by Max Monroe
Marissa: Who is it, by the way? Someone I know?
While I would have no issues letting Marissa know who I’m involved with, I know Birdie wouldn’t want that. So, I answer accordingly.
Me: It’s none of your business.
Marissa: Where is the Andrew I know, and what have you done with him?
Me: Very funny.
Marissa: LOL. I thought it was pretty clever.
When another message chimes in, I type out a quick and final message to Marissa that, in the nicest way possible, lets her know I’m done with the conversation. And then I find a text from Birdie sitting in our ongoing chat.
Firecracker: You still up?
I smile. It’s about fucking time.
Me: Of course, I’m still up. I’m waiting on you to get your cute ass back to my room so I can get some sleep.
Firecracker: I’m pretty sure you don’t need me to get sleep, Andy.
Andy. Always with the fucking Andy. It’s stupid how much I secretly enjoy it.
Me: On the contrary. You know I need your tits in my big hands in order to truly relax.
Firecracker: You’re so strange.
Me: I’m a creature of habit, sweetheart.
Firecracker: Oh yeah, and what habits you’ve gained over the years. Fast cars. Lots of wild Hollywood parties. Beautiful women. You’re basically the poster boy for clean living.
Always the ballbuster. It makes me smirk.
Me: I’ll give you the fast cars bit, but everything else needs to be scratched from the record.
Firecracker: Oh boy, and what are you going to replace it with, Mr. Habits?
Me: Birdie’s beautiful tits. Birdie’s glorious pussy. Birdie. Birdie. Birdie.
Firecracker: You sound obsessed with this Birdie.
Me: You have no idea. She makes me fucking crazy. My cock is already hard just thinking about her.
Firecracker: Maybe you should answer your door, then.
I quirk a brow, but when three soft raps sound against my door, I grin.
Fuck yes.
In four long strides, I make my way to the door and open it, and on the other side stands Birdie, her brown eyes bright with mischief, her long blond hair flowing down over the khaki trench coat covering her body, and a pair of cowgirl boots sitting on her feet.
I rest my elbow on the doorframe, smiling down at her as I take my sweet, sweet time raking my intrigued gaze over her body. “I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m dreaming… Or at least, I’m pretty sure this is the start of a dream I once had…”
This is, in fact, very reminiscent of a fantasy I told her about a few nights ago. It’s all very cliché—Birdie showing up in nothing but her boots and trench coat, her tight little body completely naked underneath. But fuck, if this is the real thing, I’m the biggest fan of clichés right now.
She smiles. “Can I come in?”
“That depends.”
“It depends?” She puts a sassy hand to her hip. “On what exactly?”
“On what you have on beneath that coat of yours.”
She leans up on her tippy-toes and places her lips right by my ear. “Nothing, Andy. I have absolutely nothing on underneath this coat.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
On a husky growl, I wrap my arms around her waist, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her into my hotel room. She giggles as I kick the door shut behind us and stride over to the bed.
“And I thought you were wanting to get some sleep tonight,” she whispers as I toss her down onto the mattress. Her body bounces, and more giggles follow.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” I shake my head and make a show of getting on my knees and sliding off her cowgirl boots. The right boot, then the left, I slip them off her pretty feet and throw them over my shoulder. They hit the carpeted floor with a thud.
My lips are on her legs after that, making a slow path of openmouthed kisses up her soft skin until I stop where the coat meets her knees. “This needs to go.” My fingers tug on the material before I reach up to undo the belt at her waist and the buttons that rest down the center of her chest.
I slide my big hands across her breasts and push the jacket all the way off her body until Birdie is completely naked on my bed.
Yes, please.
“You like?” she asks and starts to sit up on her elbows, but I gently push her back down on the bed.
“I love, but before I get started, there’re some rules you need to know about.”
“Rules? What rules?” She quirks a brow, and I stand up to slide my sweats and boxer briefs off my body.
My cock, already hard for her, juts out from my waist, and I don’t miss the way her gaze greedily flits down my body or the way her tongue sneaks out across her bottom lip when she stares at my arousal.
“Are you listening, sweetheart?” I ask, and she moves her now-heated gaze to mine. “Because these rules are very important.”
“I hope they involve orgasms.” Birdie smirks like a little seductress.
“Oh, don’t worry, they do,” I say and grip both of her thighs in my hands, spread them wide, and kneel between her legs. “Remember that first time we had sex, sweetheart?” I ask, my lips mere inches from her pussy. “When you got all wild and did whatever the fuck you wanted.”
“Mmhmm. I do.”
“Well, this time, I’m going to be in control,” I whisper and blow a warm breath toward her clit as I reach up to push her hands down so they’re resting at her hips.
She whimpers.
“So, you be a good girl and don’t move your hands,” I tell her, leaning forward to lick my tongue against where she is already wet and throbbing. “And just so you’re clear on what is about to happen, I’m going to drive you fucking crazy.”
She whimpers again. Licks her lips.
