Page 58 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“Ricki, I’m gonna…Stop.” Ezra tore her hand away, gathering her wrists and, with one hand, pinning them against the wall above her head. Her breathing went ragged as she was wildly turned on by the restraint.

Trailing succulent kisses down her throat, he slipped his other hand down, down, down, into the soaked cotton of her panties. Mouth hot against her jaw, he lightly stroked her in languorous circles. Her eyes shuttered closed. Her head fell back against the wall. She was reeling, feeling almost too much.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that Ezra’d dropped to his knees in front of her. And the sight of this big, magnificent man submitting to her was unimaginably sexy. He gripped her hips and planted a wet, suckling kiss under her belly button, teeth sinking into her soft skin. Ricki’s knees buckled. Then, in a bold, hungry move, he pulled her panties to the side and, without ceremony, buried his face in her. “God,” she breathed as he dragged his tongue along her folds, torturing her with soft suction and indulgent licks, like he’d been dying for it. Like he’d die without it.

She was drowning now, back arched from the wall, breastsflushed, leg hooked on his shoulder. Ezra’s muscled arms were the only thing holding her upright, until her rising moans became too much for him to bear.

Ezra pulled Ricki down to him, and the two toppled backward onto her rug in a tangle of limbs. Somehow, with her clinging to him, he reached for a condom from his wallet. With frenzied impatience, she snatched it from him and put it on. Drawing her into a delicious, bruising kiss, he pinned her down under the hot, velvety expanse of his muscled body. They were both caged in, the whole world reduced to this. Just Ricki and Ezra, skin on skin, hearts thundering against each other in the dark.

It was what they’d been aching for. But Ezra paused. He gazed down at her, his face a map of adoration and outrageous want.

And something else. Something Ricki couldn’t recognize.

“Please,” she whimpered.

“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, lips teasing hers. Ricki could feel his heartbeat crashing against her chest. He was everywhere, his strong body crushing hers. She arched against him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“Everything,” she gasped. “You, Ezra.You…”

He sank into her andsweet Christ, it was good. But “good” was too weak a word, because nothing had ever felt like this before: transcendent and ruinous and soulmate-perfect.

Gripping his strong back, Ricki gasped on another hard thrust, and another, and then she couldn’t find her voice at all, because she peaked, suddenly and sharply, in an obliterating spike of pleasure. Ezra fucked her through it, gripping her ass and lifting her into each ferocious stroke, stoking that impossibly deep spot, coaxing her to come again in blinding waves. Only then did Ezra allow himself to break, too, rasping her name against the warmth of her neck.

They clung to each other like this, quivering and quiet.

This was always going to happen.

At some point, they drifted off to sleep, right there on the floor.

In the early morning, Ricki opened her eyes to sunlight streaming through her window. Her cheek rested on his chest, her hand in his. She raised her head, seeing that Ezra was awake. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes bloodshot and damp. He looked like his heart was already broken.

“Tell me now.” She settled back onto his chest, shutting her eyes, steeling herself against whatever he was going to say. “Tell me everything.”

And so he did.

CHAPTER 14

EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE

February 16, 2024

Tuesday could spot a fake when she saw one. How could she not when, technically,shewas fake. Her government name wasn’t even Tuesday Rowe; it was Teodozji Roesky. When her mom, Roksana, named her, she couldn’t have anticipated that her brown-skinned baby would one day be a TV star—with a manager who’d demand a less “ethnically confusing” moniker.

Ezra Walker was also fake. It was painfully obvious that he wasn’t who he said he was. How could Ricki not see it?

Tuesday wasn’t having it. She was no longer in the business of allowing possibly dangerous men to hurt her or the people she loved. Ricki was vulnerable, well meaning, and real in a way that demanded protecting. And she just didn’t trust Ezra with her.

Thanks to a mix of regression therapy and self-actualization podcasts, Tuesday finally saw herself as a real person: no longer a puppet for her managers, a fantasy for her fans, or a punching bag for misogynistic tabloids. It had taken a lot of work, because she’d been indoctrinated at a young age to chase artificiality. In fact, every profile ever written about her was anchored in a very specificlie. That at five years old, she told Santa that for Christmas, she wanted to be a star.

Which was ridiculous. Tuesday never even believed in Santa. Roksana hadn’t allowed it; she’d be damned if some red-facedpyzatyporker would take the credit for the gifts she saved for all year with her coat check tips.

Tuesday did remember wanting to be likeThe Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’s Ashley Banks when she grew up. But what five-year-old is qualified to make career decisions? She’d also dreamed of becoming a horse. Or working at a grocery store. Tuesday used to watch the CTown Supermarket checkout lady, mesmerized, as she packed up all their groceries, making sure each item fit just right. It was like assembling a jigsaw puzzle, just with Eggos and Lunchables! But Tuesday’s mom didn’t drive from Harlem to Hollywood to pursue a career in supermarket sales for her baby girl. No, her mom decided that TV stardom was the plan.

Poverty was on the horizon, and Roksana Roesky was no dummy.

After Tuesday was hired as a spunky cutie-pie onReady Freddy, nothing was ever real again. Birthday parties? Staged. Mommy-daughter picnics? Staged. At ten, she posed for a wholesomePeoplepic with her on-set teacher, who was also dealing her amphetamines on the side. At fourteen,CosmoGirlinterviewed her about the value of natural beauty, but by then, she’d already had a nose job, her first breast augmentation, and every errant hair lasered from her body. At sixteen, her prom date was an up-and-coming actor represented by her manager, who arranged the whole thing and promised the twenty-three-year-old “full access.” Even her short marriage to the closeted NBA player was one of her manager’s genius ideas. He felt her image needed rehabilitation after she’d started one club brawl too many.

No one ever asked why she was always fighting. Or why she was so angry. Tuesday starred in a hit show and dozens of TVmovies and held down major cosmetics contracts. She should’ve been happy! And even after she exposed her sleazy manager for sexual harassment, no one cared. No one even believed her.Shewas punished; he wasn’t.

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