I creep out of my son’s room, praying the socks on my feet will conceal my sneaky steps. Jagger turned two last month, but he’s not a fan of sleeping alone. Even having his big sister Maddie snoring in the bed next to him hasn't helped. He isn't scared—he is merely a fan of snuggling.
From the moment he was laid on his mother’s chest, he hasn’t slept anywhere else. In an ordinary family, this habit would have been quickly nipped in the bud, but since my life hasn't been anywhere near ordinary the past decade, we acquiesce to his needs instead of discouraging them.
Unlike Maddie, Jagger is the shy, reserved member of our unit. He reminds me a lot of my little brother, Michael. He has the same wise eyes and dimpled grin. Sometimes, when I stare at him too long, I feel like I’ve stepped back in time. Maddie got her looks from her mother and her attitude from her father. Jagger is the opposite. He is the spitting image of me—dark, stormy eyes and all. Personality-wise, though, he’s the introvert Emily wishes to portray but isn’t close to being.
Don’t misconstrue my confession. My wife is the best woman you'll ever meet, but there is a naughty side to her you’ll never see. Why? Because that privilege solely belongs to me. After Emily repaired my shattered soul, I returned the favor. Her cracks were nowhere near as visible as mine, but they were still there all the same.
With the confidence I’ve always seen in her, Emily has helped Rise Up take the world by storm the past ten years. It was her determination for my band to succeed that granted us success. We didn't just dominate the charts because we're good at what we do; it was the team steering the helm—people like Emily.
I wouldn’t be half the man I am if I didn’t have her standing at my side. We complement each other’s qualities as much as we complete each other.
She’s the sweet; I'm the sour.
She’s the brains; I’m the brawn.
She’s mine, and I am hers.
“Is he asleep?” Emily asks, her eyes as large as my chest swells every time I see her.
Emily has been my girl for nearly twelve years—twelve brilliant motherfucking years—and do you think I’ve grown tired of eyeballing her? Nope! Never. She is as beautiful today as the first time I laid my eyes on her. The same luscious locks hang loosely halfway down her back; her little turned-up nose is crinkled with worry, and she has a body crafted by the Almighty himself to bring me to my knees.
I don't care if another twelve years pass or a hundred, I'll never grow tired of what I'm seeing. My wife is a catch—I'm just glad I snagged her before anyone else. If only my perverted gaze wasn't congested by the most hideous Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen. Emily's mom knits each member of her family a special sweater every year. EVERY. GODDAMN. YEAR.
It is lucky Emily is gorgeous, or the whiskey Jacob snuck into my eggnog all evening might resurface. I doubt it would ruin her sweater, though. It can’t get any worse than it already is.
When Emily arches a brow, reminding me I failed to answer her, I say, “Of course he’s asleep.” My grin is as smug as my swagger. “I’ve got the gift.”
Although I'm strutting like a peacock, Emily takes it in stride. It isn't because she likes her men cocky; she just heard the underlying message in my reply. The only thing Jagger is more of a sucker for than his mother’s chest is a lullaby. None of the songs I sing are acceptable for a standard, everyday American toddler, but just like my life, Jagger’s is far from ordinary. He is the son of a rock star—so the usual rules don’t apply to him.
“What song did you sing?” Emily asks, her seductive voice making me wish we were without guests.
The boys from the band and I do the same thing every year. We spend Christmas Eve with our respective families before coming together on Christmas Day at the cabin Emily and I purchased ten years ago. Although I still love our cabin, it has become more of a holiday home than our residence the past few years. The number of tourists scaling the cliffs at Bronte’s Peak was already distressing, let alone the lengths the paparazzi went to spy on us.
The instant it became unsafe for my family to reside here, we moved. We still live in the Ravenshoe area, just in a gated community nobody knows about. But since this is where Rise Up came in the lead up to our careers skyrocketing, we return here every year. This parcel of dirt is as much my family as my bandmates. We have many memories here—both good and bad.
“It was soulless, wasn’t it?” Emily asks, prompting me that I’ve once again failed to answer her.
I curl my arm around her waist, pulling her body flush with mine. My wish for us to be alone doubles when her dazzling light brown eyes lift to mine. Emily's eyes are one of my rare weaknesses. They show me the world without me needing to leave my living room.
“Just like his mother, what Jagger wants, Jagger gets.” I kiss the tip of her nose before dropping my lips a few millimeters. “It was written about the woman he loves most, so naturally, it’s his favorite.”
