Spotlight by Eden Finley Page 0,52

means he’s worn it. It doesn’t smell like detergent. It smells like Ryder—a mixture of lavender laundry soap and spicy cologne.

Wearing his scent and trying to concentrate on getting these first two songs for my demo recorded do not mix well.

Ryder keeps up the lights in the control room so I can watch him work as I sing, and while that was a good idea the first time we did this, I’m wondering if it’s making my lack of focus worse.

Ryder is patient with me. He tells me when to start again and offers suggestions to tweak the arrangement to best show off my voice and talent.

He’s professional.

And here I am wearing Eleven merch and wondering how self-indulgent he’d have to be to wear a shirt with his own face on it.

His warm voice comes through the intercom. “You okay? You need a break?”

We’ve only been at it a couple of hours. I can’t take a break yet. I want to get this original song done so we can move on to the second attempt of “Take Me to Church.”

“I’m good.”

“Are you sure? You seem distracted.” Ryder tries not to smile. “It’s the shirt, isn’t it?”

I throw up my hands. “Yes, it’s the damn shirt.”

“I’m that distracting? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“No.” Well, yes, but that’s not the only thing. “It smells like you, which means you’ve worn it, and I can’t help thinking about you wearing your own merch and how weird that is. I’m wondering if you need therapy.”

Ryder throws his head back and bursts out laughing, but I can’t hear it because he hasn’t hit the intercom button. His face is beautiful when he’s carefree.

I mean, he’s always beautiful, but there’s something about the relaxed version of him that’s so damn alluring.

“I have never worn that shirt in my life.” He’s still laughing as his voice comes through the speaker.

I narrow my eyes. “Then why does it smell like you?”

“Maybe it’s the sweatpants? Or maybe you’re having a stroke. Or maybe you’ve memorized what I smell like, and that might be creepier than you wearing my face.”

“Come in here if you don’t believe me. It smells like you.”

“All right then.”

Oh shit. I didn’t think he’d actually do it.

Ryder comes through the connecting door and stalks toward me, and I don’t think I’ve ever regretted taunting someone more.

Because as he steps up to me and leans in, dipping his head to smell his shirt at my shoulder, the urge to wrap my arms around him is almost overpowering.

“Hmm, it does smell a bit like my cologne.” Ryder smells me again, and fuck, my cock likes that more than it should. “Maybe a worn shirt of mine got put away with my clean clothes.”

“Or maybe you’re egotistical and like to wear your own shirt around the house. Maybe you jerk off in the mirror while looking at your face.”

He’s standing so close I can feel his breath on my skin. “That doesn’t sound right. I love my Eleven days but not that much.” Ryder pulls back and looks into my eyes. “Have to say, you look good in my shirt, though.” His gaze travels down. “More than my shirt, actually. Just my clothes in general.”

“I look good in anything.” My voice goes up at the end like I’m actually asking a question.

“Mmm. That’s the problem I’m having.” Ryder wraps his arm around my back and pulls me against him.

He can no doubt feel my erection digging into him.

Seriously, he hadn’t even touched me, and I was already hard.

Now I’m pushing against him, shamelessly moving my hips slowly and subtly. As if that’ll hide that I’m trying to grind up on him.

“I’m starting to think we can’t have a recording session without getting inappropriately close,” I say.

“It’s your fault.”

“For taunting you to come in here?”

Ryder’s focus travels down to my lips. “For being so fucking irresistible when you sing.”

He reaches for the headphones on my head and removes them for me. They drop to the ground, and Ryder doesn’t even flinch.

And then—

Oh, holy mother of … everything holy.

Ryder’s mouth comes down on mine for the type of sweet torture I’ve only ever fantasized about.

Ryder Kennedy is kissing me.

Pop sensation Ryder Kennedy has his lips on mine, his arms wrapped around me, and his tongue in my mouth.

My brain can’t process it.

My mind may not be on board, but my body is.

I’m not sure if he pulls me to him or if I take the lead, but his lips feel