Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

FORTY-EIGHT “Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby”

FORTY-EIGHT

“Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby”

Cigarettes After Sex

Natalie

A t the peak of some of the mountainous terrain we just traveled through, we park and stretch our legs before taking a short walk to the overlook that sits past a waist-high brick partition.

“Oh, wow, Easton. Wow,” I say, glancing around. “Sucks we don’t have a camera.”

“I have my phone,” he offers, pulling it out of his pocket.

“No phones,” I say.

We stare at the other in trepidation briefly before he whispers, “Fuck it,” and powers it on. Not long after, a grin lights up his face as he turns it to me. “No service.”

“Thank God,” I exhale a breath of relief we were spared the roulette bullet as he keeps it powered up long enough to take a selfie of us. Twin smiles the main focus, he also manages to capture the blanket of tree tops in the valley below along with a little of the surrounding cliffs. He takes a few more shots of the panoramic view before powering his phone back off and taking my hand. On our way back to the car, I stop at the group of clustered craft tables that we bypassed on our walk and cautiously pause at the first, eyeing the woman sitting behind it for any hint of recognition for the rock star lingering close by. She greets me warmly, nothing telling in her answering expression as I lift a solid white dream catcher from where it hangs on the side of her table.

“This is beautiful,” I tell her before holding it up to Easton, who’s shopping a table over. “Babe, mine?”

Easton instantly nods in reply as he lifts a plate-sized, hand-crafted drum, dark wooden sticks dangling atop it. “Also yours, for your next lesson.”

“Yes, please.”

Seeming pleased, he pulls out his wallet, doling out the cash for each vendor, both older women of Native American descent.

I walk over to where he stands and snake my arms around his waist, pressing a kiss onto the soft cotton of his T-shirt-covered shoulder, inhaling his scent. “I’ll pay you back. I thought we were just going for a drive, so I left my purse at the villa,” I whisper as the vendor speaks up.

“Are you two on your honeymoon?”

“Yes,” we say in unison, our proud need to share that information with anyone obvious with our enthusiastic reply. Once our purchases are bagged, we browse along the other tables picking out new treasures, each of us procuring silver spoon rings with turquoise stones. The next table over, I find a hand-carved wooden Christmas ornament with a tiny dream catcher hanging inside of it and decide I have to have it. By the time we make our exit, Easton’s hands are full of bags of locally crafted, one-of-a-kind gems, each bought from a different table. As we retreat back to the parking lot, we’re waved away with warm goodbyes and congratulations. The feeling continues as we reach the convertible. I breathe in the day, and Easton secures our haul into the trunk. Smiling, I glance over at him, and it’s not reciprocated.

“What?”

“You’ll pay me back?” Easton stares over at me across the convertible. I’m thankful his Ray-Bans are on, so I’m unable to see his complete mean mug.

“I don’t know how we’re going to do money yet, and I can buy my own shit.” I shrug as his jaw ticks. “Fine, I’ll consider it my wedding present,” I concede, getting into the passenger seat and buckling in before he orders me to. “Now we have to figure out your wedding present, and it has to be good . Something special and one of a kind,” I demand as he takes the driver’s seat.

Famous last words.

Easton’s wedding present turned out to be a gift a little harder for me to bear, literally. “Easy, baby,” Easton grits out, the strain in his voice evident as he tries to ease into me, and I whimper at the discomfort. In the last few hours, we’ve gone from emotion-filled love-making to downright filthy and experimental fucking. I’ve given my body over to him as I have my trust, my heart, and my future, which is why I’m on all fours now on a plush towel he laid out on a large ottoman in our heavily mirrored bathroom. Easton towers behind me, gloriously naked, our eyes connected in our reflection, his mouthwatering cock in view as he pushes another inch inside me. Seeing me wince, he eases back out.

“Don’t stop,” I protest.

“I don’t think I could if I wanted to,” he murmurs as he massages my backside. With that, he grips my hips pulling me toward him before dipping to ready my exposed flesh with an explorative tongue. My last orgasm still dripping between my thighs, Easton laps at me from behind, gathering my wetness onto his fingers before pushing one of them back inside a formerly untouched place. The second I admitted I hadn’t explored that particular sexual boundary, I could see the fireworks go off in his eyes and knew exactly what my wedding gift would include. Before he could voice it, I fled his arms, running around our villa, and he gave chase while I screamed like a banshee.