“It’s my favorite too.” The scent of the candy canes Emily has been nibbling on all afternoon fans my lips with a minty fragrance when she aligns her mouth to mine. “Because it wasn’t just written about me. It was written on me.”
As my cock stiffens from the lust detonating in her eyes, my mind drifts. . . . .
“This way, Noah. . . Chin down. . . No, that’s not right. Try up. . . Argh! It still isn’t right.”
As frustrated as Gemma, I throw my arms in the air. “Why can’t we just do one of those artsy-fartsy covers?” I ask, dragging my mouth away from a random blonde’s red painted lips.
It's lucky my stomach is empty, or her cigarette-smelling breath would have had me barfing hours ago. What Emily said years ago is true: smoking is a disgusting habit.
“Because your face forces fans to buy your album instead of just downloading the songs,” Cormack answers on Gemma’s behalf. “They want you and the guys, Noah, not some artsy-fartsy shit.” He keeps his tone low, recognizing I’m five seconds from blowing my top.
His assumptions are right. I'm not only pissed; I am fucking ropeable. I fought tooth and nail when the music executives wanted me to pretend I was single; now I'm keeping quiet on an even more ludicrous ploy. I'm a family man, for fuck’s sake. I don't fuck groupies backstage, or date Victoria’s Secret models, so why the hell am I lying in a bed being suffocated by a girl wearing dental floss as an outfit?
If those circumstances aren’t already outrageous, the almost lewd act is happening in front of my wife. Emily stands at my side, pretending the image of me dry humping another woman isn’t hurting her. She is a brilliant woman, but she is a shit actor. I can see the torment in her eyes as it mirrors mine to a T. Only a few short months ago, I vowed she’d never cry again, yet here I am once again breaking her heart for my band. This is shit, and it has to stop.
I lift my eyes to Cormack, letting them speak the words I’m on the verge of uttering: I’m done.
“How about we take a break for a few minutes before trying something different?” he suggests, his eyes dancing between Emily and me. “I’ll talk with Gemma; see if we can get some solo shots before the guy’s arrive tomorrow.”
When my eyes drift to Emily, wanting to gauge her opinion, she nods, agreeing with Cormack. Although uncomfortable about the naked woman draped across my torso, she’s thinking with the business side of her brain instead of the personal one.
My wife isn't just beautiful; she is also smart. She understands this is part of the entertainment industry, and that I’m only acting the role of a rock star. But what everyone fails to realize is that I'm a musician, not an actor. I can't shut down my emotions to pretend I'm someone I'm not. I use feelings to create magic, not harm. My lyrics aren't fake; they come from real life situations and people. Every song I've written reflects my life in some way, so unless they want me to go back to writing the garbage I penned when Chris killed himself, they need to back the fuck up on the acting shit. This isn't me, and I'm not going to stand for it anymore.
“Noah?” Cormack asks, requesting an answer to his suggestion. “Can you spare a few more hours so we can try and get this cover right?”
I reluctantly nod. Although I’d rather close down the set altogether, I can’t. Not only are we being charged over fifty thousand a day to shoot in this loft, but the amount of studio time the band put into our latest album already has it in the hole for millions. If we don’t have the right cover, sales will barely cover production costs. Usually, I wouldn’t give a shit about that, but with my bandmates enduring their own share of hits after my accident, I want this album to rock the charts as well as the first one did.
This is Rise Up’s chance to prove our sales weren’t a consequence of my accident. We put our hearts and souls into every song we produce, and this album will show it. We may joke that Nick is a one-hit wonder, but our band isn’t. Our second album will smash record charts, proving we are here for the long haul.
I clear the anger from my eyes before returning them to Emily. She smiles when she spots my inconspicuous gawk, easing the heaviness on my chest in an instant. It doesn't completely erase it, but it loosens it enough I can secure my first full breath in nearly an hour.
After asking Trenton to take our restless daughter back to the hotel for an afternoon nap, she closes the distance between us.
I drop my eyes to the blonde still plastered on my chest. “Can you give us a minute?”
“Noah,” Emily whispers, shocked by the anger in my voice.
She wouldn’t be so quick to defend if she knew what I've been dealing with the past hour. The thin sheet protecting my modesty from the thirty-plus people watching didn't just cover my manhood, it concealed the number of times the blonde had grabby hands. The first few brushes of her leg on my crotch I took in stride, believing they were accidental, but when her hands joined the party, I soon caught on that nothing she did was unintentional. She was trying to seduce me in front of my wife—my wife, for fuck’s sake!
