by Meghan March
“Your fans can see you another time. The next few weeks are critical to figuring out how your career fits into the schedule so it doesn’t interfere with mine.”
I shove out of the chair and stand. He doesn’t get it. This is the line I will not let him cross.
“Then I’m done,” I say, confidence ringing in every word. I will not allow him to take this from me. I won’t let anyone take this from me.
Creighton’s brow wrinkles and he tilts his head. “Excuse me? I don’t think I heard you correctly.” He steps toward me.
“I said I’m done. I’m not disappointing the people who support me to suit your strategy-session schedule, and I refuse to have my career dictated by yours. I should’ve known better. I bought your line of bullshit last night that you’d help me figure this out, not complicate it more.”
The muscle ticks in his jaw, and his tone is deep and final. “And I said I’d support you, Holly. Not them. And my support requires that my business comes first.”
“No. Let me put this in words you understand, Karas. This is a deal breaker. Non-negotiable.”
I head for the door, and he steps into my path. “That’s completely unacceptable. You’re not done with me until I say you’re done.”
A laugh spills from my lips. “I’m glad you think you can just say the word and it’s law. It doesn’t work like that.” I go to sidestep him, but he moves with me. “I’m not screwing around, Karas. I’m done.”
I dart around him and make a break for the door.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop me.
If she thinks I’m going to let her walk out on me, she’s insane. I let her get a few strides ahead of me before I follow her into the bedroom.
She searches the room, presumably to find the pile of clothes I folded neatly after I stripped her when we got to the hotel. Spotting them on the dresser, she grabs her jeans, and without bothering with panties, shoves one leg in at a time and tugs them up.
“You’re not leaving.”
Holly’s head jerks up as she reaches out to grab her bra. Her eyes might as well be spitting flames for all the heat in them. “Watch me.”
“That’s not acceptable.”
“You mentioned that already. But unfortunately, what you didn’t mention was the only way this worked was for me to give up my career. To give up my dreams. You don’t get it. My dreams are all I’ve got left¸ and I’m not giving them up for anyone.”
I grit my teeth. This is why I was in no hurry to get married again. Because women are completely fucking unreasonable and irrational.
“Then maybe you should have asked more questions before you agreed to this proposal.”
She pauses after she hooks her bra. “I guess the only question I really needed to ask was whether you were a selfish, stubborn asshole. My mistake.”
She’s not wrong. I am a selfish, stubborn asshole. I wouldn’t be where I am today without those qualities. But we also had a deal.
Holly shrugs on her shirt and tosses her hair back, plaiting it into a quick braid and securing it with some sort of elastic she pulled from the pocket of her jeans. Once again, she looks about sixteen years old, a defiant, gorgeous girl who just threw everything I can offer her back in my face because she thinks I’m going to make her give up her dream.
It’s good to know one of us has principles.
“Sit your ass down, Holly. You’re not going anywhere.”
Her hands land on her hips and she glares at me. “You can go to hell, Creighton Karas, and take your damn prenup with you. You can keep the hundred dollars I’m probably entitled to after being married for twelve hours. Use it to buy yourself a blow job from some other clueless toy, because this one is done.”
My smile sharpens because I actually like this feisty woman. I strike before she even registers that I’m moving. I toss her to the bed and pin her hands above her head.
“If you think I’m letting you walk away after that display, you are sadly mistaken, my dear wife.”
Her struggle is no pretense, and the knee that almost connects with my balls is also very real.
“Fuck you, Karas.”
“Honey, the only one getting fucked here is you.” I still her thrashing head by pressing my mouth to her ear. “Let me figure it out. If I can’t handle something as simple as dealing with your tour and schedule, I’m not fit to run a multi-billion-dollar global company.”
I can’t believe I’m conceding this point, but I’m not willing to let her go. I will find a way to have it all, because that’s all that I will accept. Everything.
Holly’s struggling body calms as the fight drains from her. The only movement is the rise and fall of her chest as she sucks in lungfuls of air.
Her voice is quiet when she asks, “Are you serious? I need to hear you say it and mean it—that you’ll make my career a priority too. Because for me, there’s nothing more important. I need to be on that tour bus on the sixth, or I’m screwed.”
I lift my head to meet her gaze. I’m not used to being questioned in anything, let alone whether my word is good.
“Yes, I will make your career a priority, and I will not be the reason you lose your shot at your dream. You’ll be in Nashville by the night of the fourth—earlier than you said you needed to be there to get ready. But we’ll do this all my way.”
She studies my face for a long moment. “I don’t get you. I really, really don’t get you.”
“You don’t need to. And you probably never will.”
The man is insane. That’s the only explanation I have for any of this. And I guess that makes me just as insane because I’ve jumped on the crazy train right along with him. It’s mind-blowing to think that so much has happened in less than twenty-four hours. At midnight last night I was meeting Creighton at the Plaza, we were married in Vegas this morning, and by mid-afternoon we’re heading back to the airport for New York.
