Page 22 of All Tied Down

EMERSON: If you have to babysit her she needs to be relocated.

DESMOND: We’ll talk about it tomorrow when you’re in the office

EMERSON: Add it to the list

DESMOND: Bold of you to assume it’s not already on there

“Who could you possibly be texting this early?”

“Des.”

“Theo would murder me.”

“Yes, well, we all can’t keep morning-after-a-house-party hours.”

“Sure you can. Tell the boss you’re sick. I’ll write you a note.”

“I am the boss.”

“Even better. I’ll write it with my tongue”—he pauses, his lips curving up in a wolfish smirk even though his eyelids are closed—“between your legs.”

Tempting.

So very tempting.

“Shouldn’t you be in the studio?”

“At six in the morning? No. I need, like, four hours before I even contemplate it.”

“Ten? I’ll be on my third meeting by then at least.”

“Well, let me know when you need a break. I’ll be more than happy to assist you.” He grins, rolling onto his back and propping his hand behind his head. He looks good stretched out like this, the sheet dipping low on his hips leaving little to the imagination.

Not that I need to imagine anything. I’m well and magnificently acquainted with Garrett’s body. He’s as wild and willing as I am—both of us pushing the limits to new and incredible heights. It’s strange to think, but I feel safer with him after only a handful of nights than I have with some long-term partners.

“Does playing for me count as a break?” I ask, needing to pull myself out of my head and the spiral of how incredible my fake husband seems to be.

“You want me to play?” He sounds surprised before his expression turns sheepish. “Sorry, yeah, I totally can.”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that.”

“Would you be shocked to know that some people⁠—”

“Women,” I supply helpfully as his lips twitch.

“Some people…only like the status that comes with being with the rock star side of me rather than the musician. I forgot that you don’t care; I mean you definitely married down.”

The last part is delivered with a self-deprecating tone that doesn’t quite hit the mark.

“Mr. North,” I purr, letting the sheet drop from my body as I crawl over to straddle his lap, “make no mistake. I might have married you in Vegas on a bet, but there’s no chance I would have agreed to that or this”—I motion between us—“if I believed I was marrying down.”

“You’re doing amazing things for my ego,” he praises, his hands stroking up and down my thighs and hips.

“Is that a euphemism for your dick?” I ask, wiggling as he hardens beneath me. “Because you have ten minutes to make something happen before I’m late and have to tell my father why my husband—gah!”

I yelp as he flips us over, his legs getting tangled in the sheet as he pins me to the bed, his mouth pressing kisses down my throat as he fights to free himself.

It’s fun and playful, the giggle that escapes completely unlike me.