“I’m sick of this shit, Emily. I don’t want to do. . . this anymore.” I wave my hand at the blonde during the “this” part of my comment. She is either hard of hearing or five seconds from learning what happens when you disrespect my wife directly in front of me. Not only will she never work with my band again, but she’ll become a ghost in the music industry as well.
My anger reaches fever pitch when the blonde ignores my suggestion. She snuggles into my bare chest before turning her eyes to Emily. Her scorn pisses me off more than anything.
Growling, I dart across the sticky satin sheets, dumping the blonde bimbo on the way. I’ve only ever wanted to smack one woman in my life—Delilah, the biggest thorn in my ass since I joined the music industry—but this unnamed bimbo is cutting it a close second.
If I were wearing pants, I’d march into my dressing room and slam the door like a real prima donna, but since Gemma didn’t want clothing outlines ruining her shoot, I can’t wash the blonde’s tacky perfume from my skin like I really fucking want to.
Emily's squinted gaze bounces between me and the blonde for all of two seconds before she clues on to the real reason for my anger. "You. . ." She stops talking, needing to breathe through the fury twisting from her stomach to her throat. "You have five seconds to leave this loft before I have security drag your ass out!" Her pause was pointless. She practically roars the second half of her sentence, not just kick-starting the blonde's feet, but my heart as well. Emily is even more beautiful when she is jealous.
Recognizing that her innocent ploy had been discovered, the blonde dashes to her dressing room. Although she is running like there’s a pack of geese chasing her, she doesn’t cover her naked boobs from the dozen or so roadies wondering if her real-life reputation is as infamous as her internet one.
After pulling my hands from my face, Emily straddles my lap. My desperation to shower fades when a delicious vanilla scent invades my senses. I've always loved Emily's smell. Sweet, yet smooth as silk. She sits close enough to ease my comfort, but not far away enough to prevent my dick from getting the memo that now is not the time to get excited. If Emily thinks an inch of my stiffness is compliments of the blonde, I doubt the blonde will leave this loft with her hair still intact, much less her life.
I raise my eyes to Emily’s, hoping her glistening light brown irises will calm my anger. They do—somewhat. The three to four remaining pounds that haven’t budged from Emily’s frame since Maddie’s birth makes her the most beautiful she’s ever been, but unfortunately, her soul-stealing features can’t hide the pain in her eyes. Her position as Rise Up’s publicist ensures she’s aware on the insanity that comes with my line of work, but even someone knee-deep in our industry would have a hard time stomaching what she witnessed today.
I cup her jaw in my hands before running my thumbs over her cheeks. I want to erase her anguish with my touch as badly as I need her to clear mine.
Fuck, this woman is beautiful. Her natural beauty has only grown since she became a mom. Her strength eternally inspires me, but watching her give birth to our daughter wasn't just a mind-blowing experience, it was awe-inspiring as well.
"Noah, people are watching," Emily giggles when she feels the appreciation my body has for her.
“Let them watch. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before.”
Emily smiles, believing every word I speak. My crew is familiar with my inability to keep my hands off my wife. I lost Emily twice already. Once was for real when I stupidly put fame above her, and the second time was an out-of-this-world mindfuck, so you can be assured I'll never waste a single moment without her again.
That's why today’s photoshoot is so hard for me. I promised at our wedding she'd never shed another tear in her lifetime, then only a few months later I'm making out with another woman in front of her. I don’t care if it is an act for better record sales, Emily is my wife. She comes before everyone—even me.
“Wait,” Emily says, stopping my lips mere millimeters from hers.
The pain clouding her eyes disperses when she runs her thumb along my lips, removing the red lipstick from my mouth.
“It’s fine, Noah. I’m fine.” Her eyes dance between mine. “But are you? I’m sure that was just as uncomfortable for you as it was for all of us.”
She waves her hand to Gemma and Cormack, who are having an in-depth conversation to our right. I can’t hear a word they’re speaking, but if their expressions are anything to go by, they know as well as I do that today’s shoot was a woeful waste of both time and money. I spent more time prying the model off me than I did posing, and even when she got the hint I wasn't interested in what she was selling, my grimace wasn’t as forgiving as my wife is being.
I scrub my hand over my mouth, wanting to ensure no lipstick remains. Confident my face is free of betrayal, I return my eyes to Emily. "Good?"
