Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

FORTY-TWO “Baby I Love You”

FORTY-TWO

“Baby I Love You”

Aretha Franklin

Natalie

M y phone rumbles in my pocket as I pull to a stop and retrieve my cell to see EC requesting Facetime. Wiping the sweat from my brow, knowing there’s not much I can do about my appearance, I slide to answer with a ready smile. “Howdy, handsome. Just in time, I want you to meet someone.” Unable to see Easton clearly due to the glare of the sun, I lower my phone. “Percy,” I introduce enthusiastically, practically lying atop him to lower the phone, “this is my boyfriend, Easton. Easton, this is the other man in my life, Percy.”

“Hey, man, nice to finally meet you,” Easton greets, the smooth rumble of his velvet voice spiking my heart rate. “Heard a lot about you, but why the long face?”

I lift the camera, giving him a dead stare. “Har, har.”

“Fuck, you look beautiful.”

“You need your eyes checked, buddy. I’m a hot, sweaty mess.”

“You were the last time I saw you, too, and you looked just as beautiful.”

I can’t help my smile as I swat a fly away from my flushed face. “It’s hotter than Satan’s anus out here,” I say, and he chuckles in reply. “You’re lucky you’re up north, where summer doesn’t feel like a three-month sentence.”

“I’d much rather be where you’re at. So you’re home, home ?”

“Yeah,” I turn the camera around and scan the house and surrounding grounds for him to view. “My parents flew to Chicago last night for a few days on Hearst Media business, so I’m housesitting for the pool privilege and to bitch to Percy about you.”

“Oh yeah? Any complaints I should know about, Percy?” Easton muses.

Cupping the phone from the glare of the sun, his gorgeous face fills the screen. “You’re too far away,” I say mournfully before whispering a more intimate. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he repeats, black hat on backward, buds in his ears.

“So, you’re on the road?”

He turns the camera on Joel. “Riding with my man here today so I could call you. Say hi to Natalie.”

Joel turns and waves. “See the way he abuses me, Nat?”

“I see it,” I tease. “It’s just wrong.”

“He can’t hear you,” Easton points to his buds.

“Well, tell him I’d ride with him any time.”

“You’re my date tonight. He can find his own.”

“Are we on a date?”

“Yeah,” he grins, tilting his head back against the rest. “That okay?”

“I’m all yours.”

“Yeah, you fucking are,” he declares with a possessive edge. “So, show me around.”

“And this is my one and only riding ribbon,” I say, holding the camera up to the corkboard still mounted in my childhood bedroom closet.

“My little equestrian nerd,” Easton muses as I turn the camera back on me.

“Do you ride? Well, I mean, would you ?”

“Yeah, sure. For you I’ll try it,” he says softly, the view of him doing a number on my insides.

“Don’t expect to see me on a motorbike, but you can teach me to play an instrument.”

“That’s a decent compromise. Which one do you want to learn?”

“Maybe the drums?”

“Done. I’ll give you your first lesson in Tahoe.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course.”

“I’m so excited.”

He chuckles. “Easy to please.”

“Well, I hope you’re patient. I have no rhythm.”

“I disagree,” he fires back. “You sure give one hell of a lap dance.”

I bite my lip and shake my head. Every day I read headlines that praise Easton’s genius—declaring him a revolutionary—and every night since Dallas, I talk to the man I met in Seattle. The man who took my hand and helped me make sense of the state I was in.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s one and the same. As a journalist, I finally understand the distinction between the fantasy life most believe celebrities dwell in and the reality of their every day. Insight that not many people can truly understand, unless they live behind the scenes.

Not that the jet setting, yacht life isn’t possible, because it is. It’s just not practical for everyday living. Easton’s daily routine is exactly as he described, far from that luxurious life, but he’s anything but boring as he claimed to be. He’s insightful and brilliant, and I love hearing him talk about anything and everything.

We bicker—sometimes outright disagree—but at the end of every conversation, we just stare at each other with longing in our eyes and voices when we’re forced off the phone. He’s texted or called me every day without fail since Dallas. We’ve spent a few late nights on the phone, which has only made me more of a believer that I’m a priority for him.

“I never saw a picture of your mom,” he remarks as I exit the closet filled to the brim with years full of juvenile junk I left behind. Crap that my sentimental parents never threw out, despite turning my old room into a guest suite.

“Really? Well, I can remedy that.” I exit my bedroom and walk down a long hall. Framed photos line the wall between guest bedrooms, and I search them to find a recent picture before flipping the camera.

