by J. C. Grant
“Yeah, a few times actually. I got us a private plane. Gonna be gone for a few weeks.”
He tossed his phone on the ottoman before maneuvering us down on our sides into a spooning position. His thick arm wrapped around me, tucking me close. His big, warm body behind me, firm muscles pressing into my soft curves. Comforting me. Protecting me. Arousing me, as his cock hardened against my ass.
“David,” I breathed, shifting my hips, pushing back into him.
“Yeah, sweet girl,” he purred condescendingly. His lips brushed my ear, his breath warming my skin as his hand moved to my lower stomach, pressing, encouraging me to grind against him. “You wanna get fucked?” he asked, using his sex voice.
“Please,” I panted, rubbing against his length, the thin material of our shorts the only thing separating his throbbing cock from my ass.
“Where do you want it?”
My thighs pressed together, my hips squirming, I was too focused on trying to get friction on my clit to respond.
His other hand fisted roughly in my hair, pulling my head back against his shoulder.
“I said.” His tone was harsh, demanding. “Where do you want it... Ass or pussy?”
My breath hitched and my core throbbed frantically, my body responding to his words and aggression. “Both,” I answered, breathlessly.
He made a filthy, satisfied noise. “Looks like we need to get that dildo, huh?”
At the thought of him fucking both my holes, a shiver ran up my spine and a low moan escaped my throat.
“Yeah, we do.” His rasp was cocky, gloating. Triumphant.
CHAPTER TEN
“Good morning,” David's deep voice filled the room.
Opening my eyes, I saw him walking toward me, carrying our breakfast tray, Chance on his heels.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked sweetly.
The past week had been crazy. In addition to our normal routine, David had been busy interviewing potential managers for the gym while I wrote the pilot for the series. Though, he'd made sure we found time to hit up the Pleasure Chest to pick out a toy for our DP play and found time to use it.
A lot of time.
We'd both gotten a little carried away the night before, and I was sore. Really sore.
“I think we might need to take the day off from the toy,” I admitted, carefully sitting up, trying not to wince.
“I'm thinkin' a few days,” he murmured, placing the tray over my lap.
My eyebrows rose.
“You looked bruised, sweetheart.”
That explained why he overreacted, all his “Fuck, I'm sorry” and “Are you sure you're okay?” Also explained why it hurt to sit.
“I'm okay.”
“I'm sorry,” he murmured again just before pressing a kiss to my forehead. His touch was tender, gentle, as if I was the most precious thing in the world to him. It tugged at something deep inside me, making my eyes sting.
He pulled back fractionally, his gaze moving over my face with a thoughtful expression. Then he leaned in, capturing my lips.
“I love you,” he breathed against my mouth before carefully crawling over me, settling in on his side as Chance hopped up, lying at the foot on the bed. David turned on the TV, and we ate in comfortable silence.
Most men would've held that video over me indefinitely, but not David. He'd held true to his word, never bringing it up.
I'd thought having anal sex would've made all the difference. But the day we did, the day he found the video... Well, it might have been a big step in the right direction, but what really changed things was the toy. The double penetration.
Maybe it was because it was a first for me, or because it was a first for both of us. But David was happier. It was almost as if pushing past another sexual boundary had made the video nonexistent.
Like it was nothing.
Like it never happened.
Sure, I was sore as fuck, but it was worth it. Every time we used it, as crazy as it was, it seemed to make our relationship stronger. We felt more connected.
Just as we were finishing breakfast, David announced, “I have a doctor’s appointment Tuesday. You need to come with.”
“Why? What's wrong?” I asked, still watching TV.
“Well, it's been almost three months.” His voice was casual as he leaned back, getting comfortable against the headboard. “And you're not pregnant.”
I choked on my coffee.
Once I'd recovered, I looked over at him. “Well, I hope not. I'm taking birth control.”
His expression was incredulous. “I told you to stop.”
“And you thought I would? Just like that? No conversation? Really?” I asked sarcastically.
“Why? You don't want kids?” He sounded genuinely concerned.
My brows pulled together, confused by the suddenness and randomness of the conversation. He hadn’t mentioned having kids once since our wedding.
“Not yet—I never agreed to stop taking birth control.” Then I added, “And I'm not even going to consider it right now.”
His jaw clenched and nostrils flared as his eyes darted away. I couldn’t tell if he was hurt or annoyed, but I didn’t want him to be either.
“David, it would be career suicide to get pregnant right now. And honestly... I'm just not ready,” I admitted softly, hoping he would understand.
His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.
I wanted to ask if he was really ready for a kid or just wanted to trap me, tie me to him in a permanent way, but I resisted.
For a whole minute.
“Do you really want to have a kid? Share me with someone who will need my constant attention? Or do you just want to chain us together permanently?”
He looked over at me.
“Chained,” he admitted freely, gruffly. “More than fucking ever, now that you got that contract.”
Ahh...
