A light snore comes from the bed, and I glance over to her again. Her head lolls to the side in sleep, and her mouth is slightly open. I’m a horny bastard, and I can’t wait to feed my dick between those lips again and watch her swallow everything I give her.
I think of the way her tight little ass clenched at my fingers, and I love knowing that I’m going to be the first man to sink my cock inside it. These possessive urges surprise the shit out of me. I don’t get possessive, because I don’t get attached. Ever.
I shove them all down, back to wherever they came from, and head to the shower to jack off.
When I wake up from my cat nap after the most amazing shower sex I’ve ever had—actually, the only shower sex I’ve ever had—I decide it’s time to deal with the consequences of my New Year’s Eve decision. The label has blown up my phone with calls and messages all day, and when I finally take Morty’s call, I have to hold the phone away from my ear because his words are getting louder and louder, and more and more of them are curses.
“You fucked up everything, Wix! We had it all planned. We spent fucking money on this proposal to make it media-worthy, and then you were goddamn MIA. What the hell are you thinking marrying some fucking billionaire instead of toeing the line like I told you to? You don’t get to make those decisions. I make the decisions.”
When Morty finally takes a breath, I open my mouth to speak. But Jim must be on another extension or in the same conference room, because he breaks in.
“What’s done is done. There’s no going back now, and even if we could undo this Vegas farce, it’d be even worse. JC looks like an ass, but at least a heartbroken ass is sympathetic.”
“She shouldn’t have done anything in the first place! This is fucking ridiculous. I swear you did this just to piss me off!” Morty’s yelled words are starting to hurt my ears.
“I told you I wouldn’t fall in line,” I finally say. “You didn’t listen to me.”
“You don’t get to have an opinion, Wix. Your ass is going back to Kentucky!”
Jim breaks in again. “Come on, Morty. We talked about this. Sending her back to Kentucky isn’t going to do anyone a damn bit of good.”
For the first time since I answered the phone, a feeling of relief slides through me.
Morty grumbles, still unwilling to concede completely. “Well, she better fall in line from here on out.” Finally addressing me again, he says, “You better not miss a show, a practice, a radio spot, a meet and greet, or even a frigging meeting, though, Wix. I will yank you off that tour so fast, your head will spin, and then you can go crawling back to your billionaire husband and remember the career you could’ve had.”
“I won’t miss anything. You have my word.”
“I’ll be checking up on every single thing. You see if I don’t.”
“I got it.”
“Good. Now quit fucking up everything and go write some goddamn songs for your next record. You still owe me six.”
“Six? What are you talking about?”
“We’re doing an exclusive for a big-box retailer. So go write some shit.”
The relief I was feeling slips away, and I sink down into the chair behind me. “Six songs? By when?”
“You’ve got three weeks. I’m already setting up time for a songwriter to meet up with you in Dallas to try and knock some out. If you can’t do it, then I’ll pick something for you.”
The thought of Morty picking songs for me was terrifying.
I can write, but six songs in three weeks? I try not to panic.
“Okay,” I mumble. “I guess I better get started then.”
“Damn right. Hope you weren’t counting on a honeymoon.”
Reeling, I shake my head, but he obviously can’t see me. I start to reply, but the line goes silent. Glancing down at my phone, I can see he’s ended the call.
Well, that went better and worse than I expected. I still have a career—unless I miss something, which I will not allow to happen. And I need to write six songs in three weeks. I haven’t written anything in months. On top of the craziness of touring and this new marriage thing, I don’t know how I’m going to get in my zone and find some inspiration. I guess I don’t have a choice, so I’d better get started.
The door to the villa’s office swings open and Creighton appears. “Do I need to crush them?”
His automatic support throws me for a loop, and warmth floods my veins. “Excuse me?”
“Do I need to crush your label?”
“Why would you do that?” I ask, stunned by the offer.