by Mimi Strong
He reaches up further, to my breasts, and cups them tenderly. While looking in my eyes, he splays his fingers and catches my nipples between his fingers, pinching them.
The squeezing pressure on my nipples floods me with lust.
I murmur for him to squeeze them harder, and he does.
I cry out and tip my head back, eyes closed. His touch is addictive. I forget about everything below the waist and just focus on the sensation in my breasts.
He’s all too happy to keep pleasuring me like this, squeezing and playing with my breasts.
I cry out that I’m coming, and he begins to move underneath me like a wild beast. He lifts his hips from the bed, throwing me upward with the momentum so I come crashing down on him.
He keeps bucking, and I feel him go so rigid inside me, thick with pressure before he releases.
He starts to come, and as I feel the hot warmth inside me, I crumble inward and then explode outward.
I feel like I’m falling, but he’s got me.
He’s catching me in his arms.
Everything is fireworks. Fireworks inside my head, all around us.
Now we’re rocking slowly, and he’s sitting up. I’m no longer on my knees, but my legs are wrapped around him, and he’s deep inside me.
We keep rocking, soothing each other, pulsing deep within.
Chapter Ten
Dylan is serious about keeping us hidden away in the rented Malibu mansion so we can reconnect in private.
I’ve got the rest of the week off work to recover from my jet lag, but even if I didn’t have the time, I’d demand it. Our relationship is more important than my career… and more fun.
After we shower and get dressed—me in the work clothes I wore yesterday—Dylan suggests we leave the house just long enough so we don’t get cabin fever.
We take a taxi to Morris Music and pick up my BMW. Unlike Dylan’s bright blue Maserati, nobody looks twice at my car. Of course, if we were in my old hometown, everyone would stare at my relatively fancy car, which I find amusing.
Dylan is overjoyed to find the frizzy red wig I wore as a disguise when I visited Ryanna. He jokingly puts the wig on and asks how he looks as a woman with red hair. With the thick, dark brown beard he’s been growing, he is not a convincing redhead.
The wig is very handy, though, and the fake glasses. Since I don’t have any clothes with me at the mansion, I put on my disguise so we can go shopping undercover.
We drive around and decide to look for clothes at a discount outlet, inside a shopping mall. It’s a weekday, and not very busy inside the mall. Nobody even looks our way, let alone recognizes us.
Dylan visits a bank machine so we can pay for everything we need in cash. I laugh and tell him I feel like we’re on the run from the CIA. But the truth is, most people will meet a celebrity and not realize why the person seems so familiar. Sometimes, it’s that moment where Dylan is paying for something with his credit card that we’ll see the waitress or cashier’s eyes bulge out at his name on the card.
We buy our new clothes with cash, and the guy ringing us up casually asks what we do for a living in L.A.
Dylan nods to me and says we’re a folk-rock duo trying to break into the music business.
The guy nods and says he’s a screenwriter, but he also runs an open mike night at a local cafe. “Hey, why don’t you drop in and play a set one night?” he asks.
“Cool. I’d do that,” Dylan says.
The guy hands Dylan a flyer for the coffee house, and they talk for a few minutes about which nights are best for new people.
As Dylan turns away, he is so fixated on the coffee house flyer, he forgets the bags on the counter. I quickly grab them and chase after him.
“Are you really going?” I ask him.
He frowns and stuffs the crumpled flyer into his pocket. “I’m sorry, Jess. I really was thinking about it for a minute, but I caught myself. Today and this weekend are about me and you, not me and music.”
“That guy seems nice.”
“I guess.” Dylan puts his arm around my shoulders and steers me through the mall, toward the scent of popcorn. “Want to catch a matinee?” He grins. “Like normal people do when they’re at the mall?”
I agree, and we walk up to the marquee. There are so many movies playing right now that I’ve never heard of. If it’s not a movie that’s licensing music from one of our artists, I don’t know anything about it.
“Wow,” I say. “These are all new to me. I must have been in Italy for a long time.”
He leans over and kisses me. “A lifetime. But next time you go, we’ll both go together. Maybe we’ll do something special.”
Special? At the mention of something special, my bare ring finger twitches. After wearing the engagement ring for a year, my finger feels naked without it.
Dylan must have scooped up the ring when I wasn’t looking. It had been lying on top of some clothes, and I’d memorized the spot because I was worried about it getting lost. This morning, I tidied up the room a bit. The ring wasn’t there, but he hadn’t moved anything else.
As we look over the movie posters, I nuzzle up close to him and say, “Where’d you hide my ring, anyway?”
He chuckles. “Somewhere safe.”
“I hope you didn’t return it to the store.”
He smiles and keeps looking straight ahead at our movie options. “You’ll see your ring again, I’m sure.”
“Is this a game we’re playing, or are you mad at me for not saying yes right away?”
He turns his head just enough to give me a sly look. “I’m not mad.”
“So, it’s a game?”
“I’m not going to put it in the bottom of a bucket of movie popcorn, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Now I have to laugh. “Do people do that?” I stop laughing and sigh. Great. Now I’m going to be digging around in the bottom of the popcorn bucket for my ring.
