Page 285 of Enemies

“You like how fucking deep I am, love?”

“Yes, more.”

“More,” I agree, thrusting in until my balls slap up against her, and she’s grabbing fistfuls of sheets while I indulge in one of my favorite fantasies and fuck her from behind.

Every day, her fans worship her.

Every night, I do.

When I let my hand drift up between her legs to circle her clit, she explodes, clenching on my cock so hard I come with a jolt. I grind against her, turning her chin to catch her moan of completion in a deep kiss as I follow her over.

The second time I take her, she’s on top and we’re face-to-face. Her nails rake my back, and I’m lost.

Turns out having someone brand you is fucking perfect, if it’s the right someone.

I want this forever. Me, planning the next stage of my business—one that’s no longer tethered to the past, but free to expand in the future. Her, triumphing in the club or working on a track. After, both of us coming together like this.

“I love you,” I say after, pulling her toward me.

She traces the outline of my face, my jaw. “I love you too.”

We lie across the satiny sheets, the glow from the headboard the only light in the bedroom. Behind the blackout curtains, the city throbs with its own nighttime energy.

“But...?” I prompt.

She’s wearing that look, the one that says she’s thinking hard about something.

“Tonight, you started to call me your girlfriend but didn’t.”

I can’t stop the chuckle. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Not worried. Curious.”

I stare her down until she starts to shift away, but I drag her back and tilt her chin up to me.

“I like you curious,” I murmur against her neck.

“Go to sleep,” she retorts, but she’s smiling.

“And leave you awake to spin in that beautiful head of yours? Never.”

One thing that hasn’t changed is that it takes her awhile to wind down after a gig.

I brush my fingers through her hair.

“Not spinning. Thinking about your birthday next weekend,” she says. “I have plans.”

“You can’t because I have plans.”

“That’s not how birthdays work.” But her protest is softer, her breaths longer and slower.

I stroke down her arm and thread my fingers through hers, rubbing my thumb across each of her bare knuckles and memorizing the feel.

“It is now. I’ve been working on something too,” I murmur.

But she’s already asleep.

I smile.

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