Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2) Page 7

  I follow her inside and prepare to spend the next hour holding up a corner while almost a hundred fans wait their turn to meet Holly and get a quick picture and autograph. I’m surprised by who I see in line. It’s not just the bouncing—and some crying—teenage girls and the soccer moms. It’s also young guys looking to press up against her, and older men who hug her too tightly. I want to feed the women some Xanax and rip the hands and dicks off the men.

  After about fifteen minutes, a guy wearing black skinny jeans that show way too much of his package, black cowboy boots, and a black pearl-snap shirt embroidered with white horses, stops directly in front of me and holds out a bottle of Budweiser.

  “You look like you could use a beer.”

  When I accept the bottle with thanks and shake his outstretched hand, he says, “I’m Chance, Holly’s manager.”

  “Creighton Karas.”

  “I know,” he says, his accent thick and clearly of the good-ole-boy variety. “You’re Holly’s new husband. For a minute, anyway.”

  My eyes narrow on his smug hazel ones. “Is that your guess, or is that the word on the street?”

  He tips his own beer back, and I’m mildly surprised to see he’s drinking while he’s on the job. I guess the music industry is a little different from corporate America.

  “Both,” he replies. “I was glad to see the back of JC. He wasn’t doing nothing for her, and she was just getting dragged into his drama further and further.”

  I sense the direction this conversation is taking, and I’m not sure I want to go there, but what the hell. I tip back my beer and take a swig.

  “And me?”

  “Holding out judgment until I see if you last more than one day on tour. This ain’t your billionaire-boys’-club lifestyle. This shit is hard work, nonstop, and it ain’t got nothing to do with you.”

  Considering I’ve been trailing along like a lap dog today after Holly, I think I’m starting to understand what he means. The woman works her ass off and never seems to take a break. No wonder she ducked out of the penthouse at the first down moment she had.

  Most women in my acquaintance would have spent their time checking out the designer wardrobe I ordered, but not Holly. And considering how she spent her morning, scribbling away in her notebook, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she didn’t think twice about doing whatever she had to in order to work on her songs—including finding the nearest guitar. I wonder how many she’s written since the wedding, and what’s more, if she’ll ever play any of them for me.

  I decide not to respond to Chance’s question, but instead ask, “When does her next album come out?”

  He looks rather surprised that I’m asking. “It’s due out early spring. She’s got a break after the tour and then studio time back in Nashville. We’ve got a songwriter meeting up with us tomorrow to help hammer things out now that she’s got more songs due, from what I hear. She didn’t do too well writing when we were on the road before. She mostly stared off into space a lot and chewed on the end of her pen.”

  “She’s been writing nonstop all day, and she wrote when she was in New York as well, so I’m assuming she’s got the situation handled.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “No shit? Then maybe you are good for something, Bill.”

  Bill? What the fuck?

  Chance reads my confusion as he sucks back another drink. “Billionaire. Bill. I do nicknames. That’s yours.”

  I open my mouth to rip him a new asshole, when I hear Holly make a sound of distress. My attention zeroes in on her, and I’m across the room before I know what the fuck I’m doing.

  There’s a guy, probably around twenty-five, bending her back over his arm, his mouth crushed against hers.

  Not. Fucking. Happening.

  I rip the guy away from her, and Holly stumbles back and steadies herself. My fist is already flying, catching the guy in the face with a right hook and then an uppercut to the gut. He drops to the floor and security is crowding around us. I don’t register the flashes coming from all around me.

  Where the fuck was security sixty seconds ago?

  I turn, finding Holly behind a mountain of muscle. About fucking time. He steps aside, and I take in her pale features and smeared lipstick.

  I spin back around, intent on going after the guy again, but the same mountain of muscle is already dragging him from the room. Lucky prick. Otherwise he’d be spending the night in the hospital.

  Chance starts clearing the room, but Holly speaks up. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine. I can finish the meet and greet. They’ve been waiting.”