We pick a movie, get a fortune’s worth of junk food, including popcorn, and head into the dark theater.
Throughout the movie, I keep thinking about the ring, and what Dylan said about doing something special in Italy. Is he planning to propose to me again, in Italy? Do I have to wait that long?
The ring isn’t at the bottom of the popcorn bucket, but he gives me a knowing grin when we finish the popcorn. This is a game for him, I think. I should try to roll with it and be more fun.
I feel so confused about last night, about how he proposed, and how I didn’t say yes and take the ring right away. He seems so happy now, like what I did was actually the right decision.
Maybe he doesn’t care about marriage as much as I do. He was married once before. What if he doesn’t want to get engaged again? What if part of his meltdown in Italy was pressure from the upcoming wedding? Now that our secret wedding ceremony is cancelled, he sure seems a lot happier.
In fact, he doesn’t seem at all worried about anything, including his upcoming album. The last we heard from Morris, it was on hold. He should be freaking out right now, but he’s stuffing his mouth with junk food and watching an action movie.
I do like this new, relaxed Dylan, but I feel unsettled. We still don’t know who hacked into my phone, or who’s trying to sabotage us.
The knot in my stomach tells me that no matter how long we hide out in our disguises, eventually we’re going to be in the spotlight again.
Chapter Eleven
We’re not married, but I feel like we’re on a honeymoon.
Dylan and I spend every waking minute together, and hold each other close at night.
By Sunday, we’re in a comfortable routine. I really don’t want to return to work on Monday.
Dylan makes us waffles for a late breakfast and we eat out in the rented mansion’s garden, sitting cross-legged on towels because the house doesn’t have loungers out here. After we finish, he takes the plates and disappears inside the house to make some phone calls. I take a nap on a towel in the sunshine.
I wake up after about an hour, go inside the house, and make a fresh pot of coffee.
I’m sitting at the kitchen’s bar counter reading a magazine when Dylan comes into the room. He frowns at the bag of coffee grounds.
I look up from the magazine. He looks different. Younger.
“You shaved your beard! Wow. I’d almost forgotten what you look like without it. Come here and let me kiss your smooth cheeks.”
He’s still frowning at the coffee grounds. “I had this kitchen spotless. Then you came in here and exploded your mess everywhere.”
I start to laugh.
He ignores me and starts sweeping up the coffee grounds, grumbling about me being the slob.
He looks up at me. “What are you laughing about?” He raises one eyebrow, genuinely mystified.
I get up and wrap my arms around him. “I’m laughing because this is so normal. I didn’t know if it could ever be like this with us, and now… I don’t know.” I look up at him, grinning. “Is it weird that I’m happy to have you give me hell for spilling coffee grounds everywhere?”
His dark brown eyes glow brighter with every word.
“You’re messy,” he says, laying on the accusation while smirking.
“We’re both messy.”
“Love is messy.”
I raise my eyebrows and give him a flirty look. “Are you writing song lyrics?”
He embraces me, holding me tenderly next to the messy counter.
Dylan sings softly, “She needed her fix, and she couldn’t wait. She tore it open, tore open his life, tore open his heart, tore open his eyes.”
“Ouch.” I press my face against his smooth, freshly-shaved neck. “Sounds a bit violent.”
He keeps singing, “She left destruction in her wake, a world of chaos, a sound without noise, a whisper in the desert.”
“Hmm. I like that.” I love it when he puts together words without worrying about rhyme or rhythm. The strange, sweet poetry he sings to me at random is so much more special than anything the public ever hears.
I’m tempted to record him some time, but I wouldn’t want to share.
He keeps singing, humming melodies and dropping in words.
The scent of freshly-brewed coffee, combined with his body next to mine, is homey. Pure happiness. This rented Malibu mansion isn’t our home, but it doesn’t matter. Our home is wherever we both are, together.
After he’s sung for a while, he starts kissing me. He stands at my back, kissing my neck while I tidy the mess on the counter.
When everything’s cleaned up, I ask over my shoulder, “Would you like to join me in the bedroom for a nap?”
He grinds against me from behind. “I thought you had a nap in the garden.”
“Did I?” I laugh. “Well, never mind, then. I didn’t want to go to the bedroom with you anyway.”
He presses into me from behind, pinning me against the counter. He reaches up under my shirt and cups my breasts while he breathes on my neck. “You wouldn’t sleep, anyway.”
I tilt my hips to press myself against him suggestively.
He growls in response and grabs the waistband of my shorts.
In seconds, he’s got my shorts and underwear pulled down, his jeans undone, and he’s pushing into me.
I gasp and lean forward on the kitchen counter. I’m wet and he slides easily, all the way. The sudden desperation I feel surprises me. I truly can’t get enough of him. I want him like this, every minute of the day.
He fills me and beats a rhythm that’s as beautiful as his voice.
He leans forward and pulls my shirt off without breaking rhythm. I gasp and cry out for him to take me harder. I can’t get enough.
He pounds into me, crushing me against the counter and holding onto my shoulders to steady me.
With a gasp, he pulls away and turns me around. He lifts me up to sit on the counter, and then he’s inside me again. We’re facing each other, able to kiss. I wrap my legs around him. This angle is even better, and I start to fall apart.
