That title, however, hadn’t come courtesy of his behavior. Oh no. It was the song lyrics he wrote. He’d dug himself a deep hole on the first album, nearly every song about wanting to—well…have sex. Have sex with Jasmine to be specific. Since he’d never been the type to discuss his feelings out loud—potted plants notwithstanding—he’d written them down. He’d written everything down. Needs, fantasies, observations about how Jasmine filled out a bathing suit that he’d had no right to make.

Four years had given him a little clarity on what his mind-set had been at eighteen, the year he’d grown sick of watching her date men who didn’t deserve her. Thinking she’d finally acknowledge him as a man, but realizing that eventuality was nothing more than a pipe dream. God, he’d hoped like hell never to go back there. To that deeply fucked-up, needy place where his dick filled the leg of his boxers just from looking at her. To the place where his heart rammed itself against his tonsils¸ mind racing, trying to figure out what she’d say next. How he could respond to make her smile.

In town less than a goddamn hour and he was already there. The difference being, now he knew how to satisfy a woman, knew how to make her achieve pleasure with the use of his body. And having that knowledge somehow made it worse to look, but not touch.

Sitting beside him in the cab was the woman he’d been in cataclysmic lust with since middle school. She was bright-eyed from too much wine, her tight red dress was snug around her crossed thighs…and she was giving him a patient babysitter smile from across the cracked leather seat.

Being the calm, objective individual his bandmates knew him to be, he shouldn’t be perceiving Jasmine’s amused expression as a dare. A goad. Ah, but he did. Four years hadn’t changed a single thing—but maybe it didn’t have to stay that way. Maybe he could fight his way free of this permanent straitjacket she’d laced him into eons ago by accepting that dare in her eyes. Throwing down his own gauntlet. Finally indulging his fantasy and then kissing it good-bye, once and for all.

Bad idea. Such a bad fucking idea. She’d flung a spear straight through his chest once, and four years hadn’t made her any less capable of doing it again. Two new songs had already written themselves since they’d met eyes at the Third Shift, another one halfway composed in his head. Could he remain mentally detached enough to work his way free of her spell if things were to get physical? Wasn’t living free of Jasmine haunting him worth the risk?

There was only one way to know for sure.

“That bloody lip looks pretty ugly,” Jasmine said. “Does it hurt much?”

Sarge ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, encountering the metallic tang of blood. He hadn’t even been aware of the injury, probably too distracted by a certain someone in sky-high heels. God, he was a mess. “I would say, ‘You should see the other guy,’ but I don’t think you should. See him again, that is.”

On the other side of the plastic partition, the cab driver whistled low under his breath and received an arched eyebrow from Jasmine. “I’d already decided that before you cleaned his clock, but your concern is duly noted.”

“Good.”

She breathed into her hands, rubbing them together for warmth. “You’ve changed a lot. I remember when I couldn’t drag a single word out of you.”

Remembering the way he used to clam up, losing all ability to speak at the sight of her in his living room, he wished he could go back in time and tell that kid to grow some courage. He had it now. In spades. It was time she knew about it. “Maybe I was just saving the words up.”

“For your songs.” A gorgeous smile lit up her face, one that was unique to Jasmine. She never showed her teeth, just pursed her lips in a way that plumped them, her eyes tilting at the ends. It made you her instant coconspirator. Or if you were Sarge, it sent a giant moose stampeding through your stomach. “When they come over the loudspeaker on the factory floor, everyone sings. Before you, they only ever did that for Bruce. And pre-country Bon Jovi.”

Sarge felt his lips tug at the image. “What about you? Do you sing when they come on?”

Her smile wavered. “No. But not because I don’t like your songs,” she rushed to add, mischief lurking in her eyes. “I just don’t want to show anyone up.”

Something about the way she said it made Sarge question her truthfulness. Which made no damn sense, since he knew Jasmine’s voice was incredible. If he closed his eyes and thought back to hazy Hook summers spent at the community pool or drinking Coke in his backyard, he could hear her voice, husky and confident, floating in a jumble with the humidity.

They pulled up in front of Jasmine’s building, the cab’s brakes protesting as it slowed to a stop along the curb. Sarge paid with a twenty before Jasmine could extricate her purse, earning him a narrow-eyed frown. “Sarge—”

“What?” His tone was teasing. “How else am I going to repay you for this forced hospitality?”

Jasmine didn’t answer as they climbed out of opposite ends of the cab, meeting at the glass-door entrance of her apartment building after Sarge retrieved his gear from the trunk. “I did you a favor. The closest motel rents by the hour.”

“I’ve been in worse,” he murmured, following her into the building. “How long have you been living here?”

She went to punch the elevator call button, but slumped when she saw the out of service sign taped over the sliding metal doors. Indicating the stairwell with a nod, she headed in that direction and Sarge followed, not managing to keep his gaze from gliding up her calves, the backs of her smooth thighs. “My second year at the factory…when it became obvious I would be here for a while.”

Sarge allowed her to ascend a few stairs before climbing after her. “You don’t like the factory?”

Her laugh punctuated the air. “No one likes the factory except the suited boys upstairs. If you’d left poor Carmine alone a few minutes longer, you would have heard all about it.”

“I’m good with my decision,” he responded too quickly. Just hearing her say the asshole’s name made him grind his teeth. He still couldn’t believe she’d been struggling in a bar full of men and no one had come to her aid. To be fair, each and every patron had been intoxicated, and Jasmine had been in an alcove where he might have missed her, had the voice from his dreams not reached out and slugged him the second he walked into the Third Shift.

Sarge wasn’t sure his reaction would have differed if Jasmine had been into the kiss with Carmine. He’d just wanted the guy off her. Period.

Sarge glanced up in time to see Jasmine watching him over her shoulder, tugging down her skirt as she bypassed the second-floor entrance and headed for the third. Did she sense his inability to avert his gaze when her hips were swaying like a checkered flag at the beginning of a race? That red hem couldn’t be deterred on its mission to slip higher and higher, where it teased the underside of her ass. The fog of jealousy that had descended at the mention of her date’s name was being burned away by an increasing weight between his legs. So much sharper than usual because the source of his hottest fantasies was leading him to her apartment. The place she slept, showered, touched herself.

Ah, Jesus. Don’t think about that.

“So…” Jasmine slipped her fingers beneath the dress’s hem once again, holding it in place at a modest level. “How long are you in town?”

Sarge followed her through the beige metal door onto the building’s third level, watching as she searched for her keys in the clutch purse. “Long enough to forget why we were starting to annoy each other, I’m guessing.” When she laughed over her shoulder, eyes sparkling, he had to take a second to regroup. “Our drummer, Lita, was getting into too much trouble on the road, so our manager put her in a time-out. And I’ve waited long enough to meet Marcy. Christmas seemed like the best time.”