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.
Do I want it to be something else? Am I really prepared to make this a real marriage? Is Creighton?