by Lisa Suzanne
“They’re both down,” Ethan says. I lift my legs so he can collapse on the couch beside me, and he starts massaging my feet once I set them back down in his lap. I can’t help but watch his hands as he works. I always saw them as strong drummer hands, but the platinum band on the third finger of his left hand makes them husband’s hands—for over two years now—and the two babies down the hall make them daddy’s hands.
He stares at my feet when he says, “I don’t know how you do it every night.”
I laugh. It’s not the first time he’s said that to me, but I never get tired of hearing it. “It’s a superpower. You’ve got a few of your own, you know.”
He looks over at me and raises a brow. “Oh? Like what?”
“Well, you’re a pretty good drummer. And you have a nice voice.”
He kneads the bottom of my feet a little harder, and I let out a moan. “And you’re pretty good at massaging feet.”
“Pretty good?” he asks. He drops my feet.
“Don’t stop,” I demand.
He laughs and continues his work. “What else?”
“You with the kids,” I say. “It’s your best superpower.” I say it because it’s true, but I say it because I know his insecurities where fatherhood is concerned. I say it because I know he needs to hear it...just like I need to hear how appreciated I am for the routine things I do every day.
“I’m a different man because of them.” He glances over at me. “Because of you.”
“You’re the same man you always were,” I say, just like I always tell him. “It just took us for you to see that.”
His icy blue eyes melt into something much hotter as his gaze meets mine. “Want to make a third one?”
I laugh. “Let’s give them a minute to fall asleep. Or go to the bedroom.”
He shakes his head. “Both were out-out. Done for the night. Eli was snoring when I walked out.”
I giggle as I think of our little boy, and then I turn a sly smile on my husband. “You know what today is, don’t you?”
He shakes his head as his brows furrow. “Christmas?”
“Ellie’s four-week birthday.”
His eyes light up. “Ohhh,” he says. “That’s right. Four to six weeks?”
I nod. “Four seems okay to me.”
“Does that mean you’re feeling up to making number three?”
I giggle. “I don’t know about that. The doctor recommends waiting a little longer than four weeks for all that, but I may be open to practicing.”
“Did your night off give you energy?”
I laugh. “If we didn’t wake up this morning from Eli bouncing on our bed at four o’clock, it might’ve.”
He looks disappointed, and I grin.
“I’ll fight through the fatigue for you.”
He moves so swiftly I don’t even know it’s happening, but suddenly I’m pinned beneath my husband. “I’m so happy the statute of limitations is up.”
I don’t get a chance to reply because his mouth comes crashing down to mine. His tongue slips against mine, and I still get tingles in my chest that reach all the way down to my toes—still, after all this time, after being married a couple years and having two of his babies, he still makes me see stars. He still knows how to kiss me. It hasn’t been long and maybe we’re in the honeymoon phase still, but two kids are a lot of work...and I refuse to be one of those celebrity moms who allows someone else to raise her kids. I want to be the one to raise them, to kiss every boo-boo and hug every victory. Yet despite all that, Ethan manages to make me feel adored and cherished.
It’s been four weeks since we did this, though it isn’t the first time we’ve been together when we had to wait for sex. First was the pelvic rest scare during Eli’s pregnancy, then the wait after I had Eli, then when Ethan went on tour in Europe and I stayed home, and now with Ellie. He’s hot and ready for it, and he lets me know that by not even bothering to get rid of the clothes in our way. Instead, he unbuttons his pants and pulls out his cock, pulls my leggings and panties down just far enough, and sinks his way back home.
I missed this connection with him over the past few weeks, but it’s not just the connection. It’s the pleasure, plunging and driving into me, the way he gets me so close to an orgasm before pulling back and slowing down. It’s my fingernails beneath his shirt on his back and his lips nipping at my neck. It’s more thrusting and quiet moans on the couch before he pushes me over the edge, and finally, it’s the bliss that comes far too soon for both of us.
It’s love, an unbroken bond between two unlikely people who happen to be far more alike than we ever realized.
We’ve managed to bury the past behind us, and now that we’ve emerged on the other side, I’m more convinced than ever I found the person holding the other end of my invisible thread.
THE END
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the eighteenth novel I’ve published, and I start every acknowledgment page by thanking my husband. This time is no different. I couldn’t do what I love without your support. And, of course, thank you to our little rock star.
Thank you to Trenda London for the words that gave me confidence exactly when I needed them and for always finding exactly what I’m missing.
Thank you to Stephanie Costa for adminning Vail Tail with me, for beta reading, for meeting with Kaz, and for your friendship. Thank you to Jen Wildner and Kelly Werner for beta reading and for being ladies I adore and I always count on. I love the three of you so much and I’m grateful for all you do.
Thank you to the Vail Tail Fangirls, Team LS, and my amazing ARC team. Thank you to my Bookstagrammers and to all of you who read ARCs of The Power to Break and/or this book and who loved Ethan and Maci’s journey along with me.