A bellman carries our bags as we leave Caesar’s. The moment we hit the exit, cameras are flashing and reporters are shouting questions. I make sure my oversized sunglasses are in place, and duck my head and hurry directly toward the open limo door just like I did the times the press caught me after another JC episode hit the papers. Without the limo, of course.
But before I reach it, Creighton grabs my hand and tugs me to a stop. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me against his side.
“Thank you for your felicitations. We’d be happy to answer a few questions.”
We would? What the hell?
The press jumps on the invitation like vultures on road kill.
“Mr. Karas, can you confirm that this whole production—the viral missed connection—was a publicity stunt? And Mrs. Karas, can you address the rumors that JC Hughes was going to propose to you on New Year’s Eve?”
Creighton shakes his head. “Now why would I confirm that? But I will say this. Sometimes to get what you want, you have to take a crazy chance and hope that fate is smiling down on you. This may not be the biggest gamble I’ve made, but I think it’s going to turn out to be the best one. After all, I was the lucky bastard who got her to the altar first.”
His words knock the breath from me. I look up at him through my tinted lenses and wish, in that moment, that I knew him well enough to know whether he’s just spouting off crap for the press, or if he’s being honest.
There’s no way he really means it.
Creighton glances down at me, and a soft smile crosses his face as the flashes continue to bombard us. I know that picture will be the one on the cover of every rag tomorrow.
The press keeps firing questions, and Creighton answers them in vague generalities. He skillfully dodges the ones about JC, but he never looks away from me while he does it. I swear I hear the camerawoman directly in front of me sigh.
When we climb into the limo, I’m feeling very uncertain about this whole thing. My plan only included using Karas as leverage to free myself from the disaster with JC, along with the added bonus of having some
phenomenal sex. But now that the wedding is over, I have no idea how this is going to work, despite his promise earlier.
I think part of my problem is that Creighton’s motives are still a complete mystery to me. The sex can’t be anything out of the ordinary for him, so is this all nothing more than a billionaire’s whim?
But that look he’s still giving me as we speed toward the airport, that soft one hinting at more going on behind the surface? What the hell is that? Is he still in acting mode?
And why do I care so much? I need to focus on my agenda and let him deal with his own crap. But that damn look . . .
“What?” I ask, unable to handle his scrutiny for another moment.
“What?” he replies with a shake of his head.
“You’re staring at me.”
His smile stays soft. “I’m faced with a beautiful woman. How could I not stare?”
“The press is gone, Karas. You can tell me the truth.”
The smile dies, and I feel guilty that I’m the one who killed it.
“You’re a bit of a firebrand,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
His next words surprise me. “I think I’m going to like being married to you, Holly. And I think if you remove the stick from your ass for a few minutes, you might find that there’s an upside to being married to me too. Life is short. We have to suck it dry while we can.”
I ignore his fortune-cookie philosophy and say, “I do not have a stick up my ass.”
“Well,” he says with a chuckle, “I suppose I can personally attest to that.”
Heat streaks up my body, and my cheeks flame. But even more than that, warmth flutters through my chest. It’s like being in ninth grade and having the captain of the varsity football team tell you he likes-you likes you. I shouldn’t care. I don’t even know him. And yet he’s my husband.
“You know what I mean, Holly. I get that you’re protective of your career, but you need to unbend your spine a bit and settle in for the ride. You might find you’ll enjoy where it takes you when I’m the one driving.”
“I’m settled,” I say.
“Sure you are, sweetheart. I think if I touched you right now, you’d bite off my hand.”
The stupid fluttering in my chest gives me this insane impulse to bring back his smile. And prove him wrong. I wouldn’t bite off anything if he touched me.
I unbuckle my seat belt, intent on changing this conversation the only way I’ve learned so far.
When I drop to my knees on the floor of the limo, Creighton surprises me by lifting me up by my armpits and depositing me sideways on his lap. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll take a rain check.”
“But I thought—”
He presses a finger to my lips. “I think we’re going to change this up, Holly. New rules.”
“I don’t like rules.” The words come out garbled around his finger.
He smiles that freaking smile again. “And maybe that’s the problem.”
My confusion must show on my face, because his finger leaves my lips to smooth the space between my brows where my worry line always creases.
“We both know that you’re a capable woman and your career means a lot to you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he presses that finger to it again before I can speak.
“Let me finish.” He waits, and I nod. “I’m a dominant, take-no-shit kind of guy, and winning is incredibly important to me. When you get to my level, it’s not about the money, it’s about the win.” He skims a thumb along my cheek. “I don’t want to spend our time together fighting for supremacy, so here’s my proposal: You let me lead. You don’t fight me on every little thing, and you bend when I ask you to bend.”
I feel my eyebrows inching up toward my hairline as he continues.
“And in return, I’ll give you everything you could ever possibly want or need.”
When his hand drops from my face, I take that as a sign that I’m now allowed to speak. “You mean, in exchange for my self-respect and free will.”
Creighton shakes his head. “No. In exchange for your cooperation and trust.”