He caught and punished me by running his tongue between my legs for endless minutes. In return, I surrendered, my white flag inching higher with every orgasm. Not once since we got back to the resort has his stamina wavered, nor has he gone more than a few minutes without growing hard—and I’ve loved every literal fucking second of it. He stands behind me now, the man I’ve fallen hopelessly obsessed with, sun-tinted dark olive skin covered in a sheen of sweat, his eyes hooding as he gently probes me.

“Better?” he murmurs after adding another finger and pumping them in and out of me until he’s able to do so more easily. My eyes go half-mast, mouth parting as the foreign sensation becomes oddly pleasurable. The carnal lust in his own hooded eyes spurs me on as I gaze at his reflection, just as lust drunk. Jade-amber fire licks flames down my reflection as he positions himself back where we started on our second attempt. In the last several hours, he’s made diligent work of claiming as many sexual firsts as I’ve listed, this one his final frontier.

“Push out, baby,” he orders gruffly, and I do as he thrusts in. My legs nearly give out as a wave of pain courses through me.

“Look at me, Beauty,” he orders, “watch me take your ass.” I do, soaking in the pleasure in his expression, not wanting to deny him this or anything else for that matter. Abs glistening, eyes darkening by the second, he keeps me engaged as he grips my hips and pushes in further, claiming . I can practically see the ‘mine’ in his eyes even as he whispers encouragement. “Almost there,” he grits out. “Fuck, you’re so goddamned tight.”

“Easton,” I whimper, the shake in my voice a dead giveaway. “Do it, now, please,” I beg, the discomfort becoming close to unbearable.

He thrusts all the way in as I arch my back, the pain briefly blinding me as he mutters, “Jesus Christ.” His eyes frantically search my face. “Okay?”

“Hell no,” I croak, “but don’t stop.”

“Sure?”

“Easton,” I whimper, the pain overtaking any pleasurable sensation.

He guides my hand between my legs before gripping a lone finger and running it along the side of my clit, the result surprising as pleasure comes instantly. “This, right here, is your sweet spot.”

Apparently.

“Don’t stop,” he orders, and I nod, bracing myself with one arm while massaging myself with the other. The pain subsides slightly as he dips and darts his tongue along my back. “So fucking sweet. Ready?”

“No,” I pant.

“You have to relax.”

I narrow my eyes. “Want to switch positions real quick, husband, so I can give the same lecture? Pretty sure this wasn’t anywhere in the brochure.”

He barks out a laugh. “Baby, we can stop,” he pants. The pleasure due to his subtle movement quickly draining all humor away. “Let’s stop,” he murmurs, palming my back as I object.

“Don’t you dare! We’re doing this. Just . . . make it better.”

Expression tense, nostrils flaring, I know he’s restraining himself as he slowly pulls back and thrusts in. When he manages a few more without an answering whimper, I start to relax a little. The second I do, his strokes become easier as he starts a rhythm, lust oozing from him as he watches me massage myself.

“Better?” He grits out, running a palm over my ass cheeks.

“Yessss,” I hiss as I relax a little more, the foreign sensation overtaking me in a slightly more pleasurable way. He picks up his pace watching my every movement, his jaw going slack.

“F-f-feel g-good?” I ask as I begin to sync into the slow-building rhythm with him, the worst of the discomfort behind me.

“So fucking good, baby, I love you so much,” he rasps out, his voice velvet. “You’re so goddamned beautiful. I can’t get enough.”

“Then take more,” I order as I push back, meeting his thrusts. The act spiking my arousal further as his hunger increases, his eyes flaring unmistakably.

“Fuck, Natalie . . . don’t, I’m going to fucking explode.”

But I do, and in return, I elicit a groan I’ve never heard from him that spurs me on as I massage myself faster and begin backing onto him with every thrust. He slows our pace enough to press thick fingers inside me before running them along my walls. Sensation instantly overwhelms me as he simultaneously seems to push every button I have. Within a few more targeted strokes, my entire body succumbs before seizing. Pleasure rips through me like a tsunami as I toss my head back and scream out his name. A string of curses leaves him as he bites his lip, grips my hips, and begins pounding into me, prolonging my orgasm before he himself capitulates, belting out a harsh “Fuck! Fuck!”

