by Lauren Rowe
“Cool.” We start walking toward the staircase together, but Laila stops when her phone buzzes. “Oh, crap,” she says, looking down. “My mom and sister saw our live video and demand I call them.” She snickers. “As predicted, they’re freaking out about the house.”
“I’m sure my cousin showed Mimi our video, too. I tell you what, babe. Cioppino takes a half hour to prep and about an hour to simmer, before it’s time to add a few last-minute ingredients. Why don’t we get the broth simmering, and then we’ll call both our families while it cooks?”
“You’re a genius chef.” She mimes a chef’s kiss. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five, babe.” We walk up the grand staircase together and stop at the top. “If I’m forbidden to go into the West Wing,” she says, “tell me now. Or I’m going there, first thing.”
I look at her blankly.
“In your enchanted castle,” Laila clarifies. “In Beauty and the Beast, the Beast forbids Belle from entering the West Wing. That was my way of saying you remind me so much of the Beast, I can’t stand it.”
“I told you I haven’t seen that movie.”
“I know. I said that to amuse myself.” She smirks. “Do me a favor. Growl at me and say, ‘I forbid you to go into the West Wing!’”
I pull a face that says, Over my dead body.
Laila snickers. “The Beast wouldn’t do that on command, either.”
“Just to be clear,” I say, “you’re supposed to like the Beast, right? He’s the hero of that movie?”
Laila surprises me by stepping forward into my personal space and pulling me toward her. “Hell yeah, we’re supposed to like the Beast. In fact, I didn’t understand my reaction to the Beast as a little girl—the tingle he provoked on my skin and between my legs. But now, looking back, I understand that movie was my first foray into porn.”
I bite back a smile and then growl and whisper-shout, “I forbid you to go into the West Wing!”
“Oooh, baaaaby,” she purrs, like she’s having a little orgasm, and I can’t help chuckling in reply. “Just so you know,” she says, “I’m the kind of twisted bitch who thought the Beast was a five-alarm fire . . . and the prince he becomes at the end when the spell is broken was a total disappointment.”
“Thanks for ruining the ending for me, dude.”
Laila slides her hand to my package to confirm what she already suspects: I’m finding this exchange hot as hell. “Aw, come on, Adrian,” she says seductively, her hand cupping the bulge in my pants. “Nobody watches porn for the plot.”
My breathing hitches. This girl. She knows how to hook me like nobody else. In fact, she’s known it since the minute I laid eyes on her at Reed’s party.
“Okay, you’ve convinced me,” I say. “We’ll watch Beauty and the Beast tonight.”
She smiles seductively. “Fair warning, Beast? I always get what I want, one way or another. You’ll find that out soon enough.” With that, she releases me, winks, and sashays down the hallway, pointedly walking past the door to the master bedroom and disappearing into a bedroom a few doors away.
Seven
Laila
“You two are so beautiful together!” Savage’s grandmother, Mimi, exclaims, beaming at Savage and me on Savage’s phone. Mimi is in her bed in Chicago, while Savage and I are leaning over the island in our new kitchen. And if I thought Savage resembled the grouchy, snarling Beast during our tour of the house, he’s turned into the sweet version of the Beast—the one who had the famous snowball fight with Belle—while talking to his grandmother on this call.
With his grandma, Savage is surprisingly gentle and easygoing. A man who smiles easily and chuckles often. A man who reminds his grandmother to “get plenty of rest” and “drink lots of water” and not to “overdo.” Basically, he’s the guy I’ve observed hanging out with his bandmates, with half the swearing and twice the adorableness.
“Don’t take any of his crap, Laila,” Mimi says.
“She never does,” Savage says.
“Oh, I take some of his crap,” I say. “But only because he’s so charming.”
“Yes, he is,” Mimi replies wistfully. “That’s why I still take some of his crap, too.”
We giggle together.
“Oh, guess what, Mimi?” Savage says. “I checked the shooting schedule, and it looks like I’ll be able to visit for Christmas. You’ll be moved into the new house by then, so I’ll get you a big ol’ Christmas tree. The biggest tree you’ve ever had.”
