Page 115 of Until I Own You

I stand up, puff my chest, start to wave my hands. “No, we’re not, we’re–”

“Come on, get up there!” someone yelps and pushes on my shoulder.

“No, I can’t sing, I really can’t–” I begin but am drowned out by the opening notes of Under Pressure throbbing through the speakers.

Damn. That’s a good song. I do know the words.

Before Bridget and I can get our footing, we’re being borne through the crowd by encouraging words and hands until we’re at the edge of the stage.

Abigail grins and holds her mic out to me. “I think you’re the David Bowie.”

“What’s that supposed to–”

She shoves the mic toward my mouth. “Sing!”

I’m usually very in control of everything. It’s why I’m a dominant. It’s why my life has been all work and very limited play the past ten years.

Something about the power of Queen and Bowie combined, complemented by the tiki bar full of drunken vacationers, and the fact Bridget is beside me, grinning ear to ear as she accepts the mic from Jack hits me, and I start singing. Immediately. I can’t explain it.

We both get on stage, lights blaring down on us.

There isn’t a moment to collect or decide, we’re already in the middle of the song, and we do it. We fucking do it. We blow them out of the water because even though I say I can’t sing, I can carry a tune, and Bridget has a voice like an angel.

I don’t care if that’s not objectively true, it’s true to me.

We have fun, singing together, the world drifting away.

I want thousands of moments like this with her. A lifetime-worth of them.

Behind closed doors, in the Underground of my dreams, she will submit to me. Be my good girl, the one I always wanted.

And out in the world…

We can have fun. All the time. Together.

I realize as we sing and laugh and the crowd eggs us on that I truly haven’t had fun in years.

Not until Bridget. Not until I let my heart go.

I’m totally lost for her.

21

BRIDGET

I step out of the shower and squeeze out my hair before looking at my form in the fogged-up mirror.

It’s our last night in Key West. We’re headed back tomorrow afternoon, and while I know Abigail wanted to go out yet again, the rest of us couldn’t muster up the energy.

It’s been one drunken day after another.

Tonight, we’re keeping it low key which, in Seth’s mind, means hiring a private chef for the evening and some help as well, so that we don’t have to lift a finger.

While I’ve always known Seth is wealthy, he doesn’t seem to flaunt it most of the time. Maybe he’s working too much to have time to really enjoy it.

However, I got a taste of the private jet the other night, the luxuries of a black card, and tonight, a meal at home that’s going to be more like a meal at a Michelin-star restaurant.

I guess that’s the Carlton way. I don’t mind that one bit.

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