She smiles a grin that clears my anger in an instant. “Good.”
Forever impatient, she seals her mouth over mine before my brain works out half my plan of attack. At the start, our kiss is uncontrolled and needy, a stimulating blur of sucks and nibs, but one click changes everything. It isn't the click of a button being undone or the sweet release of a bra strap; it is the click of a camera.
“Gemma,” Emily groans against my mouth, her cheeks heating with embarrassment.
My face is inflamed too, except mine has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with disappointment. With Emily's scold came the removal of her mouth from mine. I had barely gotten in two full licks, let alone the comprehensive cavity search I usually perform every time we kiss.
“Come on, Em,” Gemma coerces. “You wanted family pictures. Here’s your opportunity.” Snubbing Emily’s infamous eye roll, Gemma locks her determined eyes with mine. “Hold her cheeks like you were when kissing her, then you not only shelter her face from the annoying paparazzi, you’re showing off your big manly hands.”
The overemphasis of her words calms the tension brewing in my gut. Gemma is one of the few good guys I've met in this industry. It probably helps that she doesn't give two fucks about what anything thinks of her.
Gemma brings her camera right up close when I do as instructed. I’m not just touching Emily because Gemma is as demanding as they come when she has a camera strapped around her neck; I’m doing it as I can’t keep my hands off Emily. I don’t care who is in the room. If you don’t want to watch me get hot and heavy with my wife, I suggest you leave and perhaps apply for another position, as nothing will ever stop me getting my fill of Emily when she is in my presence. I couldn’t keep my hands off her when I was in the hospital, so you can be assured there is no chance of it happening now.
“Yes, just like that,” Gemma praises, her finger manically clicking the shutter button. “Bring your lips a little closer. This is perfect—exactly what we envisioned for the cover.”
The way Emily and I are caressing is similar to the poses Gemma has been positioning me in all day, just missing my earlier reluctance. I'm not stupid. I'm getting paid to fondle my wife. This is fucking genius.
While I nibble on Emily’s scrumptious mouth, Gemma tugs the tie out of her hair. The thickness I’m having a hard time containing twitches when her bountiful chocolate locks cascade over her shoulders like a satin waterfall.
Emily smiles against my mouth when Gemma drags her fingers through her hair, giving it a messy bedhead look. And just like that, the shoot I’ve been reluctant to do for over a month becomes a pleasure instead of a chore.
My fingers, twitching in envy at the fun Gemma’s hands just had, soon add to the volume of Emily’s hair. Her breaths tickle my lips when I use my dominant hold to keep her mouth hostage to mine. We are not kissing, but the sheer closeness of our lips adds to the sexual chemistry that forever bounces between us.
“Perfect! Absolute perfection, keep going,” Gemma encourages, her voice one I’ve never heard before.
Within seconds, the flurry of activity surrounding us ceases to exist. It is just me and the girl who stole the land from beneath my feet with a sideways glance, staring into each other’s eyes while pretending we can’t feel the bedsheet rising between us.
“I love you, Beautiful,” I whisper, speaking the words I’ll never grow tired of saying.
Emily stops gazing at the rod I know she can feel—because the heat between her legs doubles with every inch my cock grows—to connect her eyes to mine.
“I love you too, Noah.” Her husky voice makes my cock stiffen to full mast at the speed of lightning.
With a grin that exposes her pleasure at my body’s response, Emily adjusts her position. My breaths switch from rapid pants to a growl. I’m not snarling because Emily’s pussy is now grinding against my rod. I don’t appreciate how Gemma has slid Emily’s printed rock tee down her shoulder, exposing her delectable skin to numerous pairs of keen eyes.
“No?” Gemma questions, unsure why my mood has rapidly changed. I’ve gone from steaming with lust to burning with anger in two point five seconds. “This is exactly what we envisioned for the cover, Noah. How can you not want this?”
She sounds confused, like she can't comprehend how I don't understand her vision. I have no trouble seeing the ardor in her eyes; I just don't want others seeing parts of my wife’s skin meant only for my eyes.
“Oh. . .” Gemma says in a breathy moan, clueing on to my dilemma without a word seeping from my lips.
Emily startles to within an inch of her life when Gemma shouts, “Out!” She shifts on her feet to face the two dozen or more spectators watching us with fire in their eyes. “This is now a closed set; everyone out.”