I continue to shudder with release as a flood pours between my legs, coating my thighs as Easton collapses forward with me.

The pleasure subsides, and the discomfort again sets in as he carefully pulls out of me, rimming my ass gently with his fingers before collapsing on his back on the ottoman. Staring over at me, chest pumping, he pulls my upper half to rest atop him and kisses me like I’m the air he needs. Pulling away, he gives me a devilish grin. “That was fucking insane, baby.”

Nodding, I subtly run a hand down my thigh and feel it’s soaked before wiping it on the towel discreetly beneath me.

“Will you start a shower?” I ask, and Easton nods, kissing my lips before turning to give me a grand view of his naked backside.

The last thirty hours or so have been the happiest of my existence. The last few especially. Feeling filthy while at the same time blissed out on the never-ending high that seems to endlessly fuel us both, I discreetly wipe between my legs as he sets the water temperature. Unable to stop thinking about what just transpired, I speak up.

“How do you know about all those places on me?”

He tosses a grin over his shoulder as steam rises from the shower, his dark hair cresting over his forehead. I take a mental snapshot. “I made it my business to know, and now it’s my job .”

“Sadly, I didn’t even know some of those places,” I bite into his shoulder. We’ve been adventurous before, but our honeymoon has turned into our dirtiest adventure to date.

As it should be.

Like Easton, I refuse to let anything, anyone, or any thought take the happiness from our first day of marriage. Since we agreed to turn our phones off before we got here, we haven’t bothered acknowledging the disaster that awaits us outside the door. But, the longer we keep from discussing our cocoon has an expiration date—which sadly is tomorrow—the more anxious I start to become. I need a plan of some sort in order to feel secure. Even so, I don’t want to broach it just yet. In fact, I want to prolong every second of the high we deserve as newlyweds.

“How do you feel?” He asks as he steps in and pulls me under the spray with him. Limbs feeling like Jell-O, it’s all I can do to nod, fatigue taking over. A few seconds under the water has me replaying our most recent interlude, and I turn my face away as he murmurs his compliments to his “filthy little wife.”

It’s when he sees the blush shading some of my afterglow that he tips my chin in concern. “Was that too much?”

“Yes, Easton, far too much. You don’t have a cock. You have an Amazonian water snake in your pants.”

“Seriously?” He asks, holding in his smile briefly before it breaks through.

I dispense some jasmine-smelling soap onto one of the luxury sponges that feel like angel’s wings on my skin before giving him an eye roll. “It was painful but glorious, and you damn well know it, so stop smiling like that.” I hesitate before I run the sponge across his chest and glance over at the towel uneasily. Too late with my recovery, he pinches his brows and follows my line of sight before sensing my hesitance. This man wasn’t lying when he said he’s memorized me. He’s far too perceptive, making it hard for me to hide anything. Both a blessing and curse.

“What? Are you hurting more than you’re letting on?”

“No . . . it’s not that.”

“Well then,” he ducks under the spray before spouting a stream of water onto my chest. “Spit it out.”

“Cute.”

“Natalie,” he warns, “what is it?”

“I’ve had sex before you,” I start. “Some good sex.”

“Fucking really?” he groans. “That’s what you’re going to start with?”

“Hear me out. I’ve had a handful of partners.”

Nostrils flaring, his jaw ticks.

“There’s nothing to be jealous about.”

“I’ll be the judge.”

I roll my eyes. “I can’t talk to you when you go all paleolithic man.”

“Then maybe you need to skip the sexual history and get to the point.”

“Forget it,” I say dismissively, turning and ducking under the spray. He instantly turns me back to face him and positions me to the shower wall. Palming the tiles next to my head, he runs his nose along mine.

“Sorry, I’ll put the jealous asshole on a leash. Tell me what you were going to say, Beauty.”

“Well, in my experience, I’ve never . . .” I dip my eyes to my nether region before widening them. “You know . . .”