Thank you to Give Me Books for the release blitz and to all the bloggers who read and review my books.
Thank you to Eric Battershell for the perfect photographs and to CT Cover Creations for the gorgeous design. Thank you to Kaz van der Waard for being the perfect Ethan. When I first saw a picture of Kaz, I knew he needed to be on the cover of this series!
Thank you to my readers. This is the fifth book set in the world of Vail, and whether you’ve just finished your second one or you’ve read all five, thank you for being here with me, for rocking out, and for giving my boys a chance. I was talking to my friend/beta reader/blogger/all around amazing woman Stephanie the other day about what I’m going to write next. I had two or three ideas for characters from this series in mind, and she threw out a couple more, so we agreed that I have at least five more Vail stories to tell. I’m not sure if any of them will be next, but I know for sure I’m not ready to leave Vail behind.
Until the next one, keep rocking.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Suzanne is a romance author who resides in Arizona with her husband and little boy. She’s a former high school English teacher and college composition instructor. When she's not chasing her toddler, she can be found working on her latest book or watching reruns of Friends.
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BOOKS BY LISA SUZANNE
THE UNBREAKABLE THREAD DUET
THE POWER TO BREAK (Book One)
THE INVISIBLE THREAD (Book Two)
A LITTLE LIKE DESTINY SERIES
A LITTLE LIKE DESTINY (Book One)
ONLY EVER YOU (Book Two)
CLEAN BREAK (Book Three)
CLICK HERE FOR MORE
Flip the page for a preview of A Little Like Destiny, Lisa Suzanne’s #1 bestselling rock star romance.
A LITTLE LIKE DESTINY
A Little Like Destiny Book One
©2017 LISA SUZANNE
one
The floor to ceiling windows offer a once in a lifetime panorama of the glowing lights of Las Vegas Boulevard forty-seven stories below me. I should still be asleep next to the man who spent the last two hours pushing me to the brink of pleasure again and again, but if I sleep, my eyes are closed instead of drinking in the view.
“Come back to bed.” The smooth, velvet voice I know so well wraps around me, soft and sleepy as he issues a clear demand. Something low in my belly flutters as I turn to look at him. The lights out the window are mesmerizing, but the man in the bed offers an unmatched view.
I pull his cashmere blanket more tightly around my bare shoulders.
I fantasize that this is my life for just a second as his breathing evens—that he wants to be with me, that he’s calling me back to bed in the penthouse suite he calls home because he wants me there, that this wasn’t just a one-night stand, that we could have a future together.
It’s fun to pretend, but a fantasy is all it’ll ever be.
He’s The Mark Ashton, lead singer of Vail, my favorite band…everybody’s favorite band.
He’s the man I stare at on the pages of magazines and follow on every possible social media platform with the hope to see a tiny glimpse inside his private life. He’s the man I’ve obsessed over and lusted after for the better part of ten years—since I was in high school and Vail’s first single hit the radio.
He’s also the man known for sleeping with a different woman every night, and I count myself fortunate that I happen to be his Saturday night special this week.
I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow, but tonight the only word that describes me is lucky.
We’re on the top floor of a building in the center of the world-renowned Las Vegas Strip after he spent hours kissing me, touching me, showing me that the rumors about his talents beneath the sheets are true. He knows what he’s doing. He’s everything I thought he’d be, more than I could’ve imagined. He was slow and sensual with me, caring and tender. He treated me with respect even though the rules were clear from the start.
He didn’t have to say it, exactly, but I knew the expectation the second I secured my invitation back to his place. Girls don’t go home with Mark Ashton thinking it’ll lead to anything more than one night. I wish the reality was different, but that’s not who he is and it’s not what he does.
He’s the very definition of a rock star. He makes a woman feel special for one night before he moves onto the next one. You hear the stories all the time, but you never think of the women who get left behind. It’s such a double standard—I think of them as groupies, a little slutty, definitely a little unethical...and now I’m one of them.
I don’t see myself that way, though. I’m not a groupie. I’m far from a slut. I pride myself on my ethics and my morals. I’m just a girl who couldn’t pass up her one shot at being with the rock star of her dreams.
It’s hard to reconcile what I felt for him tonight with what I know about him. Now I know him on a personal level. I’ve been in his home, in his bed. He knows me on a carnal level. He’s been in my mind, my heart, my body.
That all just makes it so much more difficult to walk out his door.
Does he do this with every woman he brings back to his place? Does he open up and let them in the way he did with me tonight? Is that how he’s able to get so many women to sleep with him?
Or was I somehow different?
I want to think I’m different, but insecurity rears its ugly head. As I turn my gaze back out the window to the lights twinkling below, I remind myself I’m just one in a long line of women—just the one he brought home tonight. Just the one who will leave in the morning thinking she’s different, thinking she’s the one who can tame his womanizing ways, thinking she’s the one he’d give up everything for.