“Then when you feel like you’ve had enough, when the pleasure is too intense, I’m going to stop, but only for a brief moment, before I do it all over again. And I’m going to keep that up. I’m going to do every dirty, wild, delicious thing to you until your mind and body explode and you’re begging me to finish you off with my cock.”
“Holy hell,” she half mutters, half moans.
“Happy birthday, Birdie.” I hover my lips over the apex of her thighs, where she is already wet and throbbing.
“My birthday isn’t until tomorrow,” she says through a breathless whisper.
“Exactly.” I smirk up at her. “And this is me getting an early start on the festivities.”
I have quite a few things up my sleeve for Birdie’s birthday tomorrow. Some of which have required assistance from Howie and my family.
But right now, making her come is the utmost priority.
So, I don’t waste any time getting down to business. I get motherfucking started on giving Birdie more pleasure than her hot little body ever knew was possible.
Get ready, firecracker.
Tonight, orgasms.
Tomorrow? Lots of surprises.
Birdie
Ten years ago, when I pictured what twenty-eight would look like for me, it didn’t include my baby sister engaged to Luca freaking Weaver and mere weeks away from giving me a niece or nephew, or me being on location in Memphis to film a Hollywood film in which I had been cast in a starring role.
And it certainly did not include this year’s Hottest Man Alive waking me up by pressing kisses to my bare boobs.
“Good morning, Birdie,” Andrew whispers, his lips brushing across my breasts and making a gentle path up my collarbone until they stop at my lips. “It’s time to wake up, eat some breakfast, and celebrate the glorious day you came into the world.” He presses a kiss to my mouth. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
“What time is it?” I blink open my eyes and instantly stare into soft blue.
“A little after seven,” he answers, a handsome smile playing at the corners of his lips. “How does it feel to be another year older?”
“Ask me that question again o
nce I’ve had time to drink some coffee.” I groan, and Andrew chuckles in amusement.
“Well, grumpy, you’re in luck because I have an entire breakfast feast ready for you.”
I sit up in the bed, resting my back on the pillows and headboard behind me, and watch with tired eyes as he walks over to a cart standing at the foot of the bed. It’s covered with a white tablecloth, and resting on top, in an organized display, sits a pot of coffee, glasses, orange juice, cutlery, and a bunch of plates topped with silver domes.
“I hope you brought your birthday appetite.” He flashes a wink in my direction and proceeds to pour some coffee into a mug. He tops it off with my perfect amount of sugar and cream, stirs it for a good fifteen seconds, and then places it in my already outstretched hands.
“Bless you,” I say, my voice still groggy.
Andrew grins over at me while I savor my first delicious and much-needed sip of coffee.
“Ah yes, that hits the spot,” I say through a content sigh and set the coffee down on the nightstand beside me. It’s then that I finally notice he’s already fully dressed for the day. I scrunch up my nose. “What time do you have to be on set?”
“Eight,” he answers and gestures for me to come sit in the chair he’s pulled up to the cart. “C’mon, birthday girl. Grab your coffee. It’s time to eat.”
“How come I got the day off, but you still have to work?” I question as I snag one of his discarded T-shirts from the floor of his hotel room, toss it over my body, and head over to the breakfast feast with my coffee in hand.
“Because I told Howie it was your birthday and he needed to give you the day off.” He pulls out my chair, and I sit down. “And he said the only way he could manage that was if I agreed to come in earlier than originally planned and roll through a few scenes that he had scheduled for next week.”
I look up at him in surprise. “Are you being serious right now?”
“It’s your birthday, Birdie. Everyone deserves to have the day off on their birthday,” he quips. “Especially a workaholic like yourself.”
“I’m not a workaholic.”
“Get real, sweetheart.” He flashes a knowing smirk. “From sunup until sundown, between working on set and fitting in studio time for the soundtrack and your next album, you and I both know your schedule is jam-packed. I’m just thankful you manage to sneak in time every day to let me play with your pussy.”
“Wow. You really say the sweetest things.” I snort. “Seriously, if you keep it up, I just might die from all the swoon.”
Andrew only chuckles at that, and another sarcastic remark sits locked and loaded on my tongue, but when he lifts a silver dome from the plate sitting directly in front of me, my voice gets all caught up in my throat.
Oh my God. I lift a hand to my mouth as I stare down at the blueberry waffles sitting before me.
“Now, I know it’s not the same as the birthday brunches you used to share with your parents or your granny, and it most likely isn’t as delicious, but I hope it at least brings you a little joy on your special day.”
He remembered.
“This is…” I pause, looking up into his soft blue eyes. “Just…thank you,” I whisper, my throat clogging a little with emotion. “This means a lot to me.”
Blueberry waffles might seem like a silly little thing to anyone else, but to me, this gesture might be one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.
He leans forward to press a kiss to my forehead. “You’re welcome.”
When I feel his lips against my forehead, a tear begins to slip down my cheek, and I swipe it away on a laugh. “All right, I take back my earlier sarcasm about your swoon factor.”
“You saying I have the swoon factor, firecracker?” he asks, a confident quirk of his brow punctuating his question.