He frowns in confusion before a slow smile begins to build on his lips.

“You mean—”

“Don’t you dare say it!” I clamp my hand over his mouth as he completely ignores me, his reply muffled against my hand.

“Femaw ej lation.”

“I said don’t say it!” as he chuckles and removes my palm.

“Porn word—squirting.” He barks out more laughter as I shake my head in irritation.

“That’s absolutely disgusting.”

“Didn’t seem that way at the time,” he muses at my discomfort.

“Just forget it. This conversation isn’t happening.” Thoroughly embarrassed, I do my best to free myself under his scrutinous confines as he presses in, holding me in place. “This is highly unfair,” I say, unable to move, “you’ve got a lot of muscle and inches on me.”

His lips quirk higher. “You walked right into that one, and I must admit, my ego is thankful for the boost.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles, “is this our first marital spat?”

“You’re being disgusting, and I’m . . . never mind.”

When he sees my disappointment, his smile dims.

“I’m sorry, baby. Don’t let it freak you out. It’s natural for some women when they have an intense orgasm and is nothing to be embarrassed about. Honestly? I think it’s hot as fuck and can’t wait to make it happen again.” He crowds me as I look anywhere but at him.

“I don’t share your enthusiasm,” I retort dryly.

“But you did,” he chides, “you were very enthusiastic about it. You sang opera.” Face flaming, he presses in further, forcing me to look up at him. “No way, don’t hide from me.” The sight of him in the massive shower, seeming fully relaxed and mine , takes my breath away.

“You can talk to me about anything, Beauty, absolutely anything . Don’t be embarrassed to talk to me, ever. We’re one now. Okay?”

I dip my chin. “Okay.”

“Not good enough. Look at me and really hear me,” he murmurs as his velvety voice surrounds me, as does he, keeping my chin up with gentle fingers. “Don’t ever hide from me. We’re as close as two people could ever be.”

Studying his expression, I see nothing but conviction in his eyes as his words feed my soul.

“Do you get that?”

I clasp my fingers around his neck and pull him closer. “We’re one,” I repeat. Loving the sound of it. “You know I’ve been

one my whole life too, much in the same way—an only child and a party of one most of my adult life. This meaning is so much different and so much better.”

“Yeah?” He graces me with a beautiful half-smile as he palms my stomach. “Maybe one day we’ll be two, or three?”

I nod. “One day. Yes. I want that, too.”

His entire demeanor shifts as we conjure a glimpse of a future, our future, his eyes lighting with it as he gazes back at me with reverence.

“Now is the best time for us, just the two of us, and we get to have these kinds of days for as long as we decide to.” He lifts our banded hands, palm to palm, before tethering them together and kissing my wedding band. “I want so many more of these days with you.”

“Me too.”

He nods. With at least a thousand days worth of decisions made, he begins to bathe me with gentle care, using a silky sponge to wash every inch of my body. His eyes trail the workings of his hands, and as much as I want to reciprocate, I’m too exhausted for the moment. At my feet, he glances up at me while gently running the sponge between my legs. I wince, and his eyes soften.

“We’re going to have to give it a rest,” he says in a mournful tone. Even as I go to protest, he shakes his head and nuzzles my neck before whispering. “I do, means the rest of our lives. We’ve got time.”

Even as he says it, I feel the desperation building for us both to keep that reality mixed with his fierce need to protect us. I cling to him as he continues to wash me before working on himself. It’s when he glances over that his expression falls. “Don’t, baby. Please don’t. The minute you start thinking that way . . .” he shakes his head. “We have to be and stay united on this, okay? We can’t apologize for loving each other, or we’ll give others the power to condemn us.”

“Right,” I nod. “You’re right.”

I’m graced with another breathtaking smile as his long, wet lashes mat together under the steady spray. “Concentrate on us tonight, and don’t let fear or doubt destroy a second of it.”

“Okay, I’m sorry.”

“You’re safe with me . . .” He traps my hand, squeezing my fingertips together before pressing them to my temple. “Here,” he rasps out before flattening my hand over his heart, “here . . .” He glides it down his muscular chest and navel before cupping his cock. “And most definitely here.”

