Chapter 5
SPARKS AND SNARLS
RUBY
One million dollars.
He’s insane.
And at this point, I’m not sure checking his eyes to make sure Zane Draven is all there is a bad idea…
Because he looks—God help me—serious.
I shake my head hard enough to rattle brain cells.
Maybe I’m the insane one. Because all those things he said? For a wild, unhinged nanosecond, I wanted to scream yes yes yes to every single one.
Especially the part about him fucking me nine hundred ways to next year.
Jesus.
Just thinking about it makes me—
Nope. Not finishing that sentence. The chandelier doesn’t need to hear the filth swirling in my skull.
I blow out a breath.
“You know what else can happen in the next year?” I mutter to myself. “The freedom to take time off and write, write, write to my heart’s content. Hell, I can take five years off. Write a ten-book series in Hawaii if I want.”
Five.
Years.
No Toby. No customers snapping at me. No living off ramen and expired yogurt.
Just writing. And eating. And paying rent on time like a functional adult. Or hey, I can go wild and buy a condo. Or a yurt.
I look at him, then check the impeccable gardens and rows of manicured flowers for hidden cameras. “Is this real? Or am I being Punk’d by someone with an unlimited budget?”
Zane doesn’t even blink. He pulls his phone from his back pocket with one hand, already dialing. “Say the word and I’ll have Freddie bring my attorney up here. We can sign in under an hour.”
I swallow. My mouth is dry and my pulse is a live wire. This may be a fever dream, but the two thousand dollars in my bank account is real. It’ll buy me five minutes if this turns out to be a crazy stunt. “Fine, I’ll do the music video,” I say softly.
His pupils dilate so fast it’s obscene. And a little terrifying.
I lift my chin. “Now for the fucking part.”
He freezes.
Actually freezes.
For a hilariously glorious two seconds, Riot Saints’ front man, Saint Sin, looks like someone unplugged him from his power source.
Then— “Baby,” he whispers, voice breaking on the word, “you’re killing me. Just say yes. Please.”
I smirk. “Not until everything is signed.”
He groans like I just stabbed him. “No. Fuck. Please. At least let me make you come?”
Shit.
I almost break.
Almost.
But I shake my head, just as my eyes drop to his mouth. The tongue poking his lower lip. The remembered taste of him sings through my veins like LSD. “But I wouldn’t say no to a kiss.”
His eyes go molten.
In a blink, his hands are on my waist.
In another blink, I’m propelled across the floor and my back hits something smooth and polished.
His piano.
His actual grand piano. Which probably costs more than all my internal organs combined.
And oh dammit, he still kisses like he sings.
Feral, starved, like my mouth is the only oxygen he’s ever needed. So all-consuming I’m not sure there’ll be anything left of me by the time he’s finished.
I don’t even realize how we’re moving until he spreads me out across the glossy black lid, sliding me backwards like I’m the opening chords to his next sinful anthem.
My breath catches as his mouth trails down my throat, his fingers slipping under my shirt, teasing, coaxing, destroying.
“God…Zane—”
“Yeah,” he growls against my skin, “give me that. Say my name. Give me every fucking sound.”
His fingers skim the edge of my thighs where my hem meets skin and he strokes me like he’s strumming his favorite guitar. Stroke stroke stroke. Higher. Higher.
His hand slides into my underwear, and— “Oh!” I jerk as his fingers delve between my labia, heading straight for my clit. He flicks his digit over my wet swollen nub and…fire.
White-hot, spine-melting, leg-trembling fire.
“Fuck, you feel like warm silk. God, baby, I can’t wait to eat this pussy.”
I grip his arms as he plucks at me, gathering dripping wetness to aid his stroking, then dipping into my hole to toy with the entrance, delivering hot promises of what it’ll feel like to be filled. By his fingers, his tongue. The impressive steel pipe probing my hip.
God…
I open my mouth even as my brain shrieks to shut the hell up. Not beg Zane Draven to fuck me right there on his piano.
Because that would be insane, right?
Yeah…maybe…just—
He drags his teeth down my neck as one finger plunges inside me and lava melts me from the inside out. “God, yes! Oh…fuck.”
“That’s it, baby.” He adds one more finger and the pressure is sublime. “Roll those perfect hips. Fuck my hand.”