While she marches roadies and music execs out of the loft as if they are one and the same, I return my eyes to Emily. "Do you want to do this?" I ask, hopeful she will say yes but prepared for her to say no.
As Gemma said, this is the perfect solution. The music execs get the cover they need, but I don’t hurt my wife in the process. Emily is beautiful—the most entrancing woman I’ve ever seen—she is perfect to play this part. She is who all the songs on the album are about, so why shouldn't she share the limelight with me?
Emily’s small, but perfectly adequate breasts flatten on my chest when she sucks in a deep breath. I can see the hesitation in her eyes, barely visible through the determination. Just like I’d give her the world, she’d do anything for me.
“Yes,” she breathes heavily, nodding. “I’ve seen Gemma’s work, Noah. She won’t steer us wrong.” Her pulse surges through her body when she murmurs, “And this is kind of fun.”
Her teeth graze her bottom lip as she peers at me, gauging my reaction to her confession. If the hardness pressed against her core isn’t enough of an indication of my happiness, I smile a broad grin, exposing a set of dimples to Emily’s eager eyes.
“More fun than we had backstage last month?” I ask, rocking my hips forward, seeking closer contact with her heat.
Our combined moans leap around the almost soundless loft when my hunt for warmth comes up trumps. Even Emily’s jeans couldn’t deter my cock’s accuracy. When it comes to finding Emily’s pussy, my cock is like a heat-seeking missile—accurate without fault.
“A little bit.” Emily licks her plump lips before adding on, “We didn’t have access to a bed backstage.” Her eyes twinkle when she takes in the ginormous bed we’re fooling around on.
“No, we didn’t,” I agree, my voice rough with lust. “Make sure I add a bed stipulation the next time we negotiate a tour contract.”
Smiling a grin that has me wishing we were alone, Emily nods her head.
* * *
Over the next hour, I'm tortured to within an inch of sanity. Although Gemma staged our poses, the sexual energy bristling between Emily and me has doubled for every minute that passes. I've kissed my wife, nuzzled her neck, and ground my cock against her damp panties.
And I’ve loved every goddamn motherfucking minute of it.
But there is only so much teasing a man can take. I thought the weeks of abstinence following Maddie’s birth would be my darkest days. I had no idea.
“Just a few more shots,” Gemma assures before tugging away the bedsheet lodged between Emily and me.
It is a foolish move on her behalf, because not only is Emily’s pussy now braced mere millimeters from my throbbing crown, her naked breasts are plastered on my chest. You can’t tempt a man this much and not expect failure. I’m not worried that Emily’s breasts are on parade for the world to see—my arms alone ensure her modesty—it is the insane urge to fuck and the lust in my wife’s eyes thinning my patience. Now I understand Emily’s dislike of being teased. It’s torture—pure, unbridled torture!
“Come on, Gemma.” My voice sounds pained. And rightfully so. I am in pain—deep, ball-stomping pain.
“Okay,” Gemma groans, not liking how my vicious glare ruined her last two dozen shots. “We’re done.”
She drags her camera strap over her head before stretching her back. I glare at her, wondering what the fuck she is doing. I’m literally two seconds from slipping Emily’s panties to the side and driving home, and she’s stretching. Does this look like yoga class?
“Oh, do you want me to leave?” Gemma asks, her words brittle with laughter.
My eyes slit, faking anger. I would be angry if I didn't see the playfulness in her full gaze. She isn't hanging around as she thinks we are a fun couple; she's returning the numerous teases the boys and I have bestowed on her the past month. Just like a stranger couldn't miss the connection between Emily and me, Gemma and Hawke's pull is just as strong—but they're blind to it.
“Fine! But don’t think I won’t be calling in a favor in the future,” Gemma warns, her eyes gleaming like the cat who ate the canary.
I'll give her every penny I have if she gets her ass out of here.
“Would you like me to lock the door on my way out?”
"Yes!" Emily and I shout in sync, exposing I'm not the only one whose patience is wearing thin.
With a playful eye roll, Gemma hotfoots it to the loft door. The latch has barely clicked into place when my hands go crazy. I glide them down Emily’s naked back, releasing a flurry of goosebumps in their wake while also drawing her closer to me. I groan into her mouth when her damp panties cling to my stiffened shaft.
“No, beautiful, stay just like you are,” I demand when she attempts to scoot off my lap. “I haven’t been dreaming about this the past hour not to let it become a reality. How about you stand for me? Then we can remove the controversy sitting between us.”
