested in understanding her creative process and the stories or emotions that inspired her songs. It wasn’t a topic I’d ever felt the slightest interest in, but through Naya’s voice and her eyes, she opened up a new world to me.
I said, “It sounds like your music is deeply personal to you.”
“It is.” Naya gazed at her hands. “Songwriting has always been a way for me to work through my feelings. Turning pain or joy into something creative helps me make sense of life.” She slanted me a shy look. “Does that sound silly?”
“Not at all.” I brushed my knuckles down her cheek, thrilled when she leaned into my touch. “Finding a constructive outlet for intense emotions is wonderful. Your music is a gift, not just because you have an amazing voice and talent, but because of the honesty and heart you pour into it.”
“Songwriting is like… it’s like capturing my inner demons and turning them into something tangible, you know?” Naya said, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the fabric between us. “It’s cathartic, but also terrifying.”
“Did you always know you wanted to be a singer?” I asked, genuinely curious about her journey.
“No,” she admitted with a small laugh. “But once I discovered the power of music, there was no going back. My voice became my weapon against all the crap life threw at me.”
Naya’s gaze held mine as she opened up about her childhood, recounting the countless foster homes she’d been through. “I never felt like I belonged,” she confided. “But every time I stood before a microphone, it was as if I had built a home for myself within myself.”
Her words struck a chord within me, resonating with my own need for purpose and belonging. “That’s incredibly brave,” I told her, feeling a swell of admiration.
“Thanks,” she murmured, shifting closer to me. “What about you? What led you down your path?”
I hesitated for a moment, considering how much to share. But there was something about Naya that made me want to open up, to expose parts of myself I usually kept under lock and key. “I spent over a decade in the military,” I began, the weight of those memories pressing down on me. “After my sister died, I left. I couldn’t shake the guilt of not being there when she needed me most.”
Naya’s hand found mine, her fingers intertwining with mine in a comforting gesture. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, sincerity lacing her words.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice thick. Clearing my throat, I continued, “That’s when I found security work. It allowed me to protect people in a different way.”
“Club Desire?” Naya asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Initially, I was hesitant,” I admitted. “Marcus Moore isn’t exactly the most upstanding guy. But the club is legit, and the staff… they’re like family. We all work hard to make sure everyone who walks through those doors has a safe, unforgettable night.”
“Sounds like you’ve finally found your place,” Naya observed, a soft smile playing on her lips.
“Maybe I have,” I agreed.
As the hours slipped by, our conversation flowed effortlessly. We shared our dreams, fears, and hopes for the future. And with each passing moment, I felt more connected to this extraordinary woman beside me – not just as an object of desire, but as someone who understood the complexities of life and the courage it took to face them head-on.
Our voices eventually grew hushed, fatigue tugging at our eyelids. We fell asleep on the sofa, holding hands, our fingers entwined – anchored to something real and powerful, something that transcended mere physical attraction.