“Zane!”
Shouting his name sends him wild.
He finger-bangs me faster, deeper, just what I need.
I meet his thrust, riding him faster. Color swims across my vision as his mouth trails back to mine.
And when he seals it over my mouth, pushing his tongue in to tangle with mine in the filthiest kiss I’ve ever experienced, a low whine builds and builds in my throat.
“Good girl. Come for me, Ruby. If you’re not going to make me eat, then feed me the juice.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Zane Draven gets me to explode all over his hand and his piano keys in his Hollywood mansion, shrieking like a banshee in the best release I’ve ever had.
I’m sure all told, I barely lasted thirty seconds from start to finish before he wrung an orgasm out of me that I’ll feel in next Tuesday’s bones. But I don’t even care.
I’m panting, boneless, wrecked on his piano, eyelids heavier than lead but cracked open enough to watch him lick my come off his fingers with almost embarrassing relish when—
The door swings open.
“AHEM.”
Freddie’s voice cracks like a teenager.
The attorney coughs so hard I think he’s choking.
Zane snarls over his shoulder without even looking. “Jesus. Get. The Fuck. Out.”
Freddie holds up a stack of contracts like a white flag.
“Before or after she signs these?”
I am still sprawled across Zane’s piano when Freddie clears his throat a second time and I sit up so fast I nearly slide right off the damn thing.
My hair is still a mess.
My shirt is wrinkled, my skirt is around my waist and my underwear is… well, compromised.
I jump down, straighten myself and force my voice to come out steady. “Okay. Contracts. Yes. Absolutely. Professionalism. Love it.”
Freddie’s mouth twitches.
Zane’s doesn’t, not even a millimeter.
His eyes track me as he continues to lick his fingers, then his lips, like he’s imagining dragging me back onto that piano and going for round two, or pushing his luck for a full course instead of the appetizer I just gave him.
When I shake my head frantically, he sighs.
Then he slides his sticky fingers—oh sweet Lord—into mine and he walks us into the living room.
He pulls out a chair beside me at the table, pats the seat.
“Sit.”
I arch a brow. “I’m not a dog.”
He smirks. “Never said you were. But I like you close. And we need to practice closeness. You know…for the sake of the music video?” He winks.
Kill me.
Or kiss me again. Either one works.
I sit.
He sits so close our knees touch.
My entire body lights up like I swallowed a live wire.
Contract
Freddie slides the stack of papers across the table, his lawyer beside him like a stiff corpse in a suit. The bespectacled man starts to hold out his hand in a greeting.
Freddie shoots him a look and he yanks it back.
He clears his throat. “This outlines the compensation, the term, NDAs, likeness rights, creative collaboration, safety protocols—”
Zane cuts him off. “She owns the storyline. Full stop. I want that in writing.”
The attorney blinks. “That’s… unusual.”
Zane growls. “So am I. Make it work.”
That… shouldn’t make me warm. But it does. God help me, it really does.
The lawyer makes several notes in the margin, then slides it back across the table to me. I flip through the pages, scanning the sections, pretending I understand legalese on two hours of sleep, a near-traumatic experience of being a rockstar’s obsession, and one killer piano orgasm.
But over and over, one line jumps out at me: Total Compensation: $1,000,000.00 USD. Paid in full upon signature.
I swallow hard.
Zane nudges me with his knee. “Breathe, baby.”
I hate how my chest loosens at the gruff sound of his voice.
He leans in, whispering just for me, “But don’t forget, you sign this, and you’re mine. On camera. On stage. Off it. Every place in between.”
My breath catches. God, he smells like sweat and sin and adrenaline. But…I shake my head, hoping for two seconds of clarity, breathing in relief when I find it.
“Zane,” I whisper, trying to keep my head straight. “I said I’d do the video. The rest…” I can’t say it. I can’t admit how badly my body wants what he promised.
And when I turn my head, he brings his fingers to his nose and inhales long and deep, his eyes locked on mine.
The memory of those fingers inside me, crooking and coaxing an orgasm splashes across all reason.
I want more of it.
Fuck, I need so much more.
He sees my wavering, then my downfall. Triumph blazes in his eyes as he makes a low noise, all hunger and frustration.
“Just sign the fucking papers so I can get you upstairs.”
I sign.