Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“Yep. Before and after. I was on fire that night.”
“So hot,” Ruby grits out, throwing her head back. “Tell me more.”
We’re in the zone now. Moving together. Spiraling toward ecstasy.
“Did you think about anyone in particular while writing it?” she gasps out.
I don’t know if it’s the right answer. The wrong answer. Too big an admission. But there’s only one thing I can possibly say to that, even regarding a bunch of lyrics that don’t actually exist. “I thought of you, baby. Only you. Nobody else.”
Ruby groans, more loudly than ever this time, and her gyrations on top of me increase in speed and intensity. I think I’m safe—she’s plainly interpreting my comment as simple dirty talk and nothing more.
“Have you torn out those pages and destroyed them, or do your filthy, kinky words still exist in the world?”
“They still exist,” I choke out, feeling like I’m on the cusp of losing it. “But don’t bother looking for my notebook. You’ll never fucking find it.”
“I won’t even look.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“No, I mean it. I respect your bound—Oh, God. Kendrick. Gah.”
I just now changed things up in terms of how I’m stimulating her clit. And the new tactic has plainly taken things to a new level for her.
“That’s it, baby,” I coo, as her movements on top of me become frenzied. “I’m never gonna show you what I wrote. And you’re gonna be a good girl and accept that.”
“Yes,” she gasps out. “Just don’t stop what you’re doing, Kendrick. Don’t stop.”
“Baby, this house could be burning down and I wouldn’t stop.” I don’t feel like I can call her baby unless I’m fucking her, so I’m using the word at every fucking opportunity now.
Ruby groans desperately. “I’m so close, it hurts.”
And there’s my cue.
Panting with excitement, I grip Ruby’s gyrating ass cheek, finding my target, and then, I give her soft ass cheek a gentle spank—one that elicits a mangled, tortured whimper of excitement.
“Harder,” she grits out.
I give her what she wants, and her reaction is even bigger this time, which, of course, gets me going like crazy, too.
Somehow, I manage to hang on for dear life through Ruby’s excitement and keep it going for her. But I must admit I’m now hanging on by the barest of threads.
Feeling dizzy and breathless, I spank Ruby again when the scooping movements of her pelvis serve her ass cheek to me on a silver platter, while my other hand continues working her clit, and my cock remains buried deep inside her, filling her up. Moans and groans lurch out of me, and the room feels like it’s spinning. And thank God, that third spank gets her across the line.
As Ruby throws her head back and comes with a keening wail, the floodgates open for me, too, and I’m catapulted into the stratosphere like I’ve got two rocket launchers strapped to my balls.
But even as I’m momentarily blinded by pleasure, my brain registers a startling truth. An unfortunate one, if I’m being honest. I won’t survive it if Ruby doesn’t catch feelings for me by the end of this supposed fling. This extended role-play. This charade.
It’s undeniable to me now.
I’m a slave to this woman’s body, every bit as much as I’m a slave to her heart. Her soul. Her smile. Her laugh.
Why? Because I’m deeply, madly, irrevocably, and infinitely in love with Ruby Margaret Connolly. Addicted to her. Desperate for her. God help me, I was born to love this woman. She’s The One. And there’s no option for me, other than making her mine, through any means necessary.
26
RUBY
A week later
“Thanks for coming to my place for the writing sesh, everyone,” Kendrick says. He and our bandmates are seated in his living room, while I stand at the nearby kitchen counter, arranging a pretty charcuterie board for the festivities.
These days, whenever we get together to write music, we do it either at Savage and Laila’s gorgeous place in Malibu or Kendrick’s comfortable house here in North Hollywood, since those are the only two homes with full-blown recording studios in case we come up with something in record speed and want to lay down a demo. This time, since I’m staying here, Kendrick’s place won out as the most convenient option.
The agenda for today’s writing session is a singular one: coming up with the future mega-hit we’re going to unveil during the finale of Sing Your Heart Out in six weeks. Luckily, that’s plenty of time for us to write and record a single song. But still, given the once-in-a-lifetime launching pad, it needs to be amazing, not merely good enough. Not to mention, we not only need to write the song, but we also need to record it, get it mixed and mastered, and rehearse it into the ground so we’re foolproof and dialed in when the time comes to perform it on live TV. All things considered, I’m actually a bit stressed about the timeline.