“How wonderful! Will you come to Chicago, too, Laila?”
I look at Savage and his eyes are saying, Please, please, please. “I’ll be spending Christmas day with my mom and sister,” I say. “But I’d love to come for a few days before then.” I’m curious to find out some details about the house Savage bought his grandmother, but if I were truly his girlfriend, I’d already know all about it. So, I ask a question that seems pretty safe. “Are you excited to move into the new house, Mimi?”
“Very excited. But I feel guilty, too, that Adrian did this for me. When he told me what he did, I told him to return it. But he wouldn’t do it.”
“A house isn’t like a pair of shoes,” Savage says. “But even if I could ‘return it,’ I wouldn’t do that. I bought the house for you, as a gift to myself. I want to see you in that house, Mimi. Now, please, let’s not talk about this again. What’s done is done.”
Mimi addresses me. “See what I’m dealing with here, Laila?”
“He’s incorrigible.”
She flashes an adorable smile at her grandson. “Thank you, Ady.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Mimi’s dark eyes widen. “Ooh! Isn’t it time to add the clams and mussels?”
Savage shrugs. “I have no idea.”
“Well, what does your timer say?”
“I didn’t set a timer. I forgot.”
“Adrian!”
Savage laughs. “I got distracted.” He pulls me into the frame and cups my face in his palm. “Wouldn’t you get distracted, looking at this face, too?”
Mimi giggles. “Yes, I suppose if I were a young man, I most certainly would. Now, show me the pot, sweetheart. I’ll be able to tell if it’s time by looking at the broth.”
Savage points his phone at the pot on the stove, and Mimi confirms her hunch is correct: it’s time to add the shellfish to the soup.
“Okay, now what?” Savage says after completing his task.
“You tell me,” Mimi says.
“Mimi, come on. It’s been forever since I’ve made this and I’ve had a long day.”
“Okay, okay.” She gives her grandson direction, while Savage repeatedly says, “Oh, yeah!” And I must admit, the entire exchange makes me giggle and swoon. They’re adorable together. Endlessly entertaining.
“Laila?” Mimi says.
I peek my head onto the screen, my eyebrows raised.
“Next time Adrian makes my cioppino for you, please remind him to set a timer at each step. It’ll work out fine this time because I’m here to save the day. But next time, he might not be so lucky.”
I look at Savage and, not surprisingly, sadness washes over his handsome features at the implication of Mimi’s comment—that she won’t be around forever.
“I’ll remind him, Mimi,” I say, taking Savage’s hand.
Finally, when the last ingredients are simmering, Savage says, “Okay, now that we’ve got everything added to the pot, let’s get you to bed, Mimi. Close your eyes.”
Mimi gets situated for the night, with the help of her caregiver. Sasha peeks onto the screen to say goodnight. And, finally, Savage begins to sing softly, in a hushed, soothing tone, “Mimi, Mimi, Mimi, I made you out of wishes. Mimi, Mimi, Mimi, and now I’m sending kisses. Hugs and kisses to you, I send them through the air. And when they reach you miles away, you’ll feel how much I care.” He sings the same refrain again, before finally whispering, “Sleep tight, sweet Mimi. I love you.”
Mimi doesn’t respond. A
pparently, Savage’s lullaby had its intended effect.
Savage whispers, “Stuart?”
Mimi’s caregiver comes onto the screen, and Savage converses with him briefly before ending the call. As Savage puts his phone down onto the island, his Adam’s apple bobs. He takes a moment to collect himself, and then takes a seat next to me at the kitchen table. When he doesn’t speak, I rub his back in silence for a long moment, feeling the weight of his burden wafting off him. From what he said earlier today, I could tell he loves his grandmother. But watching him with her—watching his face as he sang to her—made me understand their bond in a whole new way. She’s everything to him, clearly. A central figure in his life.
“I’m so sorry Mimi is sick,” I say softly.
