I settle back into my chair, the leather cool against my skin as I let my head fall back. My hands move without thought, unzipping my skirt in the back and pushing it down past my thighs. My fingers slip beneath the lace of my panties, brushing over my clit, and I let out a sigh, feeling the heat that’s pooling in my core.
Cody’s voice grows rougher, more desperate as the song changes while he sings about heartbreak and loss, and I let the memories take over. His touch on my skin the first time, the way he’dlooked at me like I was everything, the innocence he took and the boldness that he gave me.
My free hand trails over my blouse, teasing the hardened peaks of my nipples beneath the fabric. My thumb presses harder against my clit, and my hips rock against my hand as I chase the feeling of him.
It’s not just the physical release I’m after—it’s the connection, the yearning, the ghost of what we once were. My walls clench as the pressure builds, and I imagine his hands on me instead, rough and sure, the way that they used to be.
I cry out softly as the tension snaps, waves of pleasure crashing over me in time with the song’s final, haunting note and my orgasm.
For a long moment, I sit there in the silence, my breath uneven, my body trembling. And when I finally open my eyes, the world feels heavier somehow, as if the weight of my past and present have collided. But one thought lingers in my mind, impossible to ignore.
What would it feel like to let Cody back in—not just into my life, but into my mind? To see the woman that I’ve become.
Chapter 14: Cody
One week later…
"Table for two under Cameron," I say as I enter BlueSky Bistro and Bar. It’s an upscale restaurant in the heart of Nashville, one that I've only visited once before with my manager. Thankfully, it’s also the kind of place where country music artists are a common sight, so I don’t have to worry about bothering with a disguise or making myself discreet for my date tonight.
The hostess gives me a funny look as if she’s trying to place me. I grin back at her, letting her take her time. After a few seconds, her eyes light up in recognition, and a blush creeps over her cheeks.
"Oh my god, are you… Cody Cameron?" she swoons, giggling nervously.
I smile. "Yes. I am," I glance at her name tag, "Nice to meet you, Rebekah."
She flutters her eyelids and attempts what I’m assuming is supposed to be a seductive look, which makes me stifle a laugh. “We get country music artists in here all of the time and I try not to swoon, but you’re my absolute favorite right now.”
I smile. “Well, I’m flattered—and happy to hear that.”
I’m still not used to this kind of attention. Not evenclose. Itcatches me off guard every time—the way people look at me now, like I’msomeone, like I’m worth knowing. The way they talk about me like I’ve always belonged here, like I haven’t spent years on the outside looking in.
All because the right people noticed me. Because Nashville’s larger music scene finally decided to pay attention. Because I landed an upcoming tour.
Because, for whatever reason, people have suddenly decided I’minteresting.
It’s bizarre, really. People taking an interest in a guy like me—a small-town kid from Texas who grew up singing in his backyard and never thought it would turn intothis. And yet, here I am.
But I’ve learned something about fame. People don’t want to knowme. Not really.
They don’t want the guy who overthinks his lyrics, who second-guesses himself before every show, who still wakes up some mornings wondering if he’s good enough to be here. The one who aches for a real love, not one who makes you wonder if they just want your fame. I want a family someday, to settle down and slow down. To feel normal and love like my parents did.
Nah, they want the version of me they’ve already created in their minds. The one who’s confident, untouchable. The one who never stumbles and is a serial dater. It’s not their fault. It’s just how it works.
That’s the trade-off. The price of being known. And maybe that’s what makes being a celebrity so damn lonely.
"Do you mind if I get your autograph?" she asks eagerly.
"Not at all. What would you like me to sign?"
She fumbles around the hostess station, looking for anything until she finally stretches out her arm.
"You can sign right here," she says, handing me a marker. “I think I might get it tattooed on me later today.”
I bend down, inking my name on her arm as she watches me closely, mouth agape the entire time. "Thank you so much. I'll never wash this," she says, mustering that same flirty smile again.
"Hi, so sorry I’m late," I hear Mae's voice from behind me burst onto the scene, her sweet aroma attacking my senses deliciously and bringing me back to the real reason for tonight. The hostess's eyes shift between us, realization that we’re together, okay, not together,together, but together nonetheless, dawning.
Mae looks like she just stepped out of a high-power meeting—tight gray pencil skirt hugging every curve, crisp white button-up tucked in just right. But the way the top buttons strain slightly, revealing a teasing glimpse of lace and the swell of her full breasts? Yeah,professionalisn’t exactly the first word that comes to mind. Her dark blonde hair falls in loose curls around her shoulders, lips painted a deep red, makeup minimal because she doesn’t need it. She’s always been a natural fucking beauty.