I can’t help my grin as I wrap my hand around his hardening length and pump him.

“Don’t start,” he scorns, “you need to rest.”

“I need you.”

“You have me, Beauty.”

“Is this real?” I rasp out, love drunk, spent, blissed-out, but already yearning for more.

“Real in every fucking way,” he declares vehemently.

“When did you know you loved me,” I ask.

“I knew something was happening between us hour one.”

“Me too.”

“The girl that met me at the bar was a far cry from the cocky bitch previewed on the phone.”

I lift a brow. “That was also me.”

“Yeah, but she no-showed.” He palms my cheek. “And this version showed up in her place, searching for something I also wanted for myself.”

“What?”

“The type of love that defies rationality, that trumps all reasoning, that’s uncontrollable.”

“We have that.”

“We do. The best part is, I didn’t have to want to be the guy for you. I already was.”

“So, you’re saying it’s fate?”

“Maybe a little,” he admits, pushing soaked hair away from my face, “and every other thing that pulls two people together.”

I can’t help my smile. “Careful. You’re starting to sound a lot like your superstitious mother.”

“I might not buy into it all, but I love that about her and inherited a few traits from her.”

“Like?”

“Sometimes, I can get irrational due to my emotions. My mom’s the same way and has been her whole life. Instead of trying to change it, she found someone who accepts and loves her more for it and has thrived because of it.” He exhales and grabs the shampoo, pouring it into his hand. He runs it through his hair before I take over, digging my nails into his scalp.

“What traits did you inherit from your dad?”

“My temper,” he admits, “and that’s where it gets tricky.”

“Are you afraid of it?”

“On the day-to-day, no, but my dad is. He’s afraid I’ll do something I can’t take back.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “Honestly? I’m a little afraid of it when it comes to you.”

He stills my hands.

“I would never hurt—”

“Jesus, Easton, don’t even finish that.” I press in, ensuring he hears me as he rinses his hair. “ Unconditionally ,” I remind him. “I love all of you,” I whisper on a shaky breath, “I really, really fucking love you and will continue to, come what may. I can handle your bad moods,” I laugh, “I met you in a bad mood.”

“Good,” he murmurs, “because you promised me you would.”

I rake my lip. “So, don’t let what I’m about to say put you into one, okay?”

He sighs. “Out with it.”

“I’m a plan girl, you know that. So, when we walk out of that door tomorrow—and after we face whatever consequences that we have waiting—what then? Like, where will we go?”

“Depends,” he replies easily.

“On what?”

“On what you want,” tilting his head back, he rinses his hair of conditioner while keeping my stare.

“You do realize when we leave here, reality kicks in.”

“This is fucking reality,” he snaps defensively. “We just got married.”

“I know,” I snap back. “But you’re a fucking rock star, and I’m a reporter, and we don’t live in the same state .”

He turns off the water, his back to me, and I clasp his shoulders as he lets out a harsh exhale. “I was going to talk to you about all this tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t get upset. I just want to figure this out.”

“I know, I’m not,” he concedes easily while grabbing a towel and glancing over at me. “Tell me what you want, and we’ll go from there.”

“The paper is a legacy I want to uphold. I can’t just abandon that.”

“Is that truly what you want?”

“Yes. Dad’s always given me the option to go my own way, but I love every aspect of it.”

“Then that’s what you’ll have. I don’t expect you to follow me around the globe, Natalie. It will be hard on us to be apart at times, but I’ve grown up in this world and knew what not to do from the get-go. That’s why I made damn sure not to sign a record contract and to own and distribute my own music. I’ll never be any label’s fucking dog, which grants me luxuries off the leash that a lot of others don’t have. Because I made it that way, I tour when I want to , and break when I want to. Which means I’m not chained to anything but the tour dates I set myself.”

“Okay.”

Securing a towel around his waist, he takes the towel from my hands and begins gently running the soft fabric over my skin. I revel in his attentiveness as he bends, and I grip his shoulders as he looks up at me.

“Your dreams don’t and won’t come second to mine. I want to be the man that stands beside you or behind you when you need me to. I can and will be there for you when it matters most to you.”

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

“I have, a lot, and honestly don’t give a damn where I live, as long as my wife is there when I get home.”