Without replying to my comment, Savage pulls me to him and kisses me deeply, with such depth of feeling, such passion, he takes my breath away. Without hesitation, I slide onto his lap and straddle him, kissing him sensuously. Finally, when we break free of our kiss, Savage looks flustered. Flushed. Disoriented. Beautiful. If he’d been born hundreds of years ago in Italy, I’d have no trouble believing he was Michelangelo’s inspiration for David.
“I know for our first date I’m supposed to feed you first and fuck you on the kitchen table second,” Savage says, his voice husky with arousal. “But I’m going to have to turn off the heat on the soup now and flip the script.”
Eight
Savage
After turning off the burner on the stove, I return to Laila at the kitchen table. Practically panting with desire, I peel off her clothes, lay her naked body onto the table, and open her smooth thighs wide, until her glorious pussy is opened to me and her pink clit is calling out to be licked like a lollipop. With my mouth watering and my cock rock-hard, I lean down and get to work, eating Laila enthusiastically, with fervent swirls and swipes of my tongue and voracious movements of my lips. And all this while stroking her with my fingers and groaning and growling like a wild animal devouring his prey.
“Savage,” Laila purrs. “Adrian. Oh, God.” She arches her back and comes undone against my tongue in the best possible way, screaming and howling as her orgasm throttles her.
“God, I love that you’re a screamer,” I choke out, enthralled by the sounds of Laila’s ecstasy.
When Laila’s body goes slack and her screams die down, I grab a condom out of a nearby drawer—one of the many I stashed there while Laila was still changing her clothes earlier—and after getting myself covered, I rest Laila’s calves on my shoulders, pin her wrists against the wooden table, and plunge myself inside her, balls deep. As my tip slams her farthest reaches, we both moan with relief and excitement. As I start thrusting, and my tip slams her repeatedly, Laila grunts and moans with each and every movement.
It’s a special kind of bliss, fucking Laila on this table. Knowing I’m going to be fucking her every day for the next three months. Knowing she’s mine, all mine, at least for now. Finally. It feels so good to be railing Laila, in fact, after not too long, I have to slow my thrusts, and then pause altogether, to keep myself from coming too quickly. Nobody feels as good as this woman. Nobody tastes as good. Nobody looks as good. She’s in a league of her own, in every way.
I didn’t know I could feel quite this turned on—like I’m literally under a spell. As I pause with myself inside her, I massage her clit, slowly, methodically, relentlessly—and then resume fucking her, also slowly—while whispering dirty-talk to her. I tell her she feels amazing. Tastes amazing. That her tits are incredible. Her body perfect. Until, finally, Laila comes again, this time with my entire cock buried inside her, all the way. And there’s no way to describe the ecstasy I feel as her body milks mine.
Somehow, I manage to hang on by the barest of threads through Laila’s orgasm. I run my palms over her splayed body as she moans and writhes, and then begin fucking her, much harder. Harder and harder, I fuck her, my thoughts spiraling along with my pleasure. Why didn’t Laila come to my room in Vegas, or any other city after that? Why didn’t she break up with Malik in New York, when she knew I wanted her? Yeah, I mentioned Kendrick on that sidewalk, but Laila’s not stupid. She knew I wanted her for myself. She knew. And she picked Malik over me. I slam her, over and over again, angry with myself for not saying what needed to be said back then. For not saying what needs to be said now. Fuck! I’ve wanted this woman so badly, for so long, but there’s always something or someone standing in my way! Well, now I’m going to make her want me, as badly as I want her, even if I have to fuck her into submission. Even if I have to make her addicted to fucking me to get what I want.
When I’m on the cusp of losing it, I pull out and turn Laila around, bend her over the kitchen table, grab a fistful of her thick, sandy hair, and with one hand lodged against her scalp and the other reaching around to massage her clit in slow circles, I fuck my woman raw, with deep, unapologetic thrusts that make it impossible for her not to scream.
“I’m gonna come!” she shouts, her ass jerking and jolting against me.
