12 | Bass Idea
A low bass line moved through the floor.
It repeated several times, slow and heavy enough that I felt it before I recognized where it came from.
I closed my laptop and followed the sound downstairs.
The studio door stood partially open. Kadir sat alone beneath one of the smaller lamps with the bass across his lap. A cigarette burned in the ashtray near the cracked patio door, but he had forgotten about it.
His attention stayed on his hands.
The riff was darker than the first track. It moved through several low notes, tightened into something rough and impatient, then started again with a minor change.
He played differently when no one else was listening.
There was no automatic space left for Leo’s voice. No section reduced into polite background. The line expected the rest of the song to meet it where it was.
I stayed in the doorway longer than necessary.
Watching Kadir play had several professional benefits I couldn’t immediately name. His fingers moved with steady precision along the neck of the bass. His shoulders remained loose. Thick hair fell across his forehead each time he looked down.
The concentration looked unfairly good on him.
He noticed me when the cigarette burned low enough for ash to fall.
The final note faded.
“That sounds good.”
Kadir glanced at the bass. “It’s nothing yet.”
That was apparently his preferred description for anything interesting.
I entered the studio. “Have the others heard it?”
His expression gave me the answer before he did.
I leaned against the console and folded my arms. Kadir had already played out the entire disagreement in his head. Leo would change the structure. Wesley would find a compromise. Kadir would agree to something he disliked and then become even quieter for the rest of the session.
Avoiding the conversation let him retain ownership of the song.
It also guaranteed the song would never exist.
“You can’t hide everything good and then resent them for not using it.”
His gaze lifted to mine.
I had discovered that Kadir’s silence came in several varieties. This one meant I had said something accurate enough to annoy him.
He adjusted the bass against his thigh. “We just finished one track.”
“That doesn’t make you legally prohibited from having another idea.”
“Leo will want to build the vocal first.”
“Probably.”
“Wesley will try to make both versions work.”
“Also probably.”
Kadir looked back toward the instrument as though my agreement had ended the discussion.
“You decide how everyone will react before you give them the chance,” I said. “Then you withdraw before anything can be rejected.”
His fingers rested over the strings.
I hadn’t come downstairs intending to confront his emotional defense mechanisms. I had mostly come because the bass sounded good and Kadir’s hands had become an ongoing threat to my professional priorities.
Still, the pattern was obvious now.
He stayed outside arguments, bedrooms, and apparently his own songs. Watching gave him control. Silence prevented anyone from taking something he hadn’t openly offered.
“Play it again,” I said.
Kadir studied me before beginning.
The version he played was cleaner than the one I had heard from upstairs. The roughest section had been reduced, and the progression resolved too neatly.
He stopped after one pass.
I shook my head. “You edited it.”
“You heard it through a floor.”
“It had more weight through the floor.”
He played again.
This time, the opening came harder. The riff stayed strange instead of correcting itself into something easier. He repeated the strongest section, added a lower variation, then allowed the last note to remain unresolved.
I could already imagine Wesley building a rhythm beneath it. Something physical and impatient. Leo would have to wait longer before entering, which would offend him and probably improve the song.
“That could be the next track.”
Kadir’s hand settled across the strings.
He watched me long enough for the compliment to become uncomfortable.
“You like the line?”
“Yeah.”
“Or you like watching me play it?”
The question reached directly into the part of my brain responsible for professional anxiety.
I had supported Wesley’s rhythm and then ended up in his bed. Now I was alone with Kadir, telling him his music deserved more room while thinking about the way his fingers looked against the bass.
My judgment and attraction had become inconvenient roommates.
“Both,” I said. “But the riff was good before you knew I was standing there.”
Kadir held my gaze.
I refused to add anything reassuring. I didn’t need to promise the song would work or pretend desire had no influence on what I noticed. I had heard the line. It deserved a chance.
Fortunately, bluntness worked on him.
He turned toward the recording setup.
We saved a basic pass before he could change his mind. Kadir played the heavier version while I handled the session, then stood behind me as I named the file.
I avoided calling it Bass Idea 2, which felt like the kind of title that allowed a song to disappear unnoticed.
He agreed to play it for Wesley and Leo in the morning.
Kadir placed the bass in its stand.
I became aware of how late it was, how empty the hallway outside had sounded, and how closely he stood behind my chair.
I closed the session window. “Look at you. Bringing something you want into the room.”
Kadir leaned one hip against the console.
“You should try it.”
“I bring things into rooms all the time.”
“You saved the tour video.”
My hand paused over the laptop. The accusation was delivered with his usual calm, which made lying feel more childish than usual.
“It was funny,” I said.
“You kept recording before Leo took the camera.”
“Because I thought one of you might say something useful.”
Kadir looked toward the studio door as though considering the likelihood.
We both knew it was low.
His attention returned to me. “You kept looking at me in Wesley’s room too.”
The stillness in his face made me remember the balcony more clearly than humor would have. Smoke leaving his mouth. His eyes fixed through the glass. Wesley’s hand moving between my thighs after Kadir calmly told him where to touch me.
I had known Kadir could see everything.
That had been the appeal.
“I wanted you to stay,” I admitted.
I stood and moved away from the console, more because sitting suddenly felt vulnerable than because I intended to leave.
“You like standing outside things,” I said. “Balconies. Arguments. New songs.”
Kadir straightened.
“I stayed outside because I wanted to watch.”
“You could have come in.”
“I know.”
He stepped closer without touching me.
The distance between us narrowed until I had to tilt my face upward. His gaze moved to my mouth, then lower, tracing the front of my body with none of Leo’s theatrical hunger or Wesley’s open affection.