“David, even if we were ready, our lives are not,” I tried to reason. When he didn't respond, I continued, “If I got pregnant now, I wouldn't be able to fly with you to your away games. And after, I still wouldn't be able to with a newborn. And they take time and attention. I don't see you giving any of that up.”
Eventually, he admitted, “No, I'm really not ready or willing to give up any time with you—for anyone.”
He sounded almost disappointed with himself.
“That's okay, you know. We can be selfish. It's just us and Chance. We need to be selfish now, before we have a kid,” I encouraged.
“I guess so.” Then he added, “Guess I'm gonna have to come up with another way to chain you to me.”
“We're married, not sure we can be more chained together.”
“Marriage isn't permanent. A kid is—at least for eighteen years. Don't worry, I'll come up with something.”
“Great. Just nothing involving surgery or sharing organs,” I teased.
His eyebrow lifted in that signature way of his as he watched me.
“Not funny, David.”
“Not laughing,” he deadpanned.
I should have been concerned about what craziness he might come up with, but I was too elated at having made him see reason so easily, preventing what could've been a huge fight.
A fight I won.
My victory high didn’t last long.
Six hours later, I was in my office, lying on my pale pink couch, completely submerged in my own little world, a couple of pages into writing the second episode, when David's deep voice boomed, “Austin, get the fuck in here, now!”
The anger in his voice had my heart hammering in my chest as I set my laptop aside. We'd had a perfect morning and afternoon consisting of the gym and then a long, lazy lunch at Georgie. My mind raced with what could've happened in the hour I’d been holed up, writing.
Trepidation trickled through me at the thought, Maybe the video did get out.
When I entered the living room, I found David sitting on the couch reading.
His eyes lift
ed, pinning me in place with a hard look. “Get over here.”
Instantly, I knew it wasn't about the video.
From his expression and his tone, I was in trouble. And I felt it, just like a child who got caught red-handed, except I didn't even know what I'd done.
I stared at the papers in his hands, focusing on schooling my expression.
“What?” I asked, trying to sound annoyed, but just sounding bored to my own ears.
He caught my gaze and his eyebrow lifted as he said, “I'm reading your script—for the pilot.”
My breath left me in a rush as I stared at him.
“There it is.” His voice was smooth, low, and somehow more threatening because of it.
“What?” I asked, frozen in place, trapped in his predatory gaze.
“Understanding. From your expression, you understand why I'm mad, and you understand you have some things to explain.”
Finally, I shook myself out of my stunned stupor and moved. Sitting next to him, I pulled a knee up on the couch to face him, getting closer, hoping to soften him with my body language.
“David—” I started.
“This main guy is me, isn't it?” He cut me off, his tone was all business. “This Jason guy?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you cheat on him?”
“Kinda, but—” I tried again.
“Is this your fantasy? Because I know you haven't cheated on me. Do you want to?” His tone shifted from matter-of-fact to accusing. “I mean, this is what you've been thinking about the past three months. This is what you've been writing—cheating on me.”
“David, no, please listen,” I begged.
His jaw flexed and his eyebrow lifted saying I'm waiting.
I took a deep resetting breath.
“This script is... basically what would've happened had I met you when I first moved here. Because I wouldn't have been ready for you. You would've scared the shit out of me.” I wrung my hands as I continued. “I wasn't used to the way men are here... I would've fought being with you. I would've been too intimidated by you to go... anywhere with you.”
“Is that what you wish would've happened?” His voice was soft, sincere. And his eyes... The vulnerability I saw there broke my heart, and made my pussy throb.
Goddamn, I'm fucked up.
Was I really going to admit this? Lay bare another layer of my fucked-upness?
Fuck it.
“Selfishly, part of me does, yes.” My voice softened. “Because you're my safety net. You make me feel safe and secure, like I can do anything, and I'll be okay—better than okay. So, yeah, part of me wishes I'd met you then, even though I would've seriously damaged our relationship.”
He was silent a long moment, considering my words. “So I make you feel safe? That's why you wish we’d met sooner?” His tone was unreadable.
“Yeah, safe. Free. Free to fuck up, to be myself, to do anything I want and still be safe, knowing you'll always protect me. Who wouldn't want that? You've given me a freedom I haven't known since I was little—it's kind of fucking huge for me.” I held his intense gaze, despite the vulnerability I felt at my admission.
His mouth lifted on one side, a mixture of pride, shyness, and genuine happiness, a boyish grin that was completely disarming and endearing.
“You telling me that is kinda fucking huge for me.” His voice was barely a whisper when he added, “Everything about us is fucking huge for me.”
“Have I ever told you how perfect you are?” I whispered in awe of the man before me.
Giving me a sidelong look, he grinned, then turned his attention back to the script.
Moving closer, I curled into him, placing a hand in the middle of his sculpted chest and slipping my leg between his, tilting my hips.
Either sensing my need or maybe I was just too obvious, he reached across me; his bicep pushed into my breasts, his hand gripped my hip as his leg moved, firmly pressing his thick, muscled thigh against my sex.
