He was tender with me that night, between the absurdly luxurious sheets of the absurdly luxurious hotel his people had booked for us. His hands, rough with their guitar calluses, stroked my breasts, my belly, my back, pulling me into him as he made love to me. His breath tasted sweet with magic and whiskey, his lips tender on my neck, in my hair, on my nipples, as if he were savoring me in every detail, every taste. As if I were so precious in his arms that he was suddenly terrified of ...