“Not really,” Roman answers, gathering my busy fingers in his hand. “Belle was already family to them, so she fits in effortlessly for the most part. I think they’d all agree she makes rehearsals more interesting, though.” He turns to flash me one of his sexy as hell grins. “She knows how to shut us down if we’re being difficult or unproductive.”
“I understand the two of you have co-written all the lyrics, including the recently released single to top the charts, Fractured Hearts.” Sliding her gaze over to me, she offers a plastic smile. “It would seem these songs are all based on the real-life experiences of your tumultuous relationship. Do you mind elaborating on the lyrics ‘dark places with angry faces’ that appear in the refrain of your new hit?”
“You’re not the first to ask,” I say with a soft laugh. Slipping my fingers from Roman’s hand, I resume tracing them along his swelling hard-on, making myself wet in the process. “In the five years we were separated, we both slept with other people. It’s as simple as that.”
It’s a load of bullshit, but the ugly truth of Roman’s father remains secret even after his death, and we agreed it was something we’d keep to ourselves. Singing together about the shit we survived together has been the best kind of therapy imaginable.
The reporter swings her attention back to Roman with her neatly trimmed eyebrows raised. “So are the allegations made by Brooke Singleton saying that the two of you had a lengthy affair unfounded?”
“In the five years Isabelle and I were separated, I was exceptionally angry,” Roman answers, his tone noticeably clipped. “I made a lot of poor decisions that I would later come to regret.”
With the word “come,” he sweeps me off the couch and into his lap, hiding the unmistakable bulge of his cock against his jeans. I cover my mouth to hide a sudden giggle. Messing with him this way when I know how badly he wants to bend me over is far too enjoyable. And I’m suddenly celebrating my decision to wear the bohemian-style dress I purchased from my friend’s Rocker Chique label for the performance.
Serina clears her throat while glancing over her shoulder. It’s a powerful feeling knowing I’m making them both squirm. Before Serina’s eyes draw back up to us, I pull the back of my dress out from beneath my ass and grind my wet thong against Roman’s lap hard enough to make him quietly hiss through clenched teeth while firmly gripping my hips.
The reporter’s eyes ping between mine and Roman’s. “Some musicians like to take their children along for tours while others feel it’s too much of a disruption. You’re in a bit of a unique situation as you’re in the same band together and won’t have the option of leaving the children home with one parent. If you decide to start a family one day, do you foresee bringing them on the road?”
“Oh, we’ll definitely have children one day,” I answer smartly. “A ton. If you were lucky enough to marry Roman Stone, wouldn’t you want to bear as many of his gorgeous children as humanly possible?”
I push my hips back, swiping my warmth over his wandering hand, and suddenly he’s pulling us both up to stand, using my body to shield his arousal.
“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to cut this interview shorter than expected,” he tells her in a clipped tone, digging his fingertips into my arms. “I need to run through a particular song with my fiancée before our performance. Maybe we’ll have a minute or two after we’re done to answer a few more questions.”
“I would appreciate it,” Serina says, hesitantly rising to her feet. “Thank you for your time.” Roman must be giving her a strange look over my shoulder because she throws us a closed-mouth smile before nodding and slipping from the room like her bleached hair’s on fire.
Before the door has clicked shut behind her, Roman’s fingers are slipping beneath the hem of my dress to fondle my wet warmth. His other hand wraps beneath my jaw, holding me tight against his broad chest. “If you’re planning to get me worked up like this before every performance, we’re going to have to carve out extra time without the guys for our own ritual. Fuck, baby, I’m rock hard.”
Pleasure rippling through me, I arch back into his frantic touches and hum. “Just the way I like you.”
“And I like how you’re always wet for me.” He pauses, brushing his lips over the scar on my jaw. Whether he knows it or not, he touches the mark all the time. I sometimes wonder if it’s his way of trying to make peace with what his father did to me. “Suppose we’ll get tired of this when we’re eighty and have a bunch of grandchildren running around?”