Smiling, Emily rises to her knees before bracing her hands on my shoulders to help her stand. I send my thanks to God for Lola’s interfering ways when Emily’s pussy stops in direct line with my hungry eyes. I never thanked Lola for attempting to steer me in the wrong direction that night nearly three years ago. I’m going to fix my error first thing tomorrow morning. Right now, I’ve got more pressing matters to handle.
Ignoring the throb between my legs, I hook my finger in Emily’s panties and slide them down her slim thighs. I don’t follow the direction of their descent. I’m too busy staring at the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen to worry about where her panties end up. Just like every inch of her gorgeous face, Emily’s pussy is just as beautiful.
“Uh-uh,” I murmur when she attempts to return to her seated position. “There is only one place you are going to sit. It isn’t my crotch.”
“Oh god,” Emily moans through a pant when I cup her ass and fall backward, leaving her no other place to land than on my face.
As her thighs tighten around my ears, I run my tongue down the seam of her glistening pussy. The scent I’ve been getting drunk off the past hour engulfs my taste buds, amplifying my pursuit. After dragging my tongue back up, I gently suckle her clit. The sexiest moan I’ve ever heard tears from Emily’s throat not even two seconds later.
“Rock against my mouth, Beautiful. Take what you need.”
My second sentence has barely left my mouth when Emily throws her hips forward. When her clit hits the nub of my nose, she glides back down until it rubs my chin.
Her pace follows a similar rhythm for the next several minutes. The image of my wife riding my face is one that will never leave me. It is not only hotter than the sun; it's fucking mesmerizing. If my cock weren't dying to sink into her, her pussy would never leave my face.
Eager to have her heat wrapped around me, I grip the small swell of her hips, crank my neck and eat her as if I've never tasted her. My licks, sucks, and nibbles are as greedy as they come, a wild, possessive claim that has pre-cum seeping from my crown as readily as Emily's arousal glistens on my lips.
"Oh, god, Noah. . ." A blinding orgasm swallows the remainder of Emily's praise. Her thighs lock on my head, drowning out her cries of ecstasy as her back arches. I don't need to hear her screams to understand her pleasure. The sweet, tangy liquid coating my tongue tells me everything I need to know. My girl just came on my face, proving that becoming parents hasn't had an adverse effect on our sex life. It is as fire-sparking as it's ever been.
I wait for Emily to loosen her hold on my head before scooting up the mattress. Still unwilling to give up the visual of my wife riding me, I move up the bed far enough my rock-hard shaft braces the swollen lips of her pussy.
"Did you start the Pill as Dr. Morgan suggested?" I stare into her eyes, silently begging for her to say yes.
Because I had no idea this would be the outcome of our day, I didn't come prepared. My cock will never forgive me if I have to stop things now. I love Maddie, and she will always be the light of my life, but she is only three months old—she does not need siblings right now—if ever.
“Yeah, we’re good to go,” Emily assures me, her voice relaying I’m not the only one grateful for Dr. Morgan’s weekly visits since Maddie’s birth.
She startles for the quickest second, her pussy hugging my crown. "Just go easy. Childbirth hasn’t made your cock any easier to take.”
I close my eyes and count to ten. After my piss-poor tantrum earlier, my ego needed that stroke, but instead of accepting her praise as a man, it makes me want to ram my cock into her without constraint, ensuring she'll never forget the words she spoke, much less that I've been inside her.
"Emily. . . God to the Jesus of motherfucking Christ."
I have no clue what I just said. I’m too busy struggling not to come from Emily slamming her pussy to the base of my cock in one fell swoop to understand the garble coming from my mouth.
“You said to go easy.” You can hear the strain in my voice. She just did what I’ve been dying to do all afternoon.
Emily doesn’t grace me with a reply. She just rises to her knees before dropping them out beneath her for the second time. With every rise and fall, I stretch her farther. The swell of my cock is as generous as the curves Maddie’s pregnancy added to her tiny frame—both much-needed and appreciated additions.
“That’s is, beautiful, take what you need,” I murmur, finally understanding her objection. The abstinence we sustained after Maddie’s birth wasn’t just hard on me; Emily suffered as well.
I sink deeper into the mattress before cupping her jiggling breast in my hand. Emily's breasts aren't bigger than a handful, but what more do I need than that?
While I knead and caress her sweat-misted breasts, Emily massages my cock with her pussy. The slickness of her arousal eases the friction of her manic glides, while also adding to the seductive noises I’ll never grow tired of hearing. She rides my cock, taking what she needs without any hesitation.