Through sheer force of will, I pull out and kneel behind her, sensing her climax will be a straight-up gusher. A geyser of delicious goodness. The ultimate trophy. I eat her gently for a moment, letting her come down. Teasing her. Making her beg for more. And when I feel her ramping up again, I slide my fingers inside her and stimulate her G-spot as I eat her. When I feel her inner muscles shudder and tighten, I pull back and tease her again, until she’s literally whimpering and begging me to fuck her. Over and over again, I take her to the edge and then back away. Over and over again, I pull her strings, letting her know I’m in control here. That every breath she takes, every moan she makes is exactly as I’m commanding.
Finally, I finger her while eating her with gusto. And when her body begins tightening sharply, when her moans become primal and pathetic, I let her go, pushing through those initial shudders without stopping, until I get what I want—a torrent of sweet, warm fluid gushing into my face. With a loud growl, I lick up my prize like a rabid dog, off her lips and inner thighs, the very taste of my trophy sending me to the bitter edge of ecstasy, without so much as a single touch to my cock.
When I’ve licked up the last drop of Laila’s cum, I pick her up and carry her slack body into the living room and straight to the couch. On the night of the hot tub, Laila mentioned she likes being on top. Well, then, let the woman ride my cock until we’re coming together.
I guide her on top of me as I lie on the couch and she immediately slams herself down and begins riding me like a feral animal. As she fucks me, I devour her breasts and nipples. Her neck and lips. I whisper into her ear that she’s mine now. That I own her body. I tell her she’s a dirty little freak who’s going to come for me again. And that tonight is just the beginning of what I’m going to do to her, while we’re living here together. I tell her she turns me on like nobody else. I whisper all the things I can only say out loud while fucking her. The things I can pass off as dirty talk, even though they’re the things I should have said on that sidewalk in New York. Or during the last month of the tour. Or backstage at the awards show. Or today in the fucking SUV. I say it all. And she groans and moans and throws her head back and fucks me hard.
When Laila starts making her most primal sounds, the ones I now recognize as the precursor to her losing control completely, I press down on her clit with my thumb while twisting her nipple, hard, with my other hand, and grit out, “Come, baby.” And I’ll be damned, Little Miss Freak comes again. For the fourth time. Like she’s a goddamned sex doll with a written pamphlet of instructions. This time, with a roar so glorious, it flash-boils the blood in my veins.
When my orgasm comes, it’s unlike any other I’ve experienced. So pleasurable, it momentarily blinds me. I’m not merely seeing God right now, I’m getting my cock sucked by him. And it feels fucking amazing.
With one last groan, Laila collapses on top of me, sweaty and panting, as my body finishes convulsing underneath her. I pull her head up by her hair an
d kiss her deeply and she grips my face and returns my kiss like I’ve just given her CPR after drowning.
When we break from our kiss, we stare at each other for a long moment, both of us dazed and breathless.
“Wow,” she says.
I nod. “That about covers it.”
She falls on top of me, breathing hard, and I stroke her back, half crowing to myself in victory and half freaking out. That wasn’t normal. In fact, if I’m being honest with myself, it was so damned abnormal, so damned good, as to be terrifying. Now that I know sex can be that good—now that I know the night of the hot tub wasn’t a fluke, but a preview—how will I ever want to fuck anyone else, as long as I live? The very thought makes me convulse with terror. Or, shit, maybe that’s just an after-shock from my insane orgasm.
“I’m hungry,” Laila says, sitting up. “Starving, actually.”
I exhale a long breath. I need to make this woman mine. I need to make it so she doesn’t want anything or anyone but me. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I’m pretty hungry, too,” I say calmly, trying desperately not to sound like the raving lunatic I’ve become. The madman hell-bent on making this woman as addicted to me as I am to her. I smile brightly. Like a sane, normal man might do, and say, “Let’s dig into that cioppino, eh? We’ll need to fuel up for rounds two, three, and four.”
Nine
Savage
“It’s soooo good,” Laila coos, like she’s in the midst of slowly riding my cock, rather than merely eating a bowl of Italian fish soup. “You didn’t over-promise on this at all, Adrian.”
I smile at her across our fancy dining room table. “I’m glad it turned out well. You never know. As you saw, I’m not particularly ‘detail oriented’ when I cook.”
She snickers. “Honestly, I was surprised you were such a shit show while making this. I was under the impression you make this dish frequently.”
