Chapter Twelve #2
"I'm retiring," he repeats. "Not because of you, but because it's time.
It's been time for a long time, but everyone was counting on me, and I didn't want to let anyone down.
I can't keep living that way, though, Loralei.
I don't want to keep living that way. I just…
Christ." A frustrated growl tumbles from his lips before he tugs on my hand, yanking me up against his chest. "What we've had for the last two weeks is what I want. "
"You can have both," I whisper.
"I don't want both," he growls. "And I need you to believe me when I tell you that this isn't me choosing for you and that it has nothing to do with you. This is me deciding what's best for me. If I'm going to stay sober, this is what I need, okay?"
I search his face, looking for any little hint that he's not being entirely honest, but there is none.
There's just…peace, as if he's made the only decision he can live with.
And I can't fault him for that. Had he told me on Saturday what was really going on, maybe the last couple of days would have gone differently.
But he didn't tell me. I wish he had. I wish we could go back and redo it.
We can't. All we can do now is move forward.
I want to do that with him. I don't care if he's a rockstar.
I don't care if he's a hermit in a cabin in the middle of nowhere.
It was never about his fame. I just want to be let into his life, regardless of what his life looks like.
And I want him happy and healthy, whether that's in front of thousands of screaming fans or right here in Santa Maria.
"Promise me that you won't give up music," I murmur, knowing how much that means to him.
I've seen it a thousand times in a thousand different ways since I met him.
It's in the way he's constantly tapping a melody into my skin, humming some tune, or scribbling lyrics on any scrap of paper he comes across.
Music matters to him. It's part of him, even if the fame isn't.
"There will always be music," he promises. "But that doesn't mean there needs to be a whole fucking Hollywood lifestyle to go with it, beautiful." He cups my cheek. "I love you. Even if you aren't ready to hear it again right now or say it, I fucking love you, Loralei."
"I love you too, Ash," I whisper. "That was never a question."
He groans softly, resting his forehead against mine.
"I hate that I made you cry. I hate that I made you feel like you weren't good enough.
I'll show you off to the press any fucking day of the week if that's what you want.
I just…I needed you to fall for me, and I was fucking worried that'd never happen if you knew exactly how chaotic shit has really been in my life.
I didn't want to fuck it up and lose you. "
"It was never your life I fell in love with, Ash. It was you."
He groans, pressing his lips to mine. I think he means it to be a soft kiss, but there's nothing soft about him, not really. Not when he's desperate. And after two days, he's desperate.
His tongue swirls with mine, his hands tightening on my hips, and I realize he isn't the only one desperate. So am I.
I moan against his lips, pressing closer.
"Christ, Loralei," he growls, stumbling back against the wall when I reach for the fly of his pants, eager to touch him again, to remind myself that this man is mine and that I'm his. "You need me, baby?"
"Always," I gasp, ripping his zipper down before delving my hand inside to eagerly wrap around his cock.
He groans, his eyes at half-mast when I pull him out, my thumb swirling around the broad head. He tries to get his hands on me, but I quickly sink to my knees in front of him, my eyes on his cock.
"Fucking hell, baby," he growls, his head thumping against the wall. "You going to put me in that perfect mouth?"
"That's the plan." I lick around the head, loving the way his taste bursts on my tongue. I'll never get tired of it. I'll never get tired of the way he growls, or his hips buck impatiently, either.
By the time I take him into my mouth, he's panting above me, a litany of curses and pleas tumbling from his lips. They only grow louder and more insistent as I suck, trying to wreck him.
I don't get far before I'm in his arms with my legs around his waist.
"You're too fucking good at that," he growls, kissing me hard on the lips as he rakes my dress up my thighs. A second later, my panties are in ruins, and his thumb is right there.
"Ash!" I claw at his wrist, practically climbing the wall.
He bites my lip, slamming me down on his cock.
If anyone is outside, I know they hear me. I'm not quiet. I try to be, but it's impossible when he's inside me, fucking me like he's trying to carve out a space in my soul shaped like him.
"That's it," he croons against my lips, his thumb still riding against my clit. "Just like that, beautiful. Come for me."
"I love you!" I gasp, clawing at his jacket as my head falls back, the orgasm rocketing through me. "I love you, Ash."
He shudders around me, burying his face in my throat. His hips jerk, and then he's spilling into me. "Love you. God, I love you so fucking much," he groans against my skin, his hands clamped so tightly around me, I know I'll have bruises.
I don't mind. He's marked me every which way there is to mark me, claimed every piece of me there is to claim. A few bruises shaped like his fingerprints are just further proof that this isn't a dream.
It's reality, messy, complicated, perfect reality.