Page 68 of Faithful

“I want to see your face,” I mutter as we rush to undress each other. “I want to see your face when I’m inside you.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?” He sinks his fingers into my hair, pulls me closer, and wraps a leg around my thigh.

There’s the slide of one body against another.

The sound of labored breathing.

A hand reaching for a nightstand drawer.

A moan released into the space of the room.

This union–it’s hurried at first like the first sip of water after you’ve been walking in the desert for days. It becomes something entirely different, slow and measured and nothing like we’ve done before, and it consumes me so much I don’t remember when exactly I pass out. I just know that at some point, nirvana descends onto earth and wraps me in its soft, glittery arms and lulls me to sleep.

* * *

“I don’t read the band’s press,” Kai tells me the next morning when I shove my phone at him so he can see the article inRolling Stone.

“You should,” I say insistently, nudging his bare shoulder with the device. “You’ll like what they have to say.”

It’s close to noon and we are still naked in bed eating breakfast (thank fuck for room service).

Okay, not entirely naked, but underwear doesn’t count as clothes, does it?

“Get lost.” Kai pushes my hand holding the phone away and proceeds to butter his croissant. “I don’t want it to mess with me.”

“Why? You’re too scared success is gonna go to your head?”

“Not success. Gossip.”

“How?”

“People can think what they want about what I write. It’s fine. All I care about is what I think about my songs.”

“Come on.” I glance back at the screen with the article and quote my favorite line. “Sensual gothic rock classic in the making.”

Kai drops his food on the tray in front of him and reaches for my face to cover my mouth.

I wiggle to the side, my phone slipping from my grip and dropping onto the covers. “Classic in the fucking making?” I say teasingly. “How can you not be proud?”

“Don’t need words from a stranger who writes for a magazine that sold out a long time ago to be proud of my own song making,” Kai declares, tackling me, his body flush against mine.

There’s the clink of silverware from the tray somewhere on his side of the bed.

“It’s a song about a blow job,” I whisper.

He slaps his palm over my mouth. “Exactly. It’s a song about me sucking your cock while people think I’ve fallen in love with some lingerie model. The world can suck my cock too.”

And then he demonstrates why exactly his cocksucking skills had to be turned into a song.

* * *

Vegas is fun.

Sex with Kai in Vegas is fun.

The things that we do besides sex are even better. Like watching his favorite anime or trying out different restaurants via Uber Eats or giving Bodhi an early ulcer.

And every night when Iodine comes out to play another show at Double Down, I’m there in the crowd watching Kai being a superstar. Despite my desire to be closer to him, to be near enough to welcome him into my arms when he walks off that stage all sweaty and tired (weird, I know), I can’t break the promise I gave his manager that very first night.

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