I can’t let myself truly believe any of that for even a second, though. My heart can’t handle that sort of fracture. Even though I wish it could be more, it won’t be.
It will always be just one night.
two
When the elevator doors open, I step on and push the button for the main level. That’ll get me back out to the Strip, and then I can start the mile-long walk back to Mandalay Bay, where my car sits in the lot and my best friend sleeps in the hotel.
I threw my morals away for one night with a legend. I silently judge my friend Tess for sleeping with men she barely knows, yet I did the same thing.
It felt like I knew him, though. I’ve spent countless hours with him over the past ten years. His songs play on repeat. I fangirled when he came to town for a concert, set my DVR to record every appearance he had on those late-night talk shows, read every article I could get my obsessive hands on. Of course I felt like I knew him—he’s been a part of my life for a long time.
But I never actually met him until last night.
My brain is muddled with conflicting emotions: what I did was disgusting and shameful, yet it was beautiful and totally worth it. It was a night to remember forever, yet a night I don’t ever want to tell anyone about.
It feels wrong to abandon this place without leaving my number or some way for him to get in touch with me, but I’ve never done this before—never had a one-night stand or slept with one of the most famous rock stars in the world.
But all that changed last night, and now everything going forward will be tainted with this one event.
I’m all out of sorts. I’ve always been a rule follower, but how am I supposed to follow the rules when I don’t know what they are?
I draw in a deep breath as the burn of tears smarts behind my eyes. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
The chant is useless. Tears burn their way down my cheeks. I’m alone in an elevator after leaving Mark Ashton’s penthouse suite. Alone with my thoughts and images that’ll be burned in my mind for a long time to come—a hand running along my thigh, a tongue flicking my skin, a finger teasing my hip. His mouth caressing mine.
Euphoria clings to me after the night we shared. No man has ever made me feel so cherished. He handled my body with skill and ease, took care of my needs before he thought of himself. That euphoria sends a shot of giddiness through my stomach.
But reality crashed over me when I woke up. I couldn’t bear the thought of facing him—of him asking me to leave after last night.
So, I decided not to give him that chance.
Is this how all women feel during the walk of shame after one glorious night? I want to go back up to him, to crawl back into bed next to him. But wants and needs are two very different things, and I need to get back to my life and start the process of forgetting last night ever happened.
I just have no idea how to do that. I guess it’s time for me to write my own rule book here: How to Exit a One-Night Stand with Some Shred of Dignity.
I dig through my purse for my sunglasses. Chapter one of my rule book will help me get through the main level of the hotel on my way out to the Strip if I can at least cover my puffy, red, tear-leaking eyes.
I keep digging, unable to find my dumbass sunglasses under all the crap in my purse, including an array of make-up that I didn’t bother to use this morning. He was still asleep when I left. Why didn’t I at least say goodbye? If there’s anything I regret about the last nine hours, it’s that. I snuck out before he even woke up, and now I’ll never get the chance.
And that’s exactly where my confusion lies. Despite the shame pulling at my conscience, I don’t regret what I did.
I push angrily at the tears still coursing down my cheeks then pull my purse from my shoulder and balance it on my knee. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored elevator doors and look away in humiliation. I focus for a second on the n
umbers as they change with each floor we pass. I’m moving closer to the first floor as the elevator carries me further from Mark.
I search frantically through my purse, frustrated that I can’t find my stupid sunglasses, that I’m crying, that my face is a blotchy, disgusting mess, that I just left his place knowing I won’t be invited back.
This was a mistake, one night to mar an otherwise spotless record. I’m not good enough for someone like him, not wild and crazy enough, not famous, not even close to his league. If he’s playing in the majors, I’m basically the sister of the ball boy for some middle school team. That’s how far apart our worlds are, but he allowed me to dream for just a few bright minutes last night. He allowed me to step out of playing the role of the good girl to do something naughty and completely out of character for once in my life.
I’d give up everything for him—I’d have done that before I even met him last night. Both my best friend Jill and I have obsessed over him for years. He and the drummer from his band appeared on a reality show together, and we watched every episode and then watched again and again. In my fantasy world, I’d quit my job to tour around the world with him and Vail. I’d be best friends with the wives or girlfriends of the other band members.
I briefly think about leaving my number with the front desk as I bask in that fantasy, but my insecurities get the best of me. Mark is known for doing this, for making every woman he’s with feel like the queen of the world before daylight comes and he moves on to the next one. I’m not special or different. I’m not memorable. The whole idea of that fantasy life is just a stupid dream.
The elevator doors slide open, and I step off as I continue to dig. I’m not paying attention to anything around me, don’t even look up as I keep digging through my purse, and—of course, because why wouldn’t it happen today of all days?—I crash smack into a hard wall.