by Meghan March
Overwhelmed, I hesitate, afraid to step inside with my boots on, but Creighton doesn’t share my reluctance. He pulls me inside.
“You’ll be comfortable here for a few days.”
Again, it’s not a question from him, but a decree. I can’t argue with him. I’m sure the place has every creature comfort invented.
“It’ll work,” I say, and Creighton turns his head to smirk at me before leading me toward the bedroom.
“You’re not wasting any time, are you,” I mumble under my breath.
“Unfortunately, I have to leave you and go to the office for a few hours. Something came up, and I need to handle it from there with my team.”
“You’re making them work in the middle of the night? And on New Year’s Day? That seems like cruel and unusual punishment.”
Creighton pauses in front of the king-sized bed with a sleek black headboard and footboard, silvery-gray bedspread, and a pile of pillows.
“They work when I need them to work. No one comes on board who isn’t willing to drop everything whenever I need them. The compensation they get is a fair trade.”
I shrug. I’ve got no response to that, because I assume he pays them more than I make, so it’s up to them what they put up with from him.
“Come. I want to show you your things.”
“My things?”
I follow him toward a doorway that leads into a walk-in closet that’s about half the size of the single-wide I grew up in. The size doesn’t stop me in my tracks, but the collection of skirts, dresses, tops, and slacks hanging in it does. My eyes catch on the shelves of shoes, purses, and accessories.
“What’s this?”
“Your wardrobe,” Creighton replies matter-of-factly. “I had it delivered New Year’s Eve.”
What?
“On the flight to Vegas?” I’m so confused. When could he have done that? I don’t remember him making a call, but then again I was buried in the prenup.
“No, before I went to the Plaza.”
“That’s crazy. You didn’t even know if I’d show. Plus, it’s kinda freaking creepy. I’m not some Stepford wife you can just dress up however you want.”
Creighton’s laugh fills the room. “If I wanted a Stepford wife, I would’ve picked one of the gold diggers out of the society crowd. You, my dear, are anything but. I knew that on Christmas Eve, and I know it now. If there’s anything that doesn’t suit your taste, it can be removed and replaced with something that’s more to your liking. But I think you’ll be surprised by some of the choices. Country chic, I think the consultant called it.”
Once again, I’m stunned. I’m still trying to figure out how to respond when Creighton releases my hand and turns for the door.
“I hate to leave you on your own, but I have to go. Don’t wait up for me, because it’ll be late. If you get hungry, the fridge is stocked.” He pauses at the doorway. “The bathroom is also stocked. I didn’t know what you would like on that front, but the selection should be adequate. Shower and relax. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Apparently I’m only capable of nodding. Creighton’s lips quirk into a smile, and then he’s gone. I’m still making my way out of the bedroom when I hear the front door shut behind him.
Well, I guess that’s that. I wander back out into the living room and pull my phone from my pocket. All my social-media notifications are still going bananas, so I ignore them, along with the missed calls and voice mails from a number I don’t recognize.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who would call me a dozen times and leave a dozen messages. I hope JC was right that no publicity is bad publicity.
Going to the window, I can’t help but feel like Rapunzel staring down from her tower, although with much shorter hair. Except in Rapunzel’s case, her tower was at least familiar. I’m completely out of my element here, and I’ve never felt every moment of my Kentucky upbringing quite so keenly as when I stand in this penthouse.
A lyric hits me almost instantly, and I squeeze my eyes closed and hear it again in my head. Pressing my forehead to the glass, I quiet my mind to everything but the words and melody that are taking shape.
Six songs. I need to write six songs, and maybe, just maybe, I’ve got the beginnings of one. My purse is still on my shoulder, and I hurry to the chair near the fireplace and pull out my notebook.
As I scribble out the words and notes, the thrill of excitement rises in my blood. I need a guitar. I really, really need a guitar. It’s one thing Creighton couldn’t know I’d want since he arranged for all of this to be delivered before he even knew who I was.
I look out the window at the darkened city. It’s too late to go exploring for a guitar now, so I keep scribbling lyrics, erasing them and rewriting, until my hand is cramped and my back aches.
I lay down my pencil and rise, my muscles protesting and my head fuzzy. The little sleep I got last night and the sheer craziness of what I’ve done is catching up with me.
Flipping my notebook shut, I wander back into the bedroom, hearing the siren’s call of the giant bed. After running my hand along the silky-smooth comforter, I give up the battle and strip off my clothes where I stand before I slide between the covers.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll find a guitar shop.
My eyes snap open and I blink several times, scanning the room.
Where am I?
Then everything comes rushing back. Creighton’s penthouse. New York City. Turning my head to the side, I see nothing but smooth, unrumpled comforter beside me.
I sit up and stretch, my attention going to the clock. It’s already close to noon, and there’s no evidence Creighton ever made it to bed. Swinging my legs over the side and pushing off the plush mattress, I rise and survey the large bedroom.
Nope. No sign of him.
My stomach grumbles and I wander toward the kitchen, wondering if I’m going to find a note or something informing me as to where my husband is. The granite countertop is spotless and note-less.
