Midnight Lyrics

Chapter 1

GRANT

If this is how I die, I can’t say I’ve got much to complain about.

I’m perched on the edge of the bed with my thighs spread, one hand bunching the rumpled white sheet, the other tangled in silky honey-blonde hair as the woman kneeling between my legs drives me damn near senseless with her mouth.

Christ. She’s good. Better than good. My thighs keep threatening to lock around her shoulders whenever her throat clamps down on me.

Why did I ever think just once would be enough?

Sloane pulls away to catch her breath, her hand still pumping my cock in slick strokes as she looks up. “You like that?” she purrs, her voice rougher than it was an hour ago. “Want me to take you even deeper?”

I glance down at her and grin. Her lashes are clumped with tears, more trailing down her flushed cheeks to mingle with the spit shining on her chin. The lipstick she arrived in is mostly gone, reduced to a pink smear on lips that have spent the better part of the last ten minutes on my shaft.

“You know I do.” I tighten my fist in her hair and tug her head back, exposing the long line of her throat. “Think you can handle it?”

She gives me a wicked smile and nods, her tongue darting out to sweep up the precum beading at the slit.

My dick jerks against her lips. “Suck.”

She obeys with a hum, the vibration around my cock hard enough to drag a curse out of me. I groan as she sinks lower, pushing her down another inch until she gags and her nails dig into my thigh. “That’s it, baby. Every fucking inch.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. Another tear escapes. I ease my grip, giving her room to come up for air, but the greedy little thing does the opposite and takes me farther.

I’m close. So damn close.

I let my head fall back and shut my eyes, pleasure winding tight at the base of my spine. One more minute. Thirty seconds. Who am I kidding? I’m not making it much longer.

“Sloane, I’m gonna—”

A buzz rattles somewhere beside me.

Fuck.

My eyes snap open to the white coffered ceiling, late-afternoon sun cutting through a gap in the curtains and throwing a blade of light across the wall.

The buzz comes again, followed by the dull knock of something hitting the lamp.

I turn my head and find my phone skittering over the marble nightstand, the screen lit with one name I really don’t need to see right now.

Laurel.

Of all the moments my wife could choose to call me, she picks this one. Seriously. Doesn’t she have anything better to do than blow up my phone?

I stare at her name glowing on the screen while Sloane keeps going between my legs like the shameless little slut she is.

Now that’s poetic—my wife calling as another woman has my dick stuffed in her mouth. Too bad I’ve never been worth a damn at poetry.

The screen goes dark. Sloane keeps sucking. I lift my hips and thrust hard into her mouth. A wet sound catches in her throat when I drive deeper, her fingers digging into my thighs as my hand closes around the back of her head.

I grunt. “That’s more like it.”

Laurel can’t even suck my dick anymore without risking her fucking throat.

I’m about to break my one ironclad rule and tell Sloane to get on her hands and knees so I can fuck her raw when the phone starts vibrating again.

This time, Sloane glances at it. When her eyes come back to mine, the sly little challenge in them tells me she knows exactly who’s calling.

She lets my cock fall from her mouth, spits onto the head, and closes her fist around me, smearing it down my shaft. Her tongue follows the same path before she takes me into her mouth again.

“Naughty girl,” I praise.

She moans, and another rush of euphoria goes straight through my fucking bloodstream.

The sight of my wife’s name lighting up the screen ought to sober me up and make me feel like the piece of shit I am. My brain files it under reasons.

Whatever conscience I started this marriage with packed its bags sometime around February, and the bastard hasn’t sent a postcard since.

The second call does, however, make me realize I’ve got no idea what time it is.

I let go of Sloane’s hair despite her low whine of protest and reach for my Rolex beside the phone.

Four twenty-six.

“Shit.”

Sloane sits back on her heels so abruptly my cock slips from her mouth with a wet sound. “Was that a compliment, sir?”

“That was the time.” I fasten the watch around my wrist, get to my feet, and pull my pants properly over my hips, tucking my hard dick away before I zip up. Thank fuck the front is still clean. “The reception starts at five.”

She wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb, chest rising with each uneven breath, looking thoroughly ruined and far too pleased with herself.

The robe she threw on earlier has slipped off one shoulder, exposing a breast marked with the faint impressions of my teeth.

Half the men in America would sell a kidney for this view.

I’m mostly thinking about traffic. It gets fucking brutal on Wednesday afternoons.

Her mouth pulls into an exaggerated pout. “So? They’re coming to see me, not you.”

Talent has gotten Sloane a hell of a lot farther in life than common sense could manage. Being one of the hottest women I’ve ever fucked probably hasn’t hurt either.

“My label’s the one putting you on that damn stage. I was supposed to be out of here by four.”

My calendar’s had me marked off-site since lunch, which bought me the afternoon. That excuse has about run its course.

I cross to where my shirt lies crumpled on the carpet beside her silver sequined dress, nudging the room-service cart out of my way with my knee. Most of the lunch we ordered still sits untouched on it, the steak gone cold beside a bottle of champagne buried in melting ice.

We came here to celebrate tonight’s showcase. Lunch, champagne, one quick fuck.

That was the plan.

Hard to give a shit about lunch when I found a better use for her mouth.

The mattress dips behind me. I glance back to find Sloane stretched across the bed on her side, propped on one elbow.

“What are you paying all those people for if they can’t manage without you another half hour?”

“They can.”

“Then stay.”

I shake out my shirt and shrug it on. “Doesn’t mean I get to stroll in whenever the hell I please.”

There are radio executives to shake hands with, egos to stroke, and an artist who’s supposed to be doing some charming of her own.

