Shelby cracked open the door and wagged her brows. “This is a private party.”
“Private, Shelby.” He flung the guitar pick at her.
She squeaked and slammed the door shut just in time to shield herself. The pick bounced harmlessly to the carpet. Footsteps and jingling bells faded as she ran to the front of the house. She must’ve laced up her work boots while we were busy.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Just you, me, and the cameras now.”
He flexed his grip on my hips. “Ah, yeah, I should probably stop the recording.”
“You don’t have to.” I kissed the corner of his mouth. “I think we can keep all this footage between you and me.”
“All of it?” He furrowed his brow. “But I thought you’d want a video. Of the serenade, I mean. It seemed like something that you might want as content.”
It could be. It was amazing. I could visualize the cute captions and responses. But our relationship was more than ‘content’ to me. I didn’t want to post our special moment and worry about how it was performing. That’d taint such a beautiful memory.
“I’m not sure I want to post it yet,” I said.
He frowned. “Is it too cheesy or straight-up bad?”
“No, it’s fresh. I loved every aspect of it. I want your version as my ringtone so I can hear it every day.” I pressed a firm kiss to his lips for reassurance.
His hands wandered lower. “Not that I’m desperate to be on the internet again, but why hold off on posting this? Are romantic gestures not on-brand?”
“I’m starting to get used to them.” I fluffed the mousse from his hair to make him look more like himself: rough-around-the-edges and casually fabulous. “I’m thinking we can save the big reveal for a special occasion down the road. Maybe another party.” An album launch. An anniversary. A wedding.
Pink lights glowed in the blacks of his eyes. He smiled and rubbed small circles into the base of my spine. “That sounds good to me.”
It was easy to picture a real future with him: family dinners once a week, cleared walkways in winter, and sharp reminders about sunscreen in summer. He’d play in dive bars and dedicate one song to me. I’d toast him with my drink, maybe champagne, maybe something fruity, and dance like no one was watching. After our dates, he’d take me home and fuck me in my Egyptian cotton sheets. Maybe not just fuck, either. Maybe he’d make love to me. Or cuddle. Or trade massages with me. I’d wake up drenched in sweat from cuddling a human furnace. One of us would do the laundry while the other made breakfast, and then I'd make a foot video with leftover omelet ingredients or respond to work emails. Once he got done with work, I’d show him the latest outfits, and he’d pick me up for his own little flex. We’d work out and laugh.
A real couple. A real, happy, post-worthy couple.
I smiled into a kiss. My strong man had the softest lips.
His rough hands slid under the hem of my top, then stroked my skin as if it was the finest silk.
He’d said before that he valued me: my soul, my fire, my very being.
I wanted to share everything with him, including my body.
I deepened the kiss and ground onto his lap.
His tight pants strained against his growing excitement. He sucked in sharply through his nose and plucked my bra strap. I half expected my body to summon some kind of love song forhim through sucking kisses and rocking hips. This was a duet. A beautiful harmony.
I helped him drag his shirt over his head, messing up his short hair.
The mix of pink strand lights and a regular lamp painted a blush from the tips of his ears to the thick, slightly furry muscle of his belly and below.
God, he was beautiful. And strong. And mine.
I tossed his shirt over the laptop camera, then yanked my top off to fling at his phone. It toppled over on the desk.
“Nice aim,” he said.
I popped my bra clasp open. “I’ve been training with a former quarterback.”
“You have?” He grinned, dipping his gaze as I lowered the garment.
“Mmhmm.” I dropped my bra off the side of his bed, then wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “Now, we still need to work on stamina.”
