“God, do you have any idea how much I’ve wanted you this past week?” He’s practically panting.
I claw at his shirt. “I hate sleeping alone. Have I told you that? I hate sleeping alone.”
His laugh is low and vibrates through my chest as he helps me out of my dress. “Well, you’re not sleeping alone tonight.”
Our clothes come off fast and frantic, as if we’re burning alive and the only way to put it out is to be with each other. His hands are everywhere—on my hips, my thighs, the swell of my stomach—and when his palm rests there, he pauses long enough to look at me.
“You, me, and him,” he whispers. “You’re everything I ever wanted and didn’t think I could have.”
I cup his face, my tears blurring the sight of him. “You have us. You always will.”
Then there’s no more talking.
His mouth claims mine as his hands guide me down to the bed. Our rhythm is frantic at first—desperation clawing at us from the starvation of being apart. But then it slows, and it turns into something that spurs more emotion out of me than I thought I’d ever have.
“I missed you,” I gasp, my nails digging into his back. “God, I missed you.”
When we finally collapse, slick with sweat and tangled in the sheets, his arms lock around me as though he’ll never let go.
Then he places his head on the swell of my stomach, and at first, it’s just a hum—a tune. But then his words slip out, low and tender.
Tour bus wheels roll down the highway,
Never cared if someone wanted to stay
But with you it’s different, with you it’s right,
One smile got me seeing the light
Got me wishin' I could be someone I’m not,
Someone who deserves you, who loves you a lot
A man without a temper, without all this pride,
Who ain't got some scared kid buried inside
I imagine it’s the chorus of the single he’s recording.
His hand covers the swell of my stomach as his voice seeps through my skin, reaching the teeny life inside.
And for the first time in weeks, I feel completely whole.
Chapter Forty
Zander
The hotel door shuts behind me with a soft click, and I rest my head against it for half a second. My cheeks hurt from making sure my charm was on display for every interview, and my jaw aches from all the talking and joking.
The interviews were fine. The same old recycled questions get asked—a bunch of what’s next for you and anything you want to share with us, as though the entire world has a right to the blueprint of my life. As suspected, there were questions about Romy—who she is, how we met, what she means to me. I was quick to shut them all down and make it clear I wasn’t there to discuss my personal life.
I should be used to it by now. I guess I am, kind of. But the questions hit differently when Romy is waiting for me. Every answer I gave today made me feel fake as hell because I was leaving out a big portion of the truth. Not telling anyone that the best thing in my life is holed up in a hotel room on the other side of the city, hidden away from cameras and waiting for me, felt like shit.
I run a hand over my face, scrubbing at the stubble, and toss the key card on the table near the door. The suite is quiet and dim with only one lamp lit in the corner.
I step into the bedroom, assuming Romy will be asleep, but she’s sprawled across the bed like a fantasy wrapped in black lace and silk. Her legs are crossed at the ankle, one knee bent, teasing me with what’s underneath. Her belly, round now, rises beneath the delicate fabric of her lingerie.
She props up on her elbows, smirking because she knows exactly what she does to me.
