Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“Last night, I messed up. I was angry. I wanted to punish you. That’s on me.”
I shiver. “I deserved it.”
He shakes his head. “No. You didn’t. I made you suffer, now, I will make that better.”
Then he’s on me, every move slow and deliberate, his mouth undoing me piece by piece. No roughness, no game—just a kind of worship I never imagined I’d get from a man like him. He coaxes me to the edge, waits for my body to tremble, to break, to come apart in his hands. When I do, he lets me savor it, lets me ride it out, leaning up to catch my mouth as I gasp.
Once he’s done using his mouth and his tongue, he makes love to me. This time, it’s slow, every stroke measured, the desk creaking under our bodies. He keeps his forearm hooked around my back, his hand tangled in my hair; every time I moan, he grins like he’s never heard a more beautiful sound. When I come again, he follows, face buried in my neck.
God damn him.
“Promise me something?” I say, voice muffled by his chest.
“Anything.”
I tilt my chin up. “When you have to go on stage and make out with someone else, just tell me in advance?”
He laughs, kissing my forehead. “Deal. But I think after last night, the world’s figured out who I’m really obsessed with.”
Maybe this is dangerous. Maybe it’s fragile enough to break with the next hurricane. But for the first time in years, I believe in the idea of another day.
Maybe even another tomorrow.
With him.
With Travis Phoenix.
9
TRAVIS TEXTS ME MID-afternoon the next day, and my heart nearly jumps out of my throat. I have that stupid giddy smile that you get when someone you’re crushing on texts.
T - My place. Tonight.
V - Your place?
T - I bought a house. It’s a surprise. I’ll send a car.
V - I can drive, you know? And you bought a house? Are you joking?
T - You’re not driving that bucket of shit. Yeah, I bought a house.
V - So casual.
T - Haha. Don’t eat, either. I’m cooking.
V - Cereal?
T - Funny. No. You’ll see. Wear something sexy.
V - Yes boss.
T - I like it when you obey me.
V - Don’t get used to it.
T - See you later, Mischief.
I can’t help but smile as I tuck my phone away.
He sends a car, of course he does. I’m just finishing up my hair when it arrives, and I quickly rush to secure the last strand before straightening down my black dress, sexy but casual, not too much but enough that he can see a little cleavage and a flash of thigh. I sent Reagan a photo of my dresses, and she told me I need to go sexier, but I decided against it. It’s dinner, we’re not going to a show or a club. Besides, it leaves a little more to the imagination.
The car ride takes us from the city's neon pulse into neighborhoods I've never been into. I watch the city lights shrink in the rearview, its lights blurring as we slowly drift away. When we finally stop, I'm staring at a home that belongs in some small-town movie, not a rock star's portfolio. Two stories of pristine white clapboard with cornflower blue shutters that frame each window.
A wraparound porch curves gracefully around the front, dripping with fairy lights that make the whole place glow. The picket fence—an actual, non-ironic picket fence—stands crisp and white against a lawn so lush it seems unreal. Hydrangeas spill from the flower beds in clouds of blue and purple. It's not the modern home I expected; it's the kind of place where kids would chase fireflies at dusk.
Travis appears at the door, shirtless, a pair of low-hanging jeans on his hips, his tattooed body like a statue beneath the fairy lights. I get out of the car, thank the driver, and walk over, stopping at the bottom of the porch steps, my mouth still slightly agape.
“You like?”
“You live in a Pinterest board now?” I ask, my eyes wide as I take it all in.
He gives me a slow smile and extends his hand. I take it, coming up the steps. “Most people go rock ‘n’ roll trope. L.A. glass box, man-cave, whatever. But when you were young, you told me that all you ever wanted was a big home with a white picket fence.”
He shrugs, and for the first time since he has been back, I see the boy I remember.
“You remember that?” I whisper.
“I remember everything, kid.”
He swings the door open, and we step inside. The place is all wood floors and warm lights. Houseplants everywhere, books stacked on every flat surface, but it’s not staged, it’s lived in. It’s weirdly perfect. Like every piece of furniture he has picked is perfectly suited for the picture he is creating, and that picture is a home. The fireplace in the living room tops it, and I could see myself growing old here, that’s the kind of house it is. Travis beckons me into the kitchen. “We’ll do the bedroom tour soon. First, we’re going to eat.”