“But—”
“Just give me a chance to show you what I mean, Holly. I don’t want a docile little Barbie doll. I still want your spark and your fire. I don’t want to tame it; I just want to guide it. And at the same time, I’ll take every burden that’s been weighing you down, and make them mine.”
It’s his last sentence that captures me—along with this rare glimpse of a side of Creighton Karas that few probably ever see. He’s quite possibly the most capable man I’ve ever met, and the idea of turning my problems over to him is incredibly seductive. I can almost feel the stress begin to fade away at his words.
I look up into his dark brown eyes and give him the only possible answer.
“Okay.”
I’m going to own this woman—body, heart, and fucking soul.
My first act of complete trust in Creighton is boarding the jet without asking where we’re going. He said he’ll have me back in Nashville by the night of the fourth, and I’m going to take it on tentative faith that he will. A private jet should make that easy, I would hope. My plan is to get started on those songs I owe Monty, but Creighton has other ideas.
Once we’re cruising at thirty thousand feet, he leads me into the bedroom that makes up the back section of the cabin, and says one word.
“Strip.”
My first instinct is to argue, but with our newfound understanding at the forefront of my mind, I reach for the hem of my shirt and comply.
He reclines on the bed, fully dressed. Once I’m naked, I wait for his next instruction. I thank God that I’m not self-conscious as he lazily inspects my body. The ten months of being poked and prodded and changing in front of everyone and their mother—starting with the wardrobe consultants on Country Dreams—has pretty much stripped me of any modesty.
Finally he speaks. “I’m hungry, and I want your cunt on my face.”
My heart stutters at his crude words, but my inner muscles clench with need. Maybe doing whatever Creighton tells me won’t prove to be such a hardship.
I climb onto the bed, straddling him, and inch my way up to his face awkwardly. I’ve never just sat on someone’s face before. But Creighton doesn’t allow my hesitancy. He grips my ass cheeks with both hands, and I have flashbacks of this morning in the shower.
But any thoughts other than stomach-quivering pleasure are wiped from my mind when he tongues my clit and his mouth slides lower to feast.
I lean forward, grabbing the top of the upholstered headboard for balance. I cease to exist except in those places where his body touches mine. I’m mindless with pleasure when he finally latches onto my clit and sucks hard. A crushing orgasm rips through me. As I fall forward, Creighton twists so that I land on my back. He stands and tosses his pants and boxer briefs aside. He parts my legs and pulls me to the edge of the bed. Finally, his rigid erection presses into me.
Limp from the climax he just wrung from me, I can do nothing but grasp his shoulders and hold on while he pounds me into the mattress. Tremors ripple through me, and on their heels, another orgasm is spiraling out of control.
I have no idea how much time has passed when he finally roars out his own orgasm and stills. It could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes. My ability to comprehend the passage of time was lost to my capacity for pleasure.
He holds himself partially above me, our sweat mingling as his drips from his body onto mine. I decide, in that moment, that as long as he doesn’t jeopardize my career, I’ll follow his rules if he’ll let me relive this experience over and over again.
And so my addiction to Creighton Karas begins.
I’ve obviously been to New York before, but arriving on a private jet is completely different from arriving by tour bus or a commercial flight. Like the reverse of our trip to Las Vegas, we land at the private airfield, climb out onto t
he tarmac, and are met by a blacked-out, chauffeur-driven Bentley.
The short ride into Manhattan is uneventful, and Creighton is on his phone, responding to e-mails and things, and my presence seems to just fade away. But I’m not annoyed; I’m thinking too. I’ve got six songs to write and three weeks to do it. I have no idea what Creighton has planned for these couple of days in New York, but I’m going to sneak in a little writing time if I can.
Just as they did the first time I came to New York, the giant skyscrapers rising up from the concrete make me feel tiny in comparison. All the people bustling along the sidewalks—even at midnight, like now—move with purpose, intent on getting where they need to be. We slow in front of a tall building that’s brightly lit, and I have no idea where we are in proximity to the Plaza, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. The only part of the shiny gold address that registers with me is the large Fifth Avenue above the revolving glass doors.
Creighton tucks his phone away and pushes the limo’s door open before climbing out and offering me a hand. I take it, wondering if we’ll be walking into another media circus. Despite the late hour, cameras click and flash as we walk toward the doors, but this time Creighton doesn’t even slow to acknowledge them. They don’t come any closer, and I wonder why they’re staying back, until I see security hovering in front of the building.
A doorman swings open the glass and gold door, and Creighton thanks him by name. The fact that he knows the man’s name is a hugely positive sign in my book. An express elevator ride later, we walk into the penthouse, which comes as absolutely no surprise. It’s huge, especially by New York standards.
Dark wood and some kind of fancy marble stretch out in front of us, covered by rugs that match the gray and white walls. But the centerpiece of the massive living room? The wall of windows looking out over the city. The view is amazing, even in the dark. It’s very much a man’s domain, though, overrun with black leather and glass. Splashes of color, mostly teal and red, are sparse, only in the artwork and a few pillows.