Said artist looks about as concerned as a house cat. She doesn’t go on until six, but the hour before her set is part of the job too. She’s supposed to spend it reminding half of Nashville why Mercer Records has poured a small fortune into her.

I start buttoning my shirt. It’s wrinkled beyond saving, but luckily I keep clean clothes in my office—for reasons that originally had nothing to do with fucking my newest artist in a hotel room.

Sloane saunters toward me, robe hanging loose, honey-blonde hair tousled around the heart-shaped face America has spent the past year selling as everything country music misses about itself—Georgia-born, church-raised, sweet as peach tea and twice as wholesome.

She grew up outside Macon, sang Patsy Cline covers at county fairs before she could drive, and once told Rolling Stone that her grandmother’s peach cobbler keeps her humble.

I’ve met her grandmother. The woman buys it from Publix and once ran a photographer off her porch with a garden hose.

Truth has never been a requirement in this business.

The story only has to sound good in an interview, and Sloane Avery’s story sells very fucking well.

Eight hundred thousand units. Two number-one singles.

A fall tour that sold out before half the dates were announced.

Men old enough to be on cholesterol medication arguing under her Instagram posts about whether she’s wife material.

They’d be crushed to know America’s newest sweetheart has spent six months fucking somebody else’s husband without losing a minute of sleep over it.

She unties the robe instead of fixing it, her pert tits on full display, and trails one hand down my stomach before dipping it beneath the waistband of my pants.

“We’ve still got time for a quick one.”

My eyes go to her mouth before wandering lower, over the pussy I’ve already fucked sore three times today. Another round and she’ll be walking onto that stage bowlegged, and right now, I’m tempted enough not to care.

I catch her wrist before she gets any farther and drag it away. “Not today.”

Her shaped brows draw together, the pout returning full force. She yanks the robe closed and knots the belt hard enough to make her feelings on the matter clear.

I ignore the tantrum, tuck my shirt into my pants, and reach for the jacket draped over the back of the chair.

Sloane beats me to it. She lifts it by the collar and smooths a hand down one lapel like she’s doing me a favor instead of buying herself another minute.

I hold out my hand.

She doesn’t give it to me.

“You nervous?”

I arch a brow. “About your set?”

“About the song.”

A muscle jumps in my jaw. Sloane has a pickpocket’s instinct for weakness.

“You’ll have to narrow that down.”

“Don’t be a dick.” She tosses my jacket at me and heads for the champagne bucket. “Magnolia Rain.”

I liked her mouth better when it was occupied.

“What about it?”

She pours herself a glass. “I want to know I’m covered.”

“We’ve been over this. Why are we having this conversation again?”

“Because the last time we had it, it was just a demo sitting on my laptop.” She takes a sip. “Tonight I put my name on it in front of half of Nashville. Your wife can’t come after me if this blows up?”

“She won’t.”

“Your name wasn’t anywhere on the file you gave me, Grant. Laurel’s was. That was her voice.”

“She wrote it eight years ago and never did a damn thing with it.”

What I don’t add is that she never gave it to me.

“That supposed to make it yours?”

“The paperwork’s handled.”

“Not what I asked.”

I slide my arms into my jacket. “It’s the only answer you need.”

“Jesus, Grant.”

“You still planning to sing it?”

Her silence lasts all of two seconds. “I’d be a fool not to.”

“Thought so.”

Ambition’s the one religion neither of us has ever pretended not to practice. Principles are easy when they cost nothing. Put another number one on the other side of the scale and watch how fast people discover nuance.

I head back to the nightstand for my phone. Four missed calls from Laurel. Two messages from my assistant sit underneath them, but Laurel’s text is at the top.

Laurel: Please answer me. I know you have Sloane’s showcase, but the doctor called and I have something to tell you. I only need five minutes. And since you’ve never managed to say it first: happy anniversary, husband. I love you.

My eyes snag on one word. Anniversary.

Shit. That was today?

I stare at the message another second before locking my phone. Laurel can be pissed at me later. Anniversaries come around every year. Tonight gets one shot.

Mercer Records has too much money riding on Sloane Avery for me to spend the next few hours apologizing for forgetting a date.

“You might wanna call her back.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m seeing her in about an hour.”

My attention snaps to her. “What?”

She gives me a look. “My manager sent the revised run of the show. Laurel’s introducing me tonight. Your assistant said y’all wanted Laurel there for the press. Some women-in-country angle. Passing the torch or whatever bullshit publicity called it.”

She told me she wasn’t coming. How the fuck did I miss that?

I can’t think of a damn thing to say. The low hum of the air-conditioning drifts from the vent overhead, the outside world reduced to a distant thrum below.

My wife is going to stand onstage on our anniversary, smile for the cameras, and introduce the woman I’m sleeping with as Mercer Records’ newest star—the label we built with her money and my name. A few minutes later, she’ll hear that same woman sing a song she wrote alone in our first house.

Son of a bitch.

Sloane studies my face. “Grant.”

I scoop up her dress before she reaches it and toss it at her. She catches it against her chest. “Get dressed.”

Until now, I’ve treated the song like something I could manage.

Paperwork handled. Credits handled. I knew Laurel would hear it eventually.

I knew I’d have to explain myself when she did.

I just figured I’d deal with it when that day came—preferably at home, with enough time to decide what version of the truth I could get her to swallow.

That moment is here a lot sooner than I planned, and guilt isn’t even the part making my stomach knot. What I can't stop thinking about is Laurel hearing the song with me standing right there.

I turn the handle. “Try not to miss your cue.”