Have Mercy: A Loveswept Contemporary Erotic Romance by Shelley Ann Clark

out of her waist and belly where he wanted to bury his face, the shape of her so warm and curved and inviting that sinking into her would feel like a hot, soft death. “I’ve watched you sing almost every night for the past two weeks. And I can tell you that no man in your audience ever sees you as a little sister. Unless they’ve got some serious
Flowers in the Attic
shit going on.”
    Aw, hell. Might as well just throw yourself at her feet and beg her to let you kiss them
, Tom thought. And then was mortified when all the blood in his body rushed straight to his dick.
    Emme smiled very sweetly, but her incisors showed. “Thank you,” she said, then bit her lower lip, making him want to groan. “It’s not when I’m onstage that I’m crap at it. Then I’m Emme. It’s like Clark Kent and Superman. Lois Lane digs Superman, but she barely notices Clark Kent.”
    “But isn’t Clark Kent the one who’s the costume?” Tom asked. He was having trouble catching his breath, and he didn’t think it was because of his smoking.
    Emme sat up. She wrapped her arms around her knees.
Bad sign
. “Tom,” she started, then stopped again. She looked up at the sky for a moment. Tom felt his gaze follow hers, even when he didn’t want it to. He wondered if she thought that cloud looked like a banjo, too.
    “It’s nice to hear you say that,” Emme said finally, and Tom’s heart fell down into his toes. Then she touched him, just one finger atop his, and all his attention focused on that one spot, the most alive part of him. She looked up at him, her eyes liquid and heavy-lidded. Bedroom eyes. Against-the-wall eyes. On-top-of-the-dining-table eyes. “Very nice to hear
you
say that, especially. But I know you may have an idea of me after what people said after Indelible Lines.”
    I have no clue what you’re talking about
, Tom thought, but kept his mouth shut.
    “But I learned my lesson,” Emme continued. “I don’t get involved with coworkers. I’ve had to work hard to get here. I never want to go back to waiting tables or answering phones. This is what I’m good at, and I’m not willing to risk it.”
    Tom blew out a breath. “I can respect that,” he said. “Look, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I can’t help the fact that I think you’re pretty awesome.”
Amazing. Gorgeous. Talented. Sexy as hell
.
    Emme grinned at him, but she didn’t blush. “Well, sure. I mean, it’s probably going to be difficult, being on tour with a guy who’s delusional, but as long as you promise to take your medicine on schedule …”
    Tom fought the urge to roll her over and nuzzle her neck until she laughed. He pulled up a fistful of grass instead, making a big show of trying to toss it at her and failing.
    Emme stopped him by putting her hand flat against his chest, her palm resting right over his sternum. His heart gave an answering thud, almost like it was trying to reach for her touch.
    “My turn,” she said, and the sultry tone of her voice sent his imagination to beautiful and dirty places for a full minute before she added, “Now you have to tell me about your tattoo.”
    Tom grimaced, all the lovely anticipation turning cold and congealed inside him. “I may need a drink for that.”
    “I thought you didn’t drink.”
    “I don’t.”
    Tom sat silently for a long time, looking down at his hands. The tattoo had been a reminder; still was. He’d always been drawn to the painting, but he wasn’t sure if he saw it as inspiring or heartbreaking. All he knew was that he’d seen it in a library book once when he was in high school, and hadn’t been able to get the image out of his mind, like a song that repeated itself over and over in his head; only this one he couldn’t just learn to play or whistle or hum or sing along until it went away.
    “You know the piece, right?”
    Emme nodded. “Picasso.
The Old Guitarist
.”
    “Right. It’s from his blue period, which doesn’t just refer to color,