I hummed on his veined cock while the lights shimmered on the Seine.
He took me balls-deep in the ass against the glass wall of our suite in Amsterdam while rain streaked down behind us.
And in Venice — God help me — I came so hard on his tongue I’m pretty sure gondoliers two canals over heard it.
To put it mildly, my introduction to Europe has been nothing short of spectacular.
The music video schedule hasn’t slowed the sex down. If anything, it’s intensified everything.
I wrote the script for the shot in a fire-lit warehouse sequence in Paris and a neon-drenched rooftop kiss scene in Amsterdam. And a dramatic, slow-motion riverbank moment in Venice that almost got scrapped because Zane couldn’t stop burying his face in my neck every time the director yelled action.
We’re ahead of schedule.
Freddie said so himself, even though he also muttered that Zane’s inability to keep his hands off me was both “inspirational” and “fucking inconvenient.”
Now we’re in London for a full week.
Three Riot Saints gigs at The O2.
Seven days of rehearsals, filming, and Zane refusing to let me step two feet away from him in public.
He’s rented a posh place in Chelsea with three floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a kitchen big enough to host a cooking show, and a rooftop terrace that looks out over the river.
The band is staying next door, because apparently we’re only allowed to be separated by one shared wall at any given time.
He received zero objection from me.
Now I don’t have to worry about wearing only his T-shirt and nothing else because apparently he sent a band-wide text while we were in Oregon—no more unscheduled meetings or walk-ins in his house.
I felt bad for the band. For like a minute.
Because the privacy? The freedom to walk around without fear of bumping into the assistant to the assistant to the deputy tour manager helping himself to a coconut water in Zane’s fridge at midnight?
Heavenly.
Tonight, we’re on the sofa in the Chelsea townhouse.
The city hums below us.
Zane is stretched out shirtless, ink everywhere, muscles relaxed for once.
I trace another tattoo on his ribs, soft and slow. It’s a set of coordinates. Precise numbers etched into skin. “What’s this one?” I ask.
He takes my hand, lowers it gently over his heart, and lifts my chin so he can look at me fully. “Trailer park I grew up in,” he says quietly. “One room. No power some weeks and holes in the ceiling. Mom and I pulled ourselves out of it. I marked it so I never forget where I came from. Or ever return there.”
My heart rolls over.
Of course he marked it.
Of course he carries it like a vow. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Zane Draven, it’s that he marks memorable moments in his life with searing specificity.
“I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo,” I admit.
His whole body goes rigid. “No.”
“What?” I sit straight up. “Zane, it’s my body.”
He stiffens more, and I can practically feel the argument forming in him, pressing to escape. “Tattoos hurt, baby. I can’t bear the thought of you hurting.”