  I step closer and frame her face with my hands, my thumbs wiping away the smears of red on her lips and cheek. “You don’t need to do that.”

  “They’re my fans. They’re the reason I have a career, and the only reason I’ll continue to have a career. It’s no big deal. It’s not like it’s the first time some guy has decided he wanted a kiss.”

  My thoughts turn volcanic. “That security I mentioned? You will have two people on you at all times when you’re in a venue. That shit isn’t happening again.”

  “It’s not necessary,” she argues.

  I lean in and murmur, “It’s absolutely necessary. And if you don’t want me to kiss the fuck out of you right now to erase that asshole’s taste from your lips, you better say so pretty damn quick.”

  “But the fans—”

  “Let them watch. You’re mine. I don’t care who sees.”

  Her mouth drops open into a small O, but she doesn’t voice a protest.

  I take that as my green light and lower my lips to hers, but I don’t crush them to her like that motherfucker did. I kiss her softly. Gently. Softer and more gently than I’ve ever kissed her before. And in that moment, I wonder why I haven’t taken the time to savor her.

  Her lips soften, her mouth opens, and my tongue slips inside, teasing and stroking hers. I release her slowly. Her closed eyelids flutter open, her brown eyes soft and warm.

  She swallows as I pull away. “Thank you. I didn’t realize I needed that.”

  “I didn’t realize I needed that so much either.”

  I lower my hands from her face and step back. “I’ll let you get back to your fans then.”

  The bossy woman from earlier steps up with an open bottle of water, a mirror, and lipstick. “Take a drink, then we’ll get you fixed up. But we need to pick up the pace. We’re running out of time.”

  Holly’s eyes stay on mine as she accepts the water and takes a reluctant sip. I step away and return to my corner.

  Chance has already arranged for someone to clean up the shattered remains of the beer bottle I dropped when I lunged at the prick kissing Holly. He’s holding out another beer when I return to the corner. As I grab it and take a long pull, he pats me on the shoulder.

  “You just might do, Bill. You just might do.”

  The heat of the lights.

  The rhythmic beat of the bass guitar and the drums.

  The sound of the crowd singing along to the lyrics of my first single.

  I blink back tears as I hold the microphone out and empty my lungs on the final note. The lights go dark, and for a second the venue is silent before screams erupt. I close my eyes and bite my lip, laughing silently to myself.

  This.

  This is what it’s all about. This feeling makes it all worth it. This feeling is part of the reason why I walked into a hotel room and married a perfect stranger only hours later. Because I can’t imagine never feeling like this again.

  I let my head fall back and stare up at the blackness before the roadies start rushing around the stage and clearing my stuff out. I take a deep breath, and my mind instantly goes to the man waiting offstage.

  I felt his eyes on me the entire time. Before tonight, I might have worried that Creighton would spend the entire set watching and judging me, but his actions in the meet-and-greet room tilted everything off its axis. Not just the fact that he went after the drunk punk who de
cided he wanted a kiss, but Creighton’s own kiss after that. I expected the caveman or the possessive asshole, but what I got was something altogether different.

  He’s already changing, and I still haven’t figured out the first Creighton I met. All day, he’s been nothing like I imagined he would be. He hasn’t once tried to make today about him or his business. He’s been, for the most part, at my side and supportively following me around.

  Don’t expect it to last, Holly. Right now this relationship is a novelty to him. It’ll wear off soon enough.

  He’s a thirty-three-year-old billionaire; how could he possibly be content to follow me around? He has an empire to run, and I don’t know how he can possibly run it from a tour bus. There’s no way he would have made it through the long haul before our Christmas break. Part of me wished this second leg of the tour was longer so I could let it test him.

  And then the cynic in me—or maybe it’s the realist—also chimes in with much more pertinent and troubling questions.

  What if he didn’t like the show? What if the best part of me isn’t good enough for him? Then what do I have to offer?

  Self-doubt eats away the after-show high I’m riding, because what else do I have to offer? My pretty face and my apparently magic pussy? Is my only use in being seen—with my legs spread—and not heard?