Kadir looked as though he was gathering information.
“What did you think I would do if I came inside?”
I laughed quietly, though nothing felt funny anymore. “You don’t get a detailed fantasy report.”
“I didn’t ask for details.”
I reminded myself that this was temporary. Six weeks in an isolated lodge with three men who already understood that none of them had exclusive rights to me. Wanting Kadir only completed the existing collection.
“You’ve gotten very confident,” I said. “For someone who spends most of his time standing quietly in doorways.”
“I’ve been interested since the terrace when you let me touch you.”
I didn’t answer him right away. The studio felt smaller with him standing that close, the single lamp throwing hard shadows across the console and the bass still resting in its stand a few feet away. My pulse had already decided the conversation was over.
“That’s a long time to stay interested without saying anything,” I said.
Kadir’s hand came up and settled against the side of my neck, thumb resting just under my jaw. The pressure was firm, testing. He tilted my face the exact angle he wanted and held it there.
“I’m saying it now.”
He looked at me the same way he had on the terrace the first night. Steady, patient, already certain of the outcome. The quiet stretched until I felt it in my throat.
Then he kissed me.
His mouth opened mine with deliberate pressure, tongue stroking slow and thorough, like he had decided exactly how much of me he intended to take and was in no hurry to finish.
One large hand stayed on my neck. The other settled at my waist and pulled me forward until my hips met the solid line of his body.
I made a small sound against his mouth. He answered by deepening the kiss, angling my head further, keeping complete control of the pace.
When he finally drew back, my lips felt swollen. He studied them for a second, then the flush I could feel climbing my throat.
“You looked so beautiful on Wesley's bed,” he said. “Staring at me while he made you come. I got so hard watching you.”
He lifted me onto the edge of the console in one smooth motion. The equipment was cool under my thighs. He stepped between my knees and pushed them wider with his hips until I was open to him. My hands found his shoulders for balance. He didn’t seem to need the same.
Kadir reached for the hem of my sweatshirt and waited.
When I didn’t stop him, he pulled it off in one clean motion, then the sports bra.
Cool studio air touched my skin. His gaze moved over me with the same focused attention he gave a new riff—cataloguing, deciding.
One heavy hand spanned my waist. The other rested high on my thigh, thumb stroking absently along the inner seam of my leggings.
“I’ve thought about this,” he said quietly. “Every night since we’ve been here.”
He leaned in and kissed me again, slower this time, while both hands mapped upward.
His palms covered my ribs, then the undersides of my breasts, thumbs brushing across my nipples with firm, unhurried pressure until they hardened under his touch.
Every movement stayed controlled. He watched my face the entire time, noting every small reaction the way he noted a change in tempo.
When his hands finally slid lower and hooked into the waistband of my leggings, he paused.
“I’m going to use my mouth.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of intent delivered in the same calm voice he used when he told Wesley exactly where to put his hands. Heat flooded through me so fast I had to grip the edge of the console.
I nodded.
Kadir peeled my leggings and underwear off. Then he dropped to one knee between my legs.
He placed both hands on my inner thighs and pushed them farther apart. The grip was firm and strong. He looked at me for a long second, open and exposed under the studio lamp, before he leaned in.
The first stroke of his tongue was slow and flat, tasting me from bottom to top with deliberate thoroughness.
I jerked. His hands tightened, holding me exactly where he wanted.
He did it again, slower, learning me, the places that made my breath catch.
When he sealed his mouth over my clit and sucked gently, a sound escaped before I could stop it.
He lifted his head just enough to speak against me.
“Stay still.”
I tried. It was nearly impossible. He worked with the same focused patience he brought to the bass. The flat of his tongue, then the tip, then a slow circle that made my hips try to lift. Every time I moved too much he pressed his palms harder into my thighs and waited until I settled again.
“I can taste how much you want this,” he murmured. The words were low, almost conversational. “You let him touch you while I watched. You came on his fingers knowing I was right there.”
The reminder sent a fresh pulse of heat through me.
He felt it. His mouth returned with more pressure, tongue working in steady, devastating strokes while two thick fingers finally pushed inside.
The stretch was sudden and perfect. He curled them immediately, finding the place that made my head tip back, and kept the same controlled rhythm with his mouth.
I was already close. He must have known, because he eased off just before the tension broke, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to my inner thigh instead. I made a frustrated sound. Kadir looked up at me, calm and unreadable.
“Not yet.”
He waited until the urgency receded, then started again—tongue, fingers, the firm hold of his hands keeping me open. The second time he brought me to the edge he pulled back even slower, lips glistening, watching my face while I trembled.
“You got both of them already,” he said, voice still quiet. “Leo against the wall. Wesley with me watching. Now you’re going to get this.”
I was so wet it was embarrassing, and he used it, sliding his fingers deeper, spreading me, making sure I felt every inch while his mouth returned to my clit.
This time he didn’t stop. He kept the same steady, relentless pace, free hand locked on my hip so I couldn’t twist away, eyes on mine the entire time.
When I came it was hard enough that my thighs shook against his shoulders. He worked me through it, tongue and fingers never faltering, until the last tremor faded and I was left panting on the console, completely wrecked.
Kadir stayed on his knees a moment longer. He pressed one last slow kiss to the soft skin of my inner thigh, then rose with the same unhurried strength. He helped me sit more securely, braced both hands on either side of my hips, and looked at me while I tried to remember how to breathe normally.
“You’re very thorough,” I managed.
“I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”
He stayed close, one heavy hand still resting on my bare thigh, thumb stroking once, while the studio lamp hummed above us and the knowledge settled between us that another line had just been crossed.