“This is my mom, Addison Warner Hearst Butler,” I laugh.

“That’s a lot of last names.”

“She mostly goes by Butler. This was taken two years ago, at Thanksgiving.” Dad grins behind Mom in the kitchen, his arm wrapped possessively around her chest as she grips it, smiling more at him than posing for the photo. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“She’s beautiful,” Easton says, “but you look so much more like your dad.”

“Which she unfairly holds against him.”

“They look happy,” he observes.

I sigh. “Yeah, they do. They are,” I agree, turning the camera back on me. “Is this weird?”

“Not for me. Not at all. I hate that it is for you.”

“It’s just guilt.”

“We aren’t doing anything wrong,” he insists.

“Says you.”

“Baby, can we not do this today?”

“Okay, sure. Sorry,” I turn the camera back to the wall of photos and accidentally scan one I’m not crazy about, just as protests come flying out of my cell speaker and my ears redden. “You weren’t meant to see that.”

“Fuck that, turn it back,” he commands.

I shake my head.

“Right now.”

Sighing, I flip the camera back to a picture of me in a bikini top and tiny shorts, standing in front of Percy and holding his reins at the pasture fence.

“A little to the left,” he commands again.

“Geesh, bossy.”

“Got it.”

“What?!” I turn the camera to see the notification that EC took a screenshot.

“You perv, I was barely seventeen.”

A satisfied grin covers his beautiful face. “I’m going to lose some skin, servicing myself to that one.”

“Shameless,” I grin. We’ve been on the phone for hours. Most of the time, he was on the road but refused to let me go as he checked into his hotel. As he unpacked, I cooked dinner. As he ordered room service and called his business manager from the hotel phone, I showered. I’ve loved every minute of it, and the fact that he refused to end the call no matter what was happening lit me up from the inside out because it’s as close to together as we can be. Easton’s exceptional knack for making ordinary days extraordinary and menial tasks seem substantial, unchanged. Even on FaceTime.

“Your parents live in a palace, and you live in a shoebox,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, and how many square feet is that house you described as a prison?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m moving out when the tour ends. I tried to find a place after you left Seattle, and my dad ratted me out, so Mom went postal. Trust me, I’m aware I’m too fucking old to live at home—and have been for years—but in my defense, I slept at that studio. It wasn’t embarrassing until now.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, and don’t think for one minute I don’t know you’re frugal.”

“Did you just call me cheap?”

“Maybe a little,” I grin, entering my room.

“I know how to manage my money,” he states, “there’s a difference.”

“I’ll take your word on that, and you did spring for a private plane,” I lay back against my pillows, and his gaze dips.

“About that, I actually called in a favor,” he admits sheepishly.

“You shit, you let me believe you paid for that. That’s some favor.”

“It doesn’t hurt to have friends.”

He averts his gaze briefly, and I realize he’s checking the time on his hotel nightstand. “It’s getting late. You tired, baby?”

“A little, but I don’t want to get off.”

He lifts a brow.

“The phone,” I grin. “I mean, I’m not saying I want to get off, either, you know what I mean.”

“There’s that gift by way of words. Thank God I speak fluent Butler gibberish.”

He full-on laughs at my answering expression. “Kiss my ass, Crowne.”

“God, what I wouldn’t give to do just that and more.”

My cheeks hurt with the width of my smile. “And just like that, you’re forgiven.”

“Good. Put on your pajamas,” he orders softly. “I’ll tuck you in.”

“Uh . . .” I eye my duffle bag. “I’m good.”

His chuckle fills the room. “What’s with the hesitation?”

“No hesitation.”

“Your neck is turning tomato, baby. No sense in ever lying to me . . . Ah, I know what this is about.” A smug smirk graces his face. “Grab your sexy cap, Miss Muffet.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know it’s there,” he taunts. “Come on, let’s see it.”

“Fine.” Sighing, I walk over to my duffle and put the phone down next to it, giving Easton a view of the ceiling. “But I’m not sure you can handle this three-alarm fire I’m about to start.”

“Oh, I can handle it.”

“Yeah? Think so, big boy?” I tease, tucking the last of my hair in before I rapidly start to undress and redress.

“Hit me, Beauty.”

Once dressed, I whip myself into view, my hat and quilted snap button robe aging me about thirty years as unguarded laughter bursts out of Easton.

“Seriously? Babe, what the fuck?”