  The questions echo on repeat, kicking my heart rate up faster, until all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears. At least that drowns out the sound of my mama’s voice telling me I’ll never be anything more than a girl from the trailer park, no matter how many stages I sing on.

  A roadie accidentally clips me on the shoulder, and I stumble back into reality.

  “Sorry!”

  “It’s fine. I’m in the way.”

  I regain my balance and walk toward the edge of the stage, trying to reinforce the crumbling walls of my confidence and self-respect.

  Thousands of fans were screaming my name. Singing along. Begging for more. What is one man’s opinion compared to that? But he’s not just any man. He’s my husband.

  Sweet baby Jesus. Why did I do this? I thought I could marry him and be unaffected, but already I’m letting the thought of his disapproval drive what little hard-won self-assurance I have into the ground.

  With JC, I never had to worry about that. But I was the girl who chose to jump from a fake, mostly-gay boyfriend to a very real, very out-of-my-league husband.

  I search the edge of the stage and see Creighton leaning against a speaker. Every woman in the vicinity has her gaze riveted on him, and I don’t blame them. His arms are crossed, and his golden tan contrasts with the rolled-up cuffs of his white dress shirt. Dark hair is sprinkled across his defined muscles. Even in jeans, which I’m still shocked he owns, he manages to look every inch the ridiculously rich playboy.

  His eyes drill into me as I dodge roadies, cords, speakers, and instruments, telling myself that I have no reason to feel inferior to this man, but that doesn’t mean I believe it. I’m still in the fake-it-’til-you-make-it stage of the process.

  I desperately want to know what he thought of my performance. The question is bubbling up inside me. I will not ask. I have to grind my teeth to hold it in. In my world, that’s just inviting criticism. Despite my vow, the question comes tumbling out as soon as I’m standing before him.

  My smile I wear for the cameras when I really want to run away is in place. “So, what did you think?”

  He uncrosses his arms and pushes off the speaker. My heart hammers in my chest as he opens his mouth and then closes it again without speaking. He takes one step toward me, his frown in place.

  I wrap my arms around my body, prepared to ward off a verbal blow.

  “I watched you last night.”

  Shock zings through me at his statement. “In San Antonio? I thought you were just waiting outside to drag me home by my runaway-wife hair.”

  “No. I watched the whole damn thing, and you’re insane if you think you shouldn’t be headlining these shows.”

  I think my heart stutters to a stop . . . and then restarts with heavy, tripping beats.

  “What?” I whisper.

  “You’re too good to be an opening act. I don’t know shit about the music industry, and I didn’t think I’d like country music, but I like your music. You’ve got this voice that grabs a man by the throat and won’t let go until the last note fades.”

  Speechless, I swallow. Creighton reaches out to wrap his hand around my upper arm and steady me.

  I’m still recovering from his confession when he asks, “Where to now?”

  “Um, backstage for a little bit, and then they’ll come get me for ‘That Girl.’”

  His hand slides down my arm to lace his fingers with mine. I let him lead me out back into the hallway toward my dressing room. We hear chants and screaming from Boone’s room as we pass.

  People try to talk to me, but I don’t hear them. I just follow Creighton, staring at the white dress shirt stretching across his shoulders as his words play on repeat in my head.

  “I like your music . . . You’ve got this voice that grabs a man by the throat and won’t let go until the last note fades . . .”

  You’d think his compliments would banish the insecurity that’s settled inside me, but instead they unleash a way bigger problem.

  I think I could fall for my husband.

  “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” My throaty moan is porn-star worthy.

  Creighton’s growl vibrates against my clit, and the fingers of one hand grip my hip tighter.

  Part of me hopes I’ll have bruises to prove he touched me there. I need some reminder that his amazing Grade-A, blue-ribbon-winning skills are real. Seriously. He deserves an honorary degree from some fancy-pants university for his talents in this area.