I grab my phone from my purse, and see a text from almost three hours earlier.
I’ll be home later. Make yourself comfortable. Call the doorman if you need anything.
I’m surprised he has my number, but there’s no questioning who the message is from.
My burning desire for a guitar hasn’t faded, but I have absolutely no intention of asking a doorman to fetch me one. This is New York, and New York has everything.
I pull out my phone to do some quick Google searching.
Bingo. Apparently Rudy’s Music is a New York fixture, and looks absolutely perfect. I check the distance, and realize it’s too far to walk. I have no idea how to get in touch with Creighton’s driver, so I decide that for the first time in my life, I’m going to catch a cab. It can’t be that hard.
I don’t even bother to shower or change my clothes before I’m out the door. After all, I’ve got songs to write, and for the first time in months, I can’t wait to dig in.
I’m riding high on the knowledge that I’ve just written the most epic song of my career to date. Granted, my official career has only spanned nine months, but I’ve been writing songs for much longer. Regardless, the song is epic. I’m as humble as the next girl, but even I know when I’ve struck gold.
I don’t even realize the time as I walk through the giant door into the lobby of Creighton’s building. For the last however many hours, I’ve been tucked into a corner at Rudy’s, losing myself in the music. The super-cool old dude finally asked me to leave an hour after he would have normally closed. I guess he was caught up in the music too, but was gracious and awesome, and promised to come to my show the next time I performed in the city.
I swipe the key card the doorman gave me as I left the building, hit the P button, and lean back against the mirrored walls of the elevator. Because Creighton owns the entire top floor, the elevator opens directly into a lobby that has only one door. I left it unlocked, assuming only someone with the key card could get back up here.
I can’t help but hum the melody of my new badass song to myself as I step into the darkened penthouse. Dropping my purse on the huge table in the entryway, I grip the notebook between my teeth as I tug off my boots. It’s cold as heck outside, and even during the short walk from the corner where the cab dropped me off, I think I slogged through some nasty stuff hiding in the snow that has been falling since this afternoon. Since I take better care of these boots than some people do their children—they’re one of very few extravagant purchases in my life—I whisper that I’ll be back to wipe them off in a hot second.
I’m crossing into the living area and heading toward the kitchen when a lamp clicks on. The pooling light reveals Creighton seated in the chair by the fireplace.
For a moment, I’m reminded of one of those movies where the teenager is sneaking into the house after curfew, and the mom or dad is waiting in the living room all quiet-like before flipping on the lights and surprising the kid. Considering I never had a mom who cared enough about me to set a curfew—let alone ever have a dad—I’ve always been a little envious during those moments in movies. Gran was amazing, but she was in bed by nine every night, and I respected her too much to stay out past midnight, which was my self-imposed curfew.
Creighton’s expression is dark, despite the crisp white light. “Where the fuck have you been?”
I stumble to a stop at the question. “Excuse me?”
“I said, where the fuck have you been?”
I’m taken aback by his tone. Creighton was the one who left within moments of depositing me in this penthouse, so if anyone has a right to be pissed, it would be me. And regardless of how nice a place it is, I’m not exactly the kind of girl who can sit idle. He never said anything about not being able to leave.
I try to interject some lightness into the mood. “It’s lovely to see you too, my dear husband.”
“Answer the question, Holly.”
Seriously, why is he so pissed?
“I was out. I needed a guitar, so I went and found one.”
“And you couldn’t answer your goddamn phone?”
I glance in the direction of my purse. I don’t remember it ringing, and I sure didn’t look at it after I found my way to Rudy’s. Then I look back to Creighton, a flare of guilt building inside me, but it’s quickly doused when he pushes out of the chair and stalks toward me.
“You don’t leave this building unless I know where you’re going.”
Say what now?
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t realize I was a prisoner here.”
“You’re not a prisoner; you’re my wife.”
“Apparently that’s the same thing,” I mumble, dropping my gaze to the floor. Because I’m pretty sure if I look at him right now, I might incinerate him with the fire shooting from my eyes.
He lifts his hand, and I flinch before he cups my jaw and lifts my chin. I’m forced to meet his gaze, and open my mouth to spit that same fire, when he says, “Scared the hell out of me to come home to find you gone. I came up with a million different scenarios while I was sitting here, calling your phone over and over. Thought maybe you’d run.”
I blink, the intensity of his gaze unnerving me. “Run?”
“From me.”
I bite my lip. A hint of vulnerability creeps over his features before they harden once more.
“Not that it’d do you any good. I’d track you down. There’s nowhere you could hide from me.”
My eyes widen at his words, and heat rushes through me at the sheer possession in them. I should hate it, but I don’t. Being wanted is a feeling I’m not used to, and it’s seductive.
“I’m not done with you,” he finishes.
And the heat cools, because I can hear the unsaid “yet” floating in the air.
I clutch my notebook to my chest, trying to hide the pang that just jabbed at my heart. I shutter my expression, not wanting him to know that I feel the word he didn’t say. Not wanting him to know that I care. Because I don’t.