Getting the contact I needed, a soft purring sound spilled from my throat, a sigh mixed with a moan.
Just when I thought he was going to relax and give me what I wanted, he asked gruffly, “What about fucking this married guy in the elevator at the Oscars?”
My arousal was dashed in an instant.
“That wasn't me. It was someone I know.”
He pulled back, studying my face, then finally said, “Good. It was someone I know too.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“There's going to be a lot of that in the series. I have to pull from everything I know, not just what's happened to me—it's the only way to push this out for eight seasons. If the first season goes well.”
“Fuck, sweetheart.” He leaned further back into the couch as understanding and surprise crossed his face. “You're going to air out everybody's dirty laundry, aren't you?”
“I'm not going to name actual names. People outside Hollywood aren't gonna know who it is,” I defended.
“Yeah, but we live in Hollywood—I don't personally care. I just want you to be aware that there might be some blowback from this.”
I knew that, but I'd always believed in the saying: Go big or go home.
“I know, but I feel like this is my only shot. And I want to be true to me—to my Hollywood experience. Not the Entourage rose-colored glasses version.”
“I'm down with that.” He nodded. “Hundred percent. Now, let's discuss the body double you're gonna have for the sex scenes.” His tone let me know the conversation had only just begun.
Shit.
I had a feeling I wasn’t winning this argument.
*****
“I thought you grew up in the country, said something about a ranch?” David looked over at me as we entered the Cherry Creek neighborhood in Denver, where my mother and I had lived since I was nine years old.
Obviously, he and my mother had talked, because I never mentioned it to him. That was the main reason I wasn't nearly as excited about this holiday trip as David was. He and my mother had been busy all week, making plans, menus, and reservations. You name it, they were all over it. To say I was uncomfortable with all the liberties he’d been taking would be an understatement.
“Yeah, my grandfather's ranch isn’t too far. We lived there until I was nine—we still own it.”
He nodded absently as he took in the surroundings.
The past week had flown by. I'd finished the second script for the series, and David had hired and trained a new manager for the gym. So, at least that was covered while we were gone. I hoped that worked out, because we needed the help with his baseball season approaching.
I glanced in the backseat, checking on Chance. He'd been quiet as a mouse during the flight and was now fast asleep, not a care in the world.
Must be nice.
Catching David's expression, I could tell he was not happy with the white Range Rover Sport rental we were in. It was new, but it was quite a bit smaller than ours—for David it was a tight fit. And he didn't like being dependent on the navigation, and for some reason, he wanted to pass on my turn-at-the-corner-with-the-taco-place-kitty-corner-it style directions.
I'd never been able to remember street names once I learned my way around an area.
Except my addresses, I could remember those.
Finally, he said, “This is a nice area. I like this.”
“Yeah, I like it,” I muttered, unsure what to say.
The closer we got to the house, the more real it became. David was going to see a side of me no other guy ever had.
The queasy feeling in my stomach intensified.
Moments later, we pulled in front of the gray stone house I'd spent the majority of my life in.
David turned off the truck, and I took a deep breath, trying to brace myself for what was soon to come.
He wasted no time climbing out and grabbing our bags, simultaneously letting Chance out. “Austin,” he prompted, standing in the open back
door.
Numbly, I climbed out and headed for the porch.
As I stood there, opening the front door, David and Chance right behind me, my heart fluttered, an irrational moment of panic, afraid of letting David into my past. Literally.
But with how much they had talked, my mom had probably told him more than I could even think to be worried about. He probably already knew shit about me that would make me lose sleep at night.
Nothing to be nervous about.
Yeah, right.
Taking a deep breath, I forced the anxiety down, and pushed open the door.
The first thing I noticed was Mom had repainted again, pale gray this time. All the rugs, curtains, and foyer table were new. The hardwood floors and the living room furniture were the same at least.
That's how it was every time I came home. My mother was constantly changing the interior of the house, a side effect of all those home-renovation shows she loved to watch.
“Is your mom here?” David asked, setting down our bags.
“Oh, no.” I turned to him. “You hungry?”
“Sure.”
Laying my purse on the foyer table, I led him and Chance through the house, back to the kitchen. As we passed the living room, I noticed our dark leather U-shape sectional seemed small compared to the one David and I had.
“So where is she?” David probed as we entered the kitchen.
My mother had remodeled it a few months after I left. I still wasn't used to it. It was similar to ours, white cabinets, Carrara marble countertops, and dark wood floor, except Mom's was traditional/country while ours had a traditional/modern feel.
“Oh, uh, she owns a donut shop and a uh...” I trailed off, my gaze landing on the kitchen island.
Two large dog bowls sat on the counter. Elaborate. Expensive.
Gifts were how she showed affection. And that was my fault. Since my assault, my rape, I hadn’t been willing to have an emotional connection. Not wanting to feel anything at all. I had held her at arms length, forcing her to substitute material things for affection, forego love for gifts. What’s worse, before David she had been the only person who really knew me, who was close to me.