  I buck my pelvis against his mouth, desperate to get more, and eager to find the edge so I can sail off into an orgasm. I earn a sharp slap to my thigh.

  “Hold still, or I won’t let you come.”

  “Oh God, please,” I moan.

  He lifts his head away, his fingers still buried inside me, and I whimper at the loss of stimulation. “You’ll take what I give you, when I give it to you.”

  “I’m already begging. What more do you want from me? Just let me come!”

  My eyes flick open as a deep chuckle fills the expanse of my brand-new tour bus. Right now, I couldn’t care less how shiny, fancy, new, and overwhelming it is. I just want to come.

  “Bossy thing. Guess it works out that I can’t get enough of this sweet little cunt of yours.”

  I know I should climb up on a soapbox and tell him I don’t like that word. The c-word. But my brain has no control over the flood of wetness that hits my center when he says it.

  He doesn’t miss it. The two fingers buried in my pussy curl forward, stroking my G-spot.

  “Fuck, baby, you’re so wet.”

  “Say it again.”

  “You’re so—”

  “No. What you said before.” I’m babbling now, and I don’t care. I just want more of his dirty words and his devastating tongue.

  “That I can’t get enough of this sweet little cunt?”

  My inner muscles clench, and he groans. I wish I had the coordination to reach down and stroke his cock, but I’m slumped back on the black leather sofa, and he’s down on his knees before me.

  The thought that I’ve somehow brought this man to his knees is enough to shove me to the edge of orgasm.

  “I’m going to come.”

  Creighton lifts his head again. “No, you’re not. Because I’m not done eating your pussy yet.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll wait until I give you permission.”

  Creighton lowers his mouth to my pussy and laps at the juices before flicking, nipping, and teasing my clit. I dig my nails into the new leather, not caring what marks I may leave, because suddenly I don’t want to disappoint him by coming before he allows me. The pleasure rises
harder and faster, and my control begins to disintegrate.

  I open my mouth to beg yet again, but Creighton’s words come first, directly against my clit.

  “Come for me. Now. Hard.”

  I slam my eyes shut as the tension inside me bursts, surging within me and spreading out through every nerve ending. I lose complete control, bucking against him and burying my hands in his hair as I scream his name.

  I ride the sensations, and his continued teasing, until I can’t handle any more. I tug his head up and melt into the couch. Holy. Shit. I’d say the man’s tongue should be bronzed, but that would be a waste.

  I’m still lazily floating in the post-orgasmic haze, enjoying Creighton’s hand smoothing up and down my inner thigh and the press of lips on my hipbone, when someone knocks on the door to the bus.

  “Tell them to go away,” I whine.

  At any other moment, I might care that I sound like a little brat, but right now, I really, really don’t. All I want is to savor this feeling for a few more minutes, and then give my own knees a workout while I return the favor.

  Creighton complies with my request, and his deep voice punctures the bus’s silence. “Go the fuck away!”

  Points for style to Creighton.

  The knock comes again.

  “Ugh. Really?”

  I open my eyes and look toward the clock. Something about nine a.m. is nagging at my brain. We already hit a seven a.m. radio spot, and this little interlude was my reward for actually rolling out of bed on time. Well, that’s what I’m calling it anyway.

  Creighton rises, eyeing my body, which is naked from the waist down. “As much as I hate to say it, you need to put some more clothes on.”

  I let out a grumbling groan that is the opposite of sexy. Luckily, Creighton just smiles and adds, “I’ll get the door and distract whoever it is.”

  As I peel myself off the couch and stumble toward the back bedroom of the bus, I have a sneaking suspicion that this is what teamwork feels like. And isn’t that what a marriage is supposed to be? Teamwork?

  This one-week-old marriage of impulse is starting to feel more real every day, and I’m not certain how I feel about that. It was supposed to be simple. Uncomplicated. An easy way for me to dodge the JC-fake-fiancée situation and try to take some control over my own career—and indulge in a lot more orgasms like the one I just had. But it’s quickly morphing into something else entirely.