And the more she protests, the worse it gets. I push my stone-hard cock into her belly, laugh when she lets out a soft whimper. “Yeah, you’re right. But only if you do the evaluation, baby.”
Over the next two weeks, I build a routine without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to a little too much.
Morning: I wake up with her in my arms, my dick still inside her, because she’s warm and soft and her body calms me in a way nothing else ever has. And also, I can come inside her anytime I want, even when she’s asleep. And if that isn’t a fucking ace plan to get her bredasap, I don’t know what the hell is.
She mumbles complaints every time she realizes I’ve nutted inside her while she dreamt of me but I’m suspecting it’s because she’s missed out on screaming her head off when I make her come.
“It helps settle me,” I say.
“Does everything ‘help settle you,’ Zane?” she grumbles one morning, throwing an arm over her face.
I shrug because I don’t lie to her. “I know what I want. And you love having me inside you. I don’t see a better win-win than that.”
She groans. “I don’t know if I want to kiss you or commit a crime.”
“Both,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes, which only makes me kiss her harder.
Afternoon: I watch what she eats because I care about her body getting everything it will need soon. So I track her vitamins and her hydration.
I track her cravings with the precision of a surgeon.
Ruby snarks through every moment of it. “I can feed myself,” she snaps when I bring her a plate I made myself.
“I know,” I say. “But I like doing it.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Because it helps settle you?”
“Exactly.”
She throws her napkin at me.
Night: I take her on moonlit drives with the top down. I like late hours because there’re fewer fans to deal with and piss me off. Fewer disruptions and fewer people trying to get close enough to breathe her air. Fewer people to accidentally catch us when I pull onto a dirt road and fuck my girl on the hood of my Porsche 911 Carrera 4s.
She leans her head on my shoulder as we glide along Mulholland Drive, the city glowing below us. “This…is actually nice,” she admits quietly.
I grip the wheel harder because the part of me that is always one breath from snapping wants to stop the car, pull her onto my lap, and tell her this isours, this entire life, this entire world, every minute of it.
But I keep driving.
Barely.
The next industryevent becomes necessary when Freddie threatens to “chain me to the mic stand” if I skip another appearance.
I only agree because Ruby is coming with me.
I wear black.
She wears something that makes my breath halt for a full second when she walks out of the wardrobe I stocked for her. She sticks close to me instinctively, overwhelmed by the flashing lights and the buzzing noise of Hollywood hunger.
I keep her pressed against my side, arm around her waist, hand on her hip, palm resting exactly where her body curves prettiest.
Everyone stares and I glare back.
When a reporter asks, “Is this your girlfriend?” I answer before Ruby can even form a syllable.
“Yes.”
