The Prelude (A Musical Interlude Novel) - By Kasonndra Leigh Page 0,18
chill out, Cinderella.” I walk through my door and let all the pretense, aka Miss Control USA, go flying out the window. I hop right up in the middle of my living room floor and start doing my hot damn dance.
So, yeah, Alek’s statement about the prelude freaked me out for a second. The word reminded me of something Jada used to say. His line was just the tiniest bit corny, too. But I meant what I said when I told him I thought his words were cute. He can say anything with that accent and get away with it.
I glance at my watch. 10p.m. It’s too early to call Selene. She works as a bartender in Florence. Sometimes her nights don’t end until around 2am.
I sniff the contract Alek gave me. His scent still lingers on the paper, reminding me of the day I first experienced the smell of his cologne. That was the day I fell on my butt, and he offered me his jacket to cover my body. He’s a true gentleman. Well, maybe a little.
So what if the gesture came after I had bolted for the door because he was looking me up and down at first. I feel myself forgiving his neglect to inform me of his true identity. He’s yet to explain himself. I consider agreeing to meet him for dinner just so he can tell me why he led me to believe he was an assistant.
I shower and throw on my Betty Boop sleeping shirt, a pair of booties, and then try to bring my racing thoughts back under control. Heading to my bedroom, I lie down on the bed and pull out a romance novel Selene let me borrow.
She thinks I’m destined to become either a nun or a homicidal maniac. Her reasoning being that no normal person goes without sex as long as I have done. Selene’s boyfriend and my old design lab partner from school, Christopher, even chimed in to help drill the thought into me one day when the two of them visited. I study the book in my hands.
This just doesn’t seem right. Erin Angelo is pulling out a romance novel and actually considering reading it. Now I know something’s wrong with me.
Feeling hot and bothered, I shake my leg until I can’t take the heat anymore. I get through about twenty pages of hardcore fucking before my mind starts to wander back to visions of sugary brownish-blue eyes and Russian accents. Since when did romance novels become so smutty?
“That’s it. You need a distraction, Erin.” I hop up off the bed and pull out my sketch pad and pencil.
Earlier in the day an idea for the sixth set of outfits Alek requested came to me. I plop down on the floor and start to sketch and round out my lines with swift strokes of my pencil. Soon, I’ve created the perfect vest, the sexiest piece of clothing I’ve ever designed, but I don’t stop there. Nope. I draw a neck that’s manly, but slender. Next comes the chin, dimpled in the middle. It’s a butt chin, yeah, but still something unique to remember.
My phantom man has a rather large Adam’s apple, but that’s all good and masculine too. I don’t stop there. I continue with the strong contours of his jaw line, the lips that turn upside down in the perfect pout, and that hair, luscious, wavy strands on top and tapered at the ears.
Holy hell! I’ve created a masterpiece, a delicious one.
I’m aware of my breathing, little gasps flowing from my mouth. I’m not really shy. I can’t help it that drawing turns me on. Um, I don’t think drawing is what’s turning you on, my friend. The man you’re sketching and drooling over turns you on. Admit it.
My hand keeps going, forming more of that noble face: the sculpted cheekbones, the lips that turn up in a pout, the eyes that are just shy of being too pretty for a man’s face. I sit back and admire my work. Alek Dostov now sits on my lap. He’s wearing a black tee and glancing hopelessly at me like I’m the only woman alive in this world.
Damn I’m good. I get up, lie back down on the bed, and stare at the ceiling. My sketch pad lies across my boobs. How ironic is it that Alek now lays on top of those? That’s not the only place you want to feel him situated inside. The rebel in