“The house is drafty at times,” I assert.

“So, you decided to make your grandmother’s robe a staple?”

“It’s comfortable,” I contend.

“God,” he muses. “I fucking miss you.”

“That’s a mutual feeling, Mr. Rock God.”

Mid eye-roll, he lifts from his bed. “So, what’s next, a gooey green face mask?”

“It’s gold, and it’s not gooey, but I’m not subjecting myself to any more of your shit. Self-care for women is already a pain in the ass without adding your testosterone into the mix. Besides, it’s your turn. Let’s see your pajamas.”

He disappears from the camera, making me dizzy with the rapid change of hotel scenery before I’m knocked stupid by the sight of him walking into the bathroom, his reflection showing nothing but tan, rippling muscles, and perfectly filled black boxer briefs.

Well, that backfired.

“Oh, screw you, Crowne,” I shake my head, soaking in every inch of his mouthwatering physique.

“No? Don’t like ’em?” Teasingly, he lowers his phone.

“I did not say that I don’t like your choice of sleepwear, but I’ll need another peek to make a well-informed decision.”

Grinning, he props his phone against the bathroom sink before lining his toothbrush with paste as I prop my own phone. We wordlessly brush our teeth, the buzz of a brush motor sounding on his end. It’s when our foaming mouths overflow—showcasing our twin smiles—that I decide to take a quick screenshot.

He rolls his eyes when he sees the notification on his end and rinses while I speak up. “You have your idea of screenshot worthy. I have mine,” I defend. Exiting the bathroom, I prop my phone on the nightstand and grip the first snap button on my robe as he slips into his hotel bed and holds his phone up, so his face fills the screen. Seeing me hesitate, fingers paused on the top button at my neck, he quirks a dark brow. “You got something going on under there?”

“Nothing special,” I squeak.

“I’ll be the judge.”

“Okay, but no screenshots.”

“Everything under that robe is for my fucking eyes only,” he proclaims adamantly before grinning. “I’m also the only one who gets to know how truly filthy you really are.”

“I am not,” I feign offense.

“‘ Harder, Easton. Harder! ’ Who the hell do you think you’re fooling? Well . . . my dirty girl, on with it.”

“You realize you’ve been ordering me around a lot today, right?”

“Sorry, I would just really love to see if there’s a girdle under there.”

“Just for that, show’s over.”

“Baby, please,” he murmurs before giving me Puss in Boots eyes. “I’ll play nice.”

“Jesus, you can be a manipulative shit at times.”

“But it’s about to pay off, right?” His lips twist in an infuriating smirk. “Come on, Beauty, it’s been too long.” His voice heats. “I need to see what’s mine.”

Careful to keep my ridiculous cap out of view, I slowly unsnap my robe to reveal myself wearing nothing but a black cami and hip-hugging black panties.

“Fuck me,” he groans, “had to go there, didn’t you?”

“It’s not exactly lingerie.”

“Tell that to my cock because he’s weeping.”

My neck heats as I quickly slip into bed.

“Hell no, you can’t do that. Tease.”

Plucking my phone from the nightstand, I bring it to eye level, ensuring my cap is still out of view as Easton lifts his chin in prompt. “A little more? For my cock’s sake?”

Lowering the sheets, I reveal the cleavage poking above the top of my cami.

“Better, but not nearly enough.”

Anxious, but too entranced by the heat in his voice, I manage to wiggle out of my panties while holding the phone. I lift them into view for him to see before tossing them next to me on the bed.

His eyes instantly heat as he speaks up in a throaty whisper. “More.”

“Easton,” I protest, skin flushing.

“Show me,” he demands, shifting to rest his back against his headboard.

“You first,” I tease.

In the next second, I’m graced with the sight of his ripped torso, and the small line of dark hair sprinkled along his navel before he lowers his boxers an inch, revealing the glistening head of his cock.

“More,” I urge, my mouth watering as he slides his briefs down slowly to reveal his long, thick dick that is currently standing at rapt attention. Filling his hand, he pumps himself once before turning the camera away and jerking his chin.

“Your turn.”

Eyes roaming his face, I lower my cami giving him a brief peek-a-boo of my hardening nipples.

“Jesus,” he murmurs. “A little more.”

“Are we really about to do this?” I giggle nervously.

“Have you ever?” He asks, his voice strained.

“I’ve tried, but honestly, it was so lame I didn’t finish,” I confess. “So yes and no.”