I love this—how free and unrestrained she is around me. The visual is so enticing, the urge to come has been pushed into the background of my mind. The sensation gripping every inch of my sack has nothing on the pride I feel knowing I drive my wife so wild, she'll ride my cock like a madwoman.
Everyone thinks Emily is the shy, demure one of her family. They have no fucking clue. She is a nymph in the sack, blowing any woman before her out of the water.
“Oh. . .”
I increase the rock of my hips, recognizing the throaty moan rolling up Emily’s chest. She is so close, I can taste her next arousal on the tip of my tongue.
“Come on,” I demand, dying to see ecstasy crossing her features.
I pump into her harder, meeting her thrusts slam for slam. I don’t have to wait long for the world’s most craved sound to hum through my ears. Emily’s grinding comes to a screaming halt as my name shreds from her throat. Her voice is barely recognizable with the clutches of ecstasy altering her tone.
When she throws her head back to peer at the ceiling, a string of lyrics filters through my mind. I freeze as my foggy brain struggles to absorb the brilliance of the words. When they continue flowing without pause, I flip over, switching positions with Emily. Her giggles drown out to a moan when I arch her ass high in the air. Her pillow muffles her screams when I drive into her before gathering her hair to the side of her neck. She is expecting me to pull her hair like she loves, but right now, I've got another focus on my mind. I need her back bare, and I need it bare now.
“Grab the pen for me, beautiful,” I demand breathlessly, nudging my head to the marker a makeup artist used to trace fake tattoos on the blonde earlier today.
“What do you want a pen for. . .” Emily words trail off when I thrust into her deeper, adding to my demand with an extra inch.
I grind into her on repeat, loving that every thrust doubles the stream of words filtering through my mind. Ever since my accident, I’ve had writers block. To someone as creative as me, that was as painful as not touching Emily for six weeks.
Thankfully, Emily’s mouth and hands took care of my sexual problems. Unfortunately, nothing could relieve my musical blank—nothing until now.
I yank the cap off the marker with my teeth while using my other hand to wipe the sweat from Emily's back. Her breathing quickens when the inky tip glides across her skin. My handwriting is atrocious, but since the speed of my pumps controls the flow of words, I'll take what I can get.
* * *
By the time Emily's back is covered with lyrics, she's climaxed twice, and my orgasm is hanging by a thread. Sweat rolls down my cheeks when I throw the pen to the other side of the room. Gripping her hips, I drop my eyes. Seeing her back covered with my words unravels the thread holding back my orgasm. I pump in and out of her, my thrusts as frantic as the cum streaming from my cock. Even with my mind hazed by lust, my pace doesn’t slow. I continue fucking her until the exhausted bend in my cock is a forgotten memory and my next climax is at the ready.
This time, Emily comes with me, turning my day from shit to brilliant with nothing but a breathless moan of my name. . . . . .
“Noah,” Emily breathes heavily, drawing me from my thoughts in the same manner she brought them on.
Her needy moan thickens my cock to a point not acceptable for a father of two wearing Santa pants, but I can’t stop how my body responds to her. I’ve called her “Beautiful” since the day we started dating, yet she acts like it’s the first time she’s heard it every time I say it, so why am I expecting my cock to behave?
“Please kiss me,” Emily practically begs, her lips already parted, her eyes closed.
I bring my mouth to within an inch of hers, but I don’t kiss her. I can’t help but tease her a little. If there are two things I know about Emily, it’s that she hates being teased as much as she hates being tickled, and she can’t stand her middle name. Considering she turns thirty next month, I don't think she'd appreciate my onslaught on her ribs. Although I am tempted—very, very tempted.
“Noah,” Emily grunts, her foot stomping on the ground like Maddie does when she doesn’t get her way.
Upon hearing my chuckle, her light brown eyes snap open. “Grr. . . you suck.”
Her hair smacks me in the face when she pivots around and races down the hall. I’m snapping at her heels not even two seconds later. “I was playing, Beautiful. I love when your panties get in a twist. It makes you extra feisty. That’s why ‘Soulless’ was written. Because of you and your sexy-ass jealousy streak.”
This is the part I mentioned earlier, the side of Emily no one else gets to see. The Emily displayed to the world is perfect, but the one I’ve known the past twelve years is way beyond perfect. That’s why things haven’t grown old in over a decade, because it will take three lifetimes to witness all of Emily’s perfect attributes.
