Page 53 of Rockstar's Accidental Marriage

I feel her hands tighten their hold on my hair as she whispers, “Don’t you dare stop now, Ryder.”

Grinning, I mutter, “I have no intention of stopping… Boss Lady.” Then I laugh as she pulls on my hair at the nickname.

Setting a grueling rhythm, I’m good at my word and don’t stop until she’s writhing beneath me, then calling out my name as her orgasm comes quickly. My release takes me next. Afterward, I adjust my weight to the side of her, pulling her close.

Once our breathing normalizes, we’re both too lazy to move and just lie there on the floor, my arm around her waist as she uses my shoulder as a pillow. Emily looks out over the deck, catching a glimpse of the ocean waves through the wooden railing as they continue to roll in. At the same time, my eyes remain on her—the softness of her eyes, the flush on her cheeks. She’s so freaking lovely.

“I can feel your eyes on me, Sam,” she says as she cocks an eyebrow.

Sliding a hand up her thigh, only stopping when it covers her bare ass, I say huskily, “Is that all you feel, Cupcake?”

She pulls slightly away from me, just enough that I can see the exasperation in her gaze. “I don’t let your nicknames bother me anymore,” she says in a haughty tone.

“Good to know, Boss Lady,” I whisper deliberately, pulling her back into my arms where she belongs.

She rolls her eyes but willingly settles against me, throwing one knee over my hip. My roving hand caresses her soft backside while my fingers trail up and down her thigh. I know she loves that, so I continue. We stay like that until the sun fully sets, and we finally become aware of the hardness of the floor.

Standing, I lean down and scoop her up, cradling her against my chest. Smiling, she wraps her arms around me. Feeling her warm breath against my neck, I carry her to our bedroom.

“Sam, do you think it will always be this way between us?”

Smiling down at her, I say, “That largely depends on us. But yeah, I think we’ll always have this insatiable craving for each other.”

Emily nods softly. “Insatiable craving,” she repeats the words slowly, “That’s an apt description.”

Slipping off her sundress, I pull the covers up around her body, tucking her in. She’s sound asleep before I turn out the light.

Walking down the stairs, I secure the house for the night. Smirking, I pick up her blue silk panties and carry them with me upstairs.

When I join her in our king-size bed, she gives a soft little whimper but never awakens as I pull her closer. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I anchor her soft curves against me. Instead of falling asleep, my mind churns as I try to envision what going back on tour will look like for Emily and me. When she returns to being my manager, we’ll no longer be alone–isolated from the rest of the world.

This place, this temporary sanctuary we’ve built in such a short time, feels right. It’s nothing like the chaos of the tour or the glitz of the band’s usual scene, but it’s exactly what I didn’t know I wanted.

I grimace ruefully. Before Emily and the baby, I never worried too much about the future, but now they’re all I think about. That’s my last thought before I finally fall asleep.

Seventeen

Emily

The morning sun is bright, streaming through the windows of the beach house, but I don’t feel its warmth. My stomach twists with a nervous energy I can’t shake. It’s not the fluttering excitement I expected. It’s heavier—an odd mix of dread and anticipation that leaves me feeling uncertain.

“Are you ready?” Sam’s voice carries from the kitchen, deliberately light, but I catch the edge of concern beneath it.

“I’ve been ready,” I snap, even though I know that’s not true. I’ve spent the past hour pacing the house, pretending to decide on an outfit even though it doesn’t matter. The truth is, I’m stalling.

Sam appears in the doorway, holding a to-go mug in each hand. He’s dressed in his usual jeans and a T-shirt, the fabric stretchedjust right over his broad shoulders. He looks calm—irritatingly so.

“Grouchy this morning, aren’t we?” he says, handing me one of the mugs.

I scowl at him, taking a sip. The familiar, soothing blend of chamomile and mint instantly works its magic, easing the tension in my shoulders.

“I’m not grouchy,” I mutter the lie, avoiding his gaze.

He tilts his head, studying me. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not.”

“Emily,” he says gently, stepping closer. “It’s okay to be nervous. I am, too.”

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