“I love that I’ll be the first to make you come.”

“I do, too. You are a first for so many things already, Easton,” I admit, lifting the phone to my face, heart pounding.

His tone softens in response. “Like what?”

I shake my head. “I’ll tell you when we’re together.”

“Really? You going to hold out on me?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, I’m going to get it out of you, bet . Now, let me help you come.”

“Okay,” I say, raking my lip as we stare at each other for several seconds, the ever-present pull palpable as I lose myself in the look in his eyes. Certain he can see the arousal building on my face, he bites his lip and slowly releases it.

“I’m so fucking hard for you already.”

“What are you thinking about?” I ask.

“All of it,” he pants, pumping his cock again.

“Easton—” I breathe as he lowers the camera giving me the most amazing view. “I’m aching so bad right now,” I whisper, hearing the need in my voice.

“Will you let me see more of you?”

“Okay, but promise me, no screenshots.”

“Not fucking ever,” he says with a dangerous edge. “Are you wet?”

“Very.”

“Spread your legs,” he commands with little restraint, “show me.”

I do and am instantly rewarded with an answering groan. On fire and anxious to earn more of them, I lower the camera further, spreading myself with my free hand before drawing my wetness up to my clit.

“Jesus. Fuck, Beauty,” he pants. “Now suck those fingers,” he orders gruffly, “like you would suck me.”

I lift the camera and swirl my tongue over the pads of my fingers, tasting myself before sucking them down to the knuckle.

“Put them inside you, nice and slow.” I groan his name as I do. “That’s where I want to be right fucking now,” he grits out, tension in his voice. “Your face,” he whispers. “I can’t look at what I can’t eat anymore. All I need to see is your face.” Lifting my phone, I’m met by the fire burning in his mesmerizing depths, his lust-covered expression bringing me closer.

“Massage your clit.”

Soaked and panting, I stroke my sweet spot and find myself on the brink within quick seconds. “Easton,” I gasp. “I’m already . . .”

He starts to stroke himself furiously as I press my head back into the pillow and close my eyes.

“Look at me while you come.”

My orgasm unfurls through me in soft waves as I exhale his name. His eyes close briefly at the sound of it before he covers his stomach with his own release.

“How was that?” He asks, heavy breathing subsiding.

“Definitely not lame, but not nearly enough. Thanks a lot. You’ve ruined me.”

“That’s just the start,” he assures as he heads back into the bathroom and wets a rag to clean himself off. The act of watching him do it is so intimate that I somehow feel closer to him in those seconds.

“It’s been the perfect night, the perfect date. How in the hell did people do long-distance before FaceTime?”

“Phone calls, letters,” he says.

“And emails,” I add, which earns me a warning look. “It had to be so much harder back then.”

“I’m glad we don’t have to fucking deal.” He slips back into bed, palm cradling his head, bicep bulging next to him, eyes glittering with warmth and affection. I burn the sight of it into memory.

“Get some sleep, Beauty. You’ve got an article to write for me tomorrow.”

“You’re reading my columns?”

“Every day, like religion. Why wouldn’t I read them? It’s your passion, and you should know,” he gives me a warm half-smile, “even though I rag on you, I love the way you tell stories.”

Momentarily speechless, I battle threatening tears. “That means a lot to me, Easton, really.”

“You mean a lot to me. But I really do love the way you write. That one about the two brothers who got separated for twenty years got me emotional. I wrote some lyrics after I read it.”

“Really?” I ask, my chest exploding. “Will you let me read them?”

“Of course,” he whispers.

“Eight days,” I remind him. “If you’re wondering.”

“I’m counting them. I’m fucking counting ,” he exhales harshly.

“Me too,” I admit freely, heart swelling.

“Go to sleep,” he orders. “I’ll hang up when you’re dreaming.”

“Okay,” I say as he clicks off his lights and the shadows from the TV begin to dance over his profile. He flicks through the channels as I settle in. Not a minute later, his eyes focus back on mine.

“Night, Beauty,” he murmurs.

“Night, Beast,” I jest, keeping my eyes trained on him until they give out.

The next morning, I wake up to see he never hung up and am granted the perfect view of his face from where he sleeps on his side. His long, black lashes rest over his sculpted cheekbones, his crimson lips slightly parted. The rise and fall of his chest is barely perceptible due to his comatose state. Ache intensifying as I rouse, I watch him far past the point of acceptable, but I can’t help myself one bit.

I’m in love with him.