This is temporary, I tell myself. We both know it. Embrace it. And then move on.
“I guess it’s handy that I’m not done with you yet, either,” I say. It’s the honest truth. I want more of him before he finally gives me my walking papers.
Creighton loses none of his intensity as he lifts his other hand and frames my face. I think he’s going to lower his mouth and kiss me, but he doesn’t.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asks again, this time much more quietly.
Disappointment fills me. I was actually looking forward to that kiss.
“Holly.”
I snap my attention back to him. “I told you, I needed a guitar. So I went and found one.”
He drops his hands from my face, and I miss his touch as soon as it’s gone. I should dwell on that, but I don’t.
“Shit. I didn’t even think about that.”
“It’s no big deal. I found this little music store. The guy there was awesome. He let me play for as long as I needed.”
Creighton frowned. “You didn’t buy one?”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t need a new guitar. I have two perfectly good ones waiting for me in Nashville, and I’ll be back there the day after tomorrow. The guy at Rudy’s told me I could come back tomorrow and play if I want.”
Creighton shakes his head. “You’ll have a new one here tomorrow. Just pick it out, and I’ll get someone to deliver it first thing. Your credit cards will be here too.”
Both of these statements floor me. “I don’t need a new guitar. And I don’t need your money either.”
His jaw sets, and his eyes drill into mine. “And yet you’ll have both. This is not a debate. If you don’t pick out a guitar, someone will pick one out for you.”
“Are you ever anything less than completely stubborn and arrogant?”
Creighton’s jaw relaxes as he smiles. “Never.”
“I think you’re way too used to getting everything you want.” I say it without heat, because we both know it’s the truth.
“Of course I am, and right now, I want you naked. I’m going to get that too.”
And there go my panties. “Is that so?” I eye his three-piece suit. “Because you’re certainly not naked.”
He reaches for the knot of his tie and tugs it loose. “That’s about to change.”
Did I think my panties were a lost cause before? Because when he slides the tie from around his neck and wraps it around his fist, knuckles flexing, my nipples tighten.
“Lose the jeans, Holly. I want you bent over the back of the couch so I can fuck you.”
My eyes go wide. I should be used to his bold statements by now, but I’m not. I’m not used to any of this. Not used to him.
He’s . . . too much.
But that doesn’t stop my hands from dropping to the fly of my jeans and unbuttoning them and dragging the zipper down. I shove them off my hips, and almost as if my body isn’t under my own control, I kick them aside. My socks follow, and I walk toward the couch.
“The rest of it too.”
My shirt and white cami are over my head and tossed to the floor in seconds, and I reach behind me for the clasp of my bra and it follows. I tuck my thumbs into the top of my underwear, about to shove them down, when he says, “Stop.”
I freeze.
Creighton’s presence is given away by the heat of his body as he steps within inches of me. I can feel him move, but I’m not sure what he’s doing . . . until I feel his teeth against my ass, separated from my skin only by the fabric of my panties.
“I want a piece of this gorgeous ass. So fucking lush. So fucking tempting.”
I remember what he said in the shower, and I tense. He reads my hesitation—I’m not sure how, but he does.
“Not like that, sweet girl. Soon. But not yet.”
He tugs my underwear down my hips and presses his lips against the spot where he nipped me. His big hand skims up my ass to my lower back, and he pushes me forward. My breasts connect with the cool leather of the sofa, and I gasp at the contact. Which contact, I’m not entirely sure—but I can guess.
A groan from behind me has me lifting my head, but the pressure against my back keeps me otherwise in place.
“Jesus, Holly. That ass . . . I may have to fuck you like this every day.”
Shivers course through me, and I can feel my arousal slicking down my thighs. Creighton’s tongue zeroes in on it and he wastes no time lapping it up, his mouth working between my legs.
I shift uncomfortably. I’ve never done . . . this . . . from this angle, and he’s getting dangerously close to the part of me that has never been touched by a tongue. But Creighton clearly doesn’t share my discomfort.
I lift my ass higher in the air, pushing up onto my tiptoes, trying to direct him without words to keep his tongue the hell away from my back door, and what do I get for my trouble?
A sharp slap stings the side of my rear.
“Ow!”
I can feel Creighton’s lips moving between my legs when he says, “Stop squirming, Holly. If I want to lick this tight little asshole, you will not stop me.” At the word asshole, his thumb presses against the sensitive pucker, which is already slick with my cream and his saliva.
A shiver runs through me at his words and actions.
“Goddamn, I love your ass,” he says as he increases the pressure and the tip of his thumb breaches the tight ring of muscle.
My nipples? They could cut through bulletproof glass right about now. I shouldn’t like this. I shouldn’t want this. But God help me, I do.
And then he stands and steps away. As uncomfortable as the last few moments made me, I’m missing his touch already. I open my mouth to protest, but his lips press against my hair.
“Don’t you fucking move. I’ll turn that ass red if you’re not in this exact position when I get back.”
Okay, if I was turned on before, now I’m panting like a bitch in heat. And I’m no longer thinking I shouldn’t want this. I don’t care. I just want him to get his ass back here now.
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