Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 113(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 170(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 113(@300wpm)
I stop walking and grin. "You going to sing for me, baby?"
"Maybe."
I jog toward Mason's drum set and grab one of the microphones lying there. The soundboard isn't switched on, but I don't think she really cares about that. She's just living her best life. I don't think she knows any other way to live.
Christ, it's beautiful to witness.
I hand her the microphone. She sashays back to centerstage and strikes a pose, one hand in the air over her head and one hip cocked out with her toes pointed. She looks like a sassy little popstar.
She shoots me an impish grin over her shoulder, clears her throat…and immediately starts belting out the dirtiest lines of DTF, one of the last songs we recorded before we went on hiatus. It's about fucking, plain and simple. The goddamn label made us record it, and our fans lost their shit over it.
She couldn't hold a tune in a bucket if her life depended on it, but she shimmies and shakes her way across the stage, belting out the lyrics as if she's back in the elevator and no one is watching. My dick throbs in my pants, aching like a motherfucker at the sight of her, so sweet and innocent, singing about wanting to fuck in the back of a tour bus.
If she's throwing down hints, I'm picking them up. I'll gladly take her against the wall on the way to Detroit with my hand over her mouth so no one hears her moaning for me. Anytime, any place. All she has to do is say the words.
When she launches into the next verse, I stalk toward her, pulling her up against my chest. My lips descend on her neck as she sings quietly now, whispering the lyrics to me.
I run my hands up her body, brushing my palms over her hard nipples.
"Crue," she moans.
"Keep singing, Ireland," I demand, nipping her throat.
"I…" She huffs a sigh and then picks up the next line.
I pinch her nipples, teasing her. Teasing myself. Fuck. I don't know. All I know is that I can't keep my hands off this woman. And I don't have to try. She's my wife. One way or another, I'm going to convince her that she wants to keep my ring on her finger.
"You're sleeping in my bed with me tonight, Éire," I growl against her skin, rolling her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers. "As soon as the concert ends, I'm coming to find you and claim what belongs to me."
She stumbles over the lyrics.
"I'm giving you what's yours too." I press my lips to her ear, telling her the one thing I've never told anyone. My big secret. "My virginity."
She gasps, spinning to face me. "Crue…what?"
"You heard me."
"There you are," Mason says, stomping onto the stage.
Ireland jumps a foot in the air at the sound of his voice, her face somehow turning white as a sheet and bright red at the same time.
"I've looked all over this bloody arena for… Oh." Mason pauses a few steps away, glancing between Ireland and me. "Shit. Sorry. I didn't know she was here."
"She was living out her rockstar fantasies."
His lips twitch with amusement. "Is she any good? Is she coming for your job?"
"She has it in the bag." I place myself between the two of them, annoyed because he's smiling at her. Why the fuck is everyone smiling at her today? "Stop smiling at her."
His smile grows.
Ireland elbows me. "Don't be rude, Crue. And stop lying to him. I'll sink the band inside of a week."
"Promise?" Mason asks, earning a smile from Ireland.
"Great. Now you're smiling at him," I growl, narrowing my eyes on her.
"Yep. It's my mouth; I can smile if I want."
I'm not winning this war.
"You need something, brother?" I ask, giving up before she kicks my ass.
"Yeah. Do you have a minute? I've got something new I want you to hear."
I don't ask if Ireland can come. Mason doesn't let anyone hear what he's working on until it's finished. He's a perfectionist.
Instead, I glance at her, reluctant to let her out of my sight with so many fucking men around here.
"Go," she says. "I'll be fine."
"I'll call Shelby."
"Crue, I'll be fine! I'll just hang out until you're done," she says, looking far too innocent. Which means by the time I get back, she'll have a whole fucking army of men around her. Fuck that.
"I'm calling Shelby."
She rolls her eyes as I pull my phone out of my pocket, but she doesn't argue with me.
The rest of the day is a study in frustration. By the time Mason is finished with me, our manager shows up to go over some numbers. Apparently, our new album is performing insanely well on streaming platforms. Shelby and Ireland pop in with lunch for us halfway through our meeting with him.