He slows to murmur in my ear, “Does this remind you of that time in the hospital.”
“Yes.”
He growls, “You’re so hot. You get me so worked up. I can’t even look at you without wanting to yank your clothes off.”
I feel the same way, so I pull his shirt off. His bare chest is tense and gorgeous, his muscles flexing as he thrusts into me.
He’s staring at my chest, hypnotized. I look down and see that I’m still wearing my bra, but he’s pulled the cups down so my breasts are popping out over the tops. They both shake and jiggle with every thrust.
He nods down and tongues first one nipple, then the other. He watches them shake as he pounds into me.
I start to climax, just watching his face, seeing his eyes on my breasts. I come hard and fast, and he just smiles.
After I’ve come back down to earth, I sigh and lean back, steadying myself on the counter with my hands behind me.
He keeps staring at my breasts, his concentration more intense with every second. He’s powerfully hard inside me. I flex my muscles, gripping him, trying to pull him over the edge, but he’s resisting.
I lean to the side on just one hand and reach up to touch my breast. His eyebrows shoot up and his movements become rough.
I roll my nipple between my fingers and then squeeze my breast. He grunts for me to keep going, so I do.
He pulls out of me and nods for me to lean back on the counter. I lean all the way back and grab both breasts.
He flicks his eyes up to mine, and I invite him to do that thing—that thing I know he likes to do sometimes.
I close my eyes and keep rubbing my breasts. I feel his hot mouth on my nipple, and then he pulls away. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for it. His breathing is heavy, labored.
He lets out a soft moan as he comes, and I feel his fluid splash along my stomach and breasts. I reach one hand down between my legs and press down, sending ripples of pleasure through my body as I start to peak again.
He pushes my hand aside and I hear him move, leaning down. He kisses the area between my legs roughly. I cry out in pleasure as his tongue pushes me up into heaven.
Chapter Twelve
A few hours later, we’re sitting in the bath tub together, looking up movie times on his phone and talking about what we’ll order for dinner, when the phone starts to ring.
I squeal and nearly drop the phone into the sudsy water.
He laughs and takes the phone from me. It’s a blocked number, so he answers gruffly, “Who is this?”
As he listens, his expression softens.
“So good to hear from you.” He whispers to me that it’s the investigator, Clay Verity.
I sit up straight in the tub, straining to overhear Clay’s side of the conversation.
Dylan says, “Yes, I understand. We can’t be too careful.”
He looks over at me, his dark eyes giving away nothing.
“Sure,” he says into the phone. “I don’t know that place, but send the address. I’m in Malibu, so I can be there in an hour.”
He finishes up the conversation and tosses the phone onto some towels next to the tub.
I clutch my arms around myself. “He wouldn’t say who over the phone?”
“He doesn’t trust the security of phone lines.” He reaches down into the water and squeezes my knee. “Don’t look so worried. We’re getting to the bottom of this. We’re almost through it now.”
I force a smile onto my face. I really want to believe him, that knowing who was setting us up is going to make things better, not worse.
Chapter Thirteen
We meet Clay Verity at an out-of-the-way diner. The restaurant looks like a truck stop, and everyone in here is busy with their food.
I’m not wearing the wig and glasses, because this isn’t the kind of place celebrities visit.
Nobody looks up when we walk in the door.
Clay is already sitting at a booth, eating a club
sandwich and fries. He looks different, away from his cute house and without his wife at his side. His gray hair looks darker, his cheeks almost gaunt.
Before he spots us, he’s just a lone wolf in a grungy diner, keeping an eye on his surroundings as he eats. He actually reminds me of Dylan.
We sit across from him and say hello.
A waitress comes by, and we quickly order. The clubhouse looks good enough, so we get two of those.
Once we’re alone, Clay Verity pushes a folder of papers across the table, to a spot between me and Dylan.
My hand is shaking as I nudge the folder toward Dylan. I’m too nervous to look. What if it’s someone from Dylan’s past, someone still carrying a grudge over what happened with his wife? What if it’s someone I know?
Clay must see the fear on my face.
“Your boss was telling the truth,” Clay says. “With Ryanna’s help, I traced the emails and messages she got about the publicity job. They didn’t come from Morris Music.”
“Good.” I let out a sigh of relief. I’m so happy it wasn’t my boss after all. I would hug Clay Verity if there wasn’t a big table between us.
Dylan opens the folder and starts looking over the printouts. There’s a lot of data, with times and date stamps, and IP addresses of computers, along with their physical addresses. From where I’m sitting, it’s a jumble of data.
I look up into Clay’s light gray eyes, ready to hear the worst.
“It’s not Morris, but it is someone local,” Clay says. “That’s how we ruled out a whole lot of people from Dylan’s… uh… history.”
“Damn,” Dylan says.
Clay says gruffly, “Dylan, your personal publicist was in on it. You’ll have to fire her, but don’t do it yet. You can use her.”
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. “Your publicist? That’s how they knew about all your last-minute gigs, so they could send Ryanna there.” I turn to Clay Verity. “Why would his publicist do this? Just to increase her workload? Her career is over.”