“Come on, Beautiful; don’t be mad. We haven’t had a night alone in months.”
I wish I were lying. With nine additional albums as successful as our first, things are still crazy with my band. But that isn’t the cause of our lack of private time. With a nanny, three live-in security details, and a maid and a butler, there is barely a minute left in the day where it is just Emily and me. That is why days like today are so special. We say goodbye to the house staff, the security personnel, and record execs nagging for the next hit, and come together like family.
I've held my beautiful wife in my arms for over twenty hours today; I can't get better than that. I love my life, but I love my wife more. She and our two kids are all that matter to me, so if she wants our children’s rooms to be positioned on each side of ours, so be it. I pledged when I woke up from a coma nearly a decade ago that I’d never make her cry again. I intend to keep my promise.
“I suggested moving Jagger’s room a few spots down,” Emily says, believing I’m upset her wish to keep our kids close is the reason we don’t get much adult time.
“I know, Beautiful. I'm not worried about that. Jagger is a baby; let him be one. He'll sleep through. . . one day. . . I hope."
As unsure of my pledge as I was when I made it, Emily leans on the wall halfway down the hall. Her worried groan switches to a moan when I cup her jaw in my hand. “You wanted this, remember?”
Maddie was barely one when Emily’s began wishing to expand our family. She was adamant she wanted our children to be close in age so they could grow up in a tight-knit relationship like she and Lola had. That is where her ruse unraveled. Emily and Lola have grown closer the past decade, but things weren’t always like that. They have similar features, but their personalities are on opposite sides of the spectrum.
Don’t assume that means they don’t love each other. I’d rather have a vasectomy without pain relief then get on the wrong side of a McIntosh woman when she is defending a member of her family. Even if your snarky comment is an exact quote of something they said seconds earlier, don’t dare repeat it. You’ll be a dead man walking.
"I love Jagger, I really do, but my god, will that boy just go to sleep?" The fake cry spilling from Emily's lips makes her as youthful as the day I met her. "Maddie slept through a three-hour concert without batting an eyelid, but Jagger not only rocks out every show, he's also the last one to pass out at the after party as well.”
It is the fight of my life to hold back my laughter. It isn't because Emily is being deceitful; she is as honest as they come. Jagger parties like a rock star; I guess I should have anticipated that since we named him after one.
“Why don’t you accept Trenton’s offer to switch from a day nanny to a live-in one? He’s been with us for years, and he is great with the kids.”
Trenton is our nanny—or Manny, as the girls like to refer to him. He’s been with us since Maddie was a few days old. Although I was concerned about having a twenty-four-year-old male around my twenty-one-year-old wife and newborn daughter, my worry burned off in an instant when I saw them interacting. Trenton is a qualified nurse. He has a black belt in karate and speaks five languages. He is also an extremely talented guitarist—he's just scared shitless of performing in front of people.
By becoming our nanny, he has experienced the rock and roll lifestyle he craved without the fear of making a fool of himself. It was a win-win situation for all involved. Within weeks, he went from being a member of our staff to a friend. I trust him. If I didn't, he wouldn't be allowed within an inch of either Emily or our kids.
“I had considered it, but I don’t want our children raised by others. It’s my job—”
“No, it’s not,” I interrupt her, shaking my head. “You are the publicist of Rise Up and the other fifteen or so bands Cormack currently has you juggling. You may be the perfect woman, Beautiful, but you’re still only one woman.”
“But being a mom is one of my most important roles, Noah.” The raw huskiness of her words reveals whom the top placement belongs to, but just in case I missed it, she spells it out for me: “Only second to being your wife. I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Emily. . .” I want to say more, but I don’t need to. My kiss will tell her everything she needs to know. Emily always says I express my feelings via kissing, so how about we test the theory?
The faint pulse flattering beneath my fingertips ramps up a gear when I slowly inch our mouths together. Its rapid surge is so dramatic, I can count the beats of her heart without even trying. Her pulse is racing as fast as mine, her excitement just as palpable. Out of all the people in the world, there is only one pair of lips I want to devour. They belong to my wife, the woman who repaired me when I didn't know I was broken. The one who shows me every day that how I was raised was not a normal upbringing. She inspires me with her strength while also frustrating me with her determination. But do you know what? I wouldn’t change a thing about her.
Not one. She is perfect just the way she is.
She is also mine.
For now and forever.