“You would move to Texas?”

He turns sharply. “You. Are. My. Wife.”

“I know that, but—”

“No, you don’t. Nothing comes before you now, not even my career. All I have to do is make music. I lived as a rock star’s son. I don’t have to live that lifestyle to fulfill my dreams. I just have to make music. In fact, I would prefer the opposite. I don’t want to be homesick on the road. I don’t want to spend endless months apart from you. Not even weeks. Not even a fucking week. That’s what I don’t want.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes,” he says. “And I won’t be sacrificing anything to change zip codes, Natalie.”

“Okay,” I say softly.

“Okay,” he brushes his knuckles down my cheek and presses a slow kiss to my lips. “I’ll fulfill the rest of my obligation to this tour, and we’ll figure out what to do from there.” He swats my ass with a towel. “And I know you think I’m funny about money, but owning my masters and writing my own songs means that every time I sell a song or get airplay, I collect the majority of the money. Because I made it that way, and as the album did what it did, we can have more than one home.”

I wrap my hair turban-style in the towel. “That would be . . . incredible.”

“We could have a spot in Seattle close to my parents and build a home in Texas, close to yours. Fucking anywhere.”

“Anywhere,” I repeat.

“As long as we’re together.”

“Agreed. But I make my own salary and will be contributing. I’m no squatter.”

“Fine,” he says with a shrug, “see, not so impossible.”

“You’re making it seem easy.” I cup his shoulder as he turns to me. “Just promise me, if there’s any part of this you can’t live with, you’ll speak up.”

He lifts a brow. “Have we fucking met? You’re such a pain in the ass. I know we’ll have plenty to fight about.”

“And you’re a real Sunday picnic.”

“This is going to be epic,” he grins.

“I can’t believe you’re looking forward to fighting. What a weirdo.”

“Only the good fights, the ones where you end up coming. I didn’t ask for the rest of your life thinking short-term. Now we have a plan.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “Feel better?”

“Currently, you’re the reason for the literal pain in my ass .”

A wicked gleam shines in his eyes. “But you liked it. You got so into it and went freaky !” He morphs his voice as I slap his chest.

“It will be an anniversary type of occurrence.”

He flashes me a brilliant grin. “We’ll see about that.”

Images of our imminent future, of the backlash we’re about to endure threaten to creep in, and despite wanting to keep inside our bliss bubble, I can’t help my next question. “Are we being young, reckless, and na?ve ?”

He bites his lip briefly. “Maybe a little, but we are young, in love , and fucking happy , so it’s worth it, right?”

“So worth it.”

“Good, now we can drop the adulting because it’s time to get ready for dinner.”

I glance at the clock as he walks over to my suitcase, pulls out the lone purple negligee I packed and tosses it to me.

“What restaurant is open at midnight and serves its patrons wearing lingerie?”

I slide it on as he tugs on a pair of boxers before giving me the come-hither finger. I trail him to the door before he opens it. On the other side sits a waiting cart, several chilled champagne bottles submerged in a large ice bucket. Two large covered platters rest in the center. Assorted chocolates and sweets are arranged around a tiny vase full of baby pink roses. Six unlit tapered candles sit in crystal holders next to it.

“This is incredible. I’ve been with you every second. How did you do this?” I can’t help my giddiness. Easton grins and retrieves the rolling cart, parking it next to the twelve-seater dining table in our villa. We quickly unload the haul, and I light the candles and lower the lights as he takes a seat at the head of the table, holding out his hand to me. I take it, and he pulls me into his lap before lifting both cloche covers to unveil several steaming crab legs and melted butter.

“You’re so damn predictable, Easton,” I utter, as my genuine appreciation rings clear in my voice.

Grinning, he moves my wet hair from the nape of my neck and presses a kiss to it. “No more talk of tomorrow. This is a time of celebration, so no more adulting tonight, deal?”

“Deal,” I concede easily as candlelight flickers over his profile while he untwists the wire cap on a champagne bottle before popping it. The overspray oozes down the side of the bottle, and he flicks it off like a pro before generously pouring two glasses. “Good, because tonight, we’re dining like Crownes.”