Page 33 of Riot

“I told you, you would,” I retort.

He leans closer, and I suck in a breath at his proximity. “So did I, but it was so fucking worth it,” he says, his eyes dropping to my lips, so I place a hand on his solid chest and push him away before I do something stupid, like kiss him.

“So . . .” I want to change the subject. “You’re stalking me around the world and seem to know everything about me, but I hardly know anything about you.”

“What do you want to know, beautiful? Ask and I’ll tell you anything,” he replies. My eyes narrow. No one is that honest. They cover things up and tell half-truths to impress the other person.

“First time you got hard,” I say, pushing him.

“In gym class. It was really embarrassing. Something about the way Sarah Peoples was jogging made it happen. Everyone saw.” He grins. “Keep asking, sweetheart. I have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Everyone has something they are ashamed of.” I frown. “Something you don’t want anyone else to know.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I want you to know everything about me, even the bad stuff, so ask and I will answer.”

I stare into his earnest eyes, confused. “First love?”

“You,” he says without a moment of hesitation.

“What? You didn’t love your first girlfriend?” I joke to cover the uncomfortable feeling within me.

“No, I didn’t. I have never loved anyone the way I love you, not even my parents. I know I should feel bad about that, but they were just there. I was supposed to care about them, and in a way, I did, but it was never love.” He says it all without a hint of shame.

“Why did you come back here?” I ask, needing to move on before I look too closely at his answer and the fact that he apparently loves me. He’s wrong—he can’t—he just thinks he does.

He’s in love with the idea of me, not the real me.

“For you.” He grins. “I spent the last year building my name and wealth so I could be worthy of you. When I figured it was time, I came back to be closer to you.”

Jesus Christ, why is every answer coming back to me?

Why am I so hot and flustered?

Maybe it’s the intensity in his eyes, the raw truth I hear in his voice, or the way he’s massaging my legs like he isn’t the least bit worried about what he’s admitting when most would bury those dark things deep down so no one would ever see, never mind admit them to another person.

“Why did you become a singer?” There, that’s a safe question.

“I was always good at singing. People told me I should try, so I did to earn some money. I was good at it and started moving up through the ranks, but it solidified my choice when I met you because I knew I needed to be as close to you as possible.” I frown at that. He met me a year ago, and he was already an established singer by then. Maybe he’s confused.

“Ever slept with a fan?” It’s something a lot of singers brag about, sleeping with groupies, but I find it cringey.

“Never,” he states so vehemently that I truly believe him. “In fact, I’ve been celibate for a year.”

“A year?” I gape at him. “Are you saying you haven’t slept with anyone since meeting me?”

“Why would I?” he asks, tilting his head. “I know what and who I want, so why would I risk that for momentary pleasure when it would pale in comparison to the real thing?”

“But I saw you with women and—” I stop, realizing what I said. I didn’t go out of my way to look him up, but like me, he’s on every news outlet, and whenever he stepped out with someone, they pounced on it.

The sly grin he gives me lets me know I’m not getting away with that, but he doesn’t say anything, thank fuck. “For PR or I was working with them, nothing more than that, and every time, I debated having the pictures pulled, but I wanted your attention. I’m glad it worked.”

“I wasn’t jealous.” I point at him in warning. “I was just saying.”

“Sure, sweetheart.” He grips my legs possessively. “I was jealous every time I saw you with someone new. My only reassurance was that they were never there more than once, so they meant nothing to you.”

“What does that mean?”

“They were just something else for you to use and flaunt, like money or fame.” He shrugs. “It was obvious to me. They were a distraction, a buffer.”

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