She parted her thighs, letting him touch her there. “Once this show’s done, I could seriously use a break.”
“Then come with me on tour.” He moved his thumb over the bundle of nerves he’d discovered around two a.m. made her very agreeable.
“I’ll think about it,” she said on a gasp.
He moved one finger inside, then two. “Stop thinking and let’s do it.”
“You just want me to put out regularly,” she said as she moved against his hand, finding a rhythm together.
“I want to be with you, Noodle Cup.” He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Let’s just have some fun together.”
“I want to be with you, too, Knox.” She moaned, her head pressing deeper into the pillow. “Fun sounds amazing.”
“See? Everyone gets what they want, and everyone ends up happy.” He did the index finger, pinky thing that drove her over the edge.
Judging by her rapid breaths, she was nearly there. Honestly, he mightnotneed an assist to follow her.
“You’re so weird,” she murmured, relaxing and making total sex sounds as the orgasm took hold.
“And you love it.” He grunted, pressed the long hard length of himself against her thigh, reveling in the sensation of her internal muscles pulsing around his hand. “Because a wise woman told me once that compromises are the key to any successful marriage.”
Chapter Twenty
KNOX
Weeks wentby like hours when a guy was having a good time.
The one life lesson that Knox learned when he was a preteen and his parents announced their divorce: when things are great like this, you have to prepare for the pivot because they’re about to go to shit.
“I have a little something to show you.” He bounced on the bedspread next to Irina. Where she read through a new script. She seemed to get them all the time.
Today there was no production, so she lounged in jeans and his vintage KISS tee. The one with Gene Simmons on the front.
They didn’t check out of the Four Seasons, they just extended their stay until his house was finished so they could be alone. The house still wasn’t complete, which sucked because she hadn’t been able to bake him pie. But was fine, because Irina spent tons of time at the theater—he’d seen the show, she was phenomenal. He didn’t love the way her character pined for this Sergio, but he also got that it wasn’t Irina up there. It was all her talent shining through, and he was so damn proud.
“You need a minute or are you at a stopping point?” he asked.
“Stopping point.” She flipped the script closed and stood, stretching.
Something was off with her, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Nothing obvious, just the way her grin hadn’t met her eyes, and she didn’t linger on his gaze, touch his arm. Shit like that.
“Follow me,” he said, slipping on his shoes and heading out.
Her career was on pointe, and he was not the asshole anymore. The plan had worked. The tabloids let up on him and moved their attention to Mach, calling him the new Dimefront asshole.
Mach loved it. Loved the attention and the groupies who wanted to be with the bad boy of the group. He played up the role just fine.
On top of it all, the tour was coming up. With Irina agreeing to come along, wanting to come along and looking forward to the European portion so she could eat Belgian waffles and chocolate croissants with him, they’d started planning.
The giddy feelings he got around her kept getting bigger, better, and he sort of forgot this wasn’t a match they’d picked themselves.
“What’s up?” she asked, following him.
“Come with me.” He reached for her hand. Kissed her, because he could, and then loaded her up in his sedan and drove her to his house. Their house.
The house that no one else would live in but them.
Hand on the doorknob, he asked, “Are you ready?”