“Sometimes, yes,” I respond. “But that doesn’t mean you need to go getting all cocky about it.”
His smile turns wicked. “Oh, sweet, beautiful Birdie, if I didn’t have to head out of here soon, I’d be more than up for the challenge of showing you just how cocky I can get.”
I roll my eyes but laugh at the same time. “You’re a horny lunatic.”
He chuckles and leans forward to press another kiss to my lips. “A horny lunatic who needs to head out of here soon.”
And then he’s off to the bathroom to finish getting ready.
While the running sink and the sounds of Andrew brushing his teeth fill the otherwise quiet of his hotel room, I find my phone on the nightstand and snap a picture of my blueberry waffles before officially diving into them.
Knowing I haven’t posted anything on Instagram in a while, and constantly getting shit from Candy about that very fact, I decide to pull up the app and upload the photo of my waffles with the caption: Happy birthday to me. As you can see, twenty-eight is looking fantastic already. #foodporn #wafflegasm #mywaffleishappy
“Having a photo shoot with your waffles?” Andrew’s teasing voice fills my ears, and I look up to find him leaning against the bathroom door, still brushing his already sparkling white teeth.
“Just posting a little something to Instagram.” I shrug. “Speaking of which, how is Mr. Hollywood’s Hottest Heartthrob’s IG looking these days? Still lots of shirtless photos consuming his profile?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart, why don’t you do a little intel and check it out.” He grins around his toothbrush before turning on his heel and heading back into the bathroom to finish his dental hygiene routine.
It doesn’t take long for curiosity to get the best of me.
With the official Instagram page of Andrew Watson pulled up on my phone, I scroll his latest posts, more than ready to find the typical photos of him showing off his hot bod.
But to my utter surprise, there are zero pictures of his abs or biceps or even his firm ass in a pair of running shorts.
What the hell?
I tap the most recent picture that was posted two days ago. And instantly, I know when and where he took this because I was there.
It’s a photo of two plates of trail mix. My version, which included just M&M’s. And then, his version, which included only raisins and peanuts. The caption: One of these is perfection, and the other is trail mix sacrilege.
The next photo, posted a week ago, is a picture of a coffee cup that reads Memphis Brew. And I know by the freaking bird he had the barista draw on it instead of my name, it’s the coffee he brought me on set when I didn’t have time to take a break. The caption: I don’t know, guys, but a recent taste test by a very discerning coffee connoisseur might’ve proved that Memphis Brew is better than Alfred’s. Don’t @ me. I’m just the messenger.
Alfred’s was the coffee he brought me all those weeks ago. The one I threw in the trash.
The next post is a picture of his feet. And, to be honest, for a man, Andrew has really nice feet. The caption on the photo? Tell me you guys agree… If your second toe is longer than your big toe, it’s actually a sign of intelligence. I have someone here who’s trying to tell me it doesn’t mean any such thing, which, obviously, is utter blasphemy.
I’m the someone who was teasing him relentlessly about his toes.
When I click on a video a few posts down, I’m surprised to find it’s actually a short clip of me onstage, in the middle of shooting at the Copper Door. The caption? If you think Birdie Harris’s music is hyped, this video is here to prove you wrong. PS: The soundtrack for this movie is going to be INSANE. #GrassRoots
Color me speechless.
All this time, he’s been posting our little inside jokes on his Instagram but still taking into consideration that I want to keep this, whatever this is, on the down low.
“You like what you’re finding?”
I look up from the screen of my phone to find him standing beside me, a smile kissing his lips.
“What happened to all the shirtless, hot bod, thirst trap style photos?”
“I guess I found better things to post.” His
smile grows. “Now, I have to head out, but I’ll be done by three at the latest, so don’t make any plans because I’m taking you somewhere.”
I narrow my eyes. “Where are you taking me?”
“Nice try.” He winks and presses a kiss to my lips. “Eat your waffles. Take a bath. By all means, hang out in my room all day and text me pictures of you touching your pussy, but just be ready to go somewhere at three.”
“Be ready at three? What am I supposed to wear?”
“Jeans, a T-shirt, nothing fancy.”
I narrow my eyes again, and he just smirks.
“You might as well give up now, sweetheart, because I’m not telling you shit,” he says and grabs his phone and keys and wallet and shoves them into the pockets of his jeans. “See you later, birthday girl.”
And then, without another hint about what in the hell is happening at three, he’s gone.
The bastard.
When my phone pings with several notifications, I more than expect it to be something insane from Andrew but realize quickly it’s a bunch of Happy Birthday texts.
One from Rocky.
One from Luca.
A whole thread of Happy Birthdays from Samantha and Neil and the rest of my team.
And just before I can even question the lack of Happy Birthday from my very own sister, she does me one better and FaceTimes me.
Her pretty face puts an instant smile on my face.
“Happy birthday, Birdie!” she exclaims.
“Thanks, sis.”
“I wish I were in Memphis to celebrate with you, but as you know, I’m bigger than a freaking house.” She moves the screen of the phone down so I can get a good view of her now protruding belly.
