Chapter Fifty-Three
Victoria
“Jesus Christ, this is going to set off a PR fucking nightmare,” Delilah sighs, glancing from her phone to the TV screen.
But Asher Lawrence just got on live fucking television and told me and the world in no uncertain terms that I’m not just good, but I’m the best. He put me on a pedestal far above himself. He… he put me first in a way no one ever has.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, don’t cry,” Delilah mutters, giving me a derisive glance. “This is not my area of expertise. We need the drag queen in here to manage you while I manage this.”
“I—” a sob cuts off my words. “Oh, fuck.”
“Get a hold of yourself, Victoria. You’re above whatever—” she waves a hand at me, “—this is. I can’t deal with you when you’re like this.”
“Delilah.” Her name comes out as another sob. “He just… he just—”
“Yes, he just made a love declaration for the whole world to see.” Her tone is bone-dry.
“I’m aware. I’m going to go ahead and call in Keith to handle you while I devise a strategy to handle the shockwaves this is going to set off.
In case it hasn’t hit you yet, he just put a massive spotlight on you—"
“I don’t care,” I cry. “Did you hear that?”
She gives me a droll look, presses a button on her phone, and holds it up to her ear.
“Keith? You catch the conference—yeah, I’m with her.
Yeah, she’s having a mental breakdown.” Delilah cocks her head to the side, examining me.
“She kind of looks like she’s about to vomit.
Or blow up. And she’s making noises like a dying whale.
Since you do emotions better than I do, can you—” she cuts off, eyebrows inching up.
“Oh. Now? Already? That was… yeah, got it.”
I’m too busy crying my heart out, this time from overwhelming happiness and a sense of completion, to really make sense of her words.
I hear Delilah open the door to my hotel room. I look over, expecting to see Keith here, ready to witness me making a mess of myself, but instead… oh, fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s Asher.
And Delilah’s standing in front of him with her hands on her hips. She’s not much taller than me—5’4 on a good day—but the way she holds herself, you’d think she’s a seven foot amazonian warrior.
She steps forward and quietly mutters something to Asher. I take the moment to swipe at my tears and choke down my sobs, because god, being this emotional is just embarrassing. But it’s like… years of being invalidated, overlooked, and ignored are pouring out of me.
Now’s not the time. Asher’s here. He’s here. Not just physically—I know in my bones that he’s here for me. He has my back, just like I have his.
Delilah casts a look at me and steps around Asher. I stand up, knowing that I look like a mess, but not caring because I don’t think Asher will judge me.
He’s still standing in the doorway, leaning against the door to hold it open. There’s a bag in one of his hands that looks like it’s from a liquor store. Did he make a pitstop between racing from the track to the hotel?
“Intern,” he greets, a wealth of affection shining in his eyes.
“Asshole.” My voice is choked, and I’m about to lose my battle against my tears.
“You know, it occurred to me that we never did have that bottle of muscat at my apartment that night.” He holds up the bag. “I come prepared. Thought we could celebrate our win together.”
Our. That’s about all I can take. I grab him by the shirt and drag him inside, standing on my tiptoes to fuse my lips to his. The bag drops from his hand, bottle landing against the rug with a soft thud, and he wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer.
Our clothes are shed in no particular order—we’re both caught in a frenzy of need on the heels of our win and his speech.
We fall onto the bed, teeth clashing, tongues twining, him on top and me cradled in the warmth and safety of his arms. This is what completion feels like. This is what I’ve been missing all these years.
Asher pulls away and frames my face in his hands. His erection, impossibly long and thick, prods at my center.
“Tell me something, sweetheart.” He kisses my nose.
“Anything,” I breathe.
He rests his forehead against mine as he starts to slide inside me, inch by impossibly thick inch. I gasp, arching into him, trembling beneath his hands. This time, the sex doesn’t feel like a frenzy of fucking; it feels like love. Pure. Simple. Unequivocal.
“Tell me that you love me.” He touches his lips to mine. “I need to hear you say it, sweetheart. I might die if I don’t.”
“I love you,” I moan. “So much it frightens me.”
“Good.” He sinks his teeth into my neck, and I pulse around his cock. “Because I love you so fucking much I feel sick with it. And I am never—” thrust “—ever,” harder thrust, “—letting you go.” His hand wraps around my neck, and his eyes catch mine. “Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” I’m not sure how I have the ability to conjure words with him so deep inside me I’m seeing sounds and hearing colors. “I’m not letting you go either, driver. Now, could you please fuck my brains out?”
He chuckles. “It’d be my pleasure.”
His hand tightens on my throat—not enough to cut off my breathing, but enough to make me slightly lightheaded.
His thrusts turn from long, deep strokes into sharp, harsh thrusts that knock the breath out of me.
He leans down to kiss me again, consuming me so completely there’s no doubt that I belong entirely, and permanently, to him.
And he belongs to me. I feel it in his kiss, in the way he fucks me, in his labored breathing and the affection-filled eye contact I get between kisses.
We peak at the same time; me, crying and shuddering; him, grunting and pulling the skin of my neck between his teeth. The bite of pain prolongs my orgasm, making it overwhelming and endless.
When it does end, and he slips out of me, I still feel impossibly full of him.
His love, his affection. Him putting me first in front of the entire word.
The memory of his words during the press conference once again bring tears to my eyes, and I sniffle as I curl up against him, resting my head on his shoulder.
He stiffens. “What’s wrong?” He sits up, bringing me with him, and peers down at me with concern. When a tear trails down my cheek, his expression morphs to terror. “Oh fuck, please don’t cry. I can’t bear it.” He wipes my tear away, then wipes another as it falls. “Sweetheart—”
“I’m not sad.” The words are choked up. “You… put me first. In front of the world. I’m happy, you moron.”
He relaxes, and a soft smile touches his lips. His eyes warm. “Are you usually this emotional when you’re happy? I’d like to prepare for the future.”
The future. Our future, together. I cry harder.
“No.” I hiccup. “But I haven’t slept, eaten, or been myself in weeks.”
Asher’s brows slam down. “You can’t do that,” he chides. “I’m not worth that much suffering.”
“Shut—up.” I slap his chest. “You’re worth that and so, so much more, you fucking idiot. But I need food, more sex, alcohol, and sleep.”
“Alcohol’s already here. Food can be here in a matter of minutes. Sex can follow shortly after, and then, we can sleep.” He pauses. “For a while. Until I get too worked up and have to be inside you again.” A frown mars his features again. “Sleep might actually need to be delayed.”
I swallow hard. “Asher?”
“Hmm?”
“I’d like you to kiss me now.”
He smiles again. “Anytime, sweetheart. All the time, for the rest of my life if I have anything to say about it.”