Within minutes of walking through the doorway, he silently strips us both naked and turns the hot water knob to full blast. Stepping under the vigorous spray of the showerhead, the water pelts my ivory skin, kneading the taut muscles and unraveling any tension left in my body. I feel him move in behind me; his sinewy frame presses against my back as he reaches around me to grab the shampoo. Waiting breathlessly for what’s about to come, a small moan escapes my lips the moment his fingertips make contact with my scalp. Working it into a thick lather, he massages the rosemary-infused suds all through my hair. But he doesn’t stop there.
His busy fingers continue to travel down my neck to my shoulders and back until he reaches my bottom. Then, leaving one hand on my ass, he glides the other across my hipbone to the front of my body, cupping in-between my legs and pulling my body flush against his. My soapy head rests back on his left shoulder with my eyes closed tightly, while his fingertip teases my lower lips, flicking back and forth over my swollen clit. After sensually rinsing the soap from my hair, he kisses and nibbles the slippery skin of my neck and shoulder as his finger brushes tantalizingly and slowly across my slit, yearning for the pressure he promised. The heated water falling down around our bodies adds another layer of lusty haze to the already-steamy atmosphere. Reaching down between our slick forms, I grab his fully-erect cock that’s pressing into my ass and begin to stroke it fervently. I want him inside of me. Now.
“Slow down, Angel. We’ve got no reason to rush,” he rasps into my ear. Grumbling, I gradually decrease the speed of my hand, making each pump deliberate and measured. “That’s it, my good little wife,” he commends, rewarding me with a dip of his finger into my core.
Unhurriedly moving his digit in and out of me, my legs weaken as the ache deep inside me builds. Suddenly, he removes his hand and spins me around to face him, a devilish grin playing on his face as he drops to his knees and looks up at me through his thick eyelashes, the droplets molding them into dark spikes. “I need to make sure all of the soap is rinsed off.”
I brace myself with one hand up against the shower wall as he buries his face in my apex, devouring my yearning pussy with his lips and tongue. Lapping. Kissing. Sucking. Torturing me until I pass the point of no return. Palming his scalp—his hair too short to twist my fingers in—I hold his head tightly against my body and feed him my juices. My legs shake and threaten to give out on me, but thankfully, he quickly rises to his full-height and wraps his strong arm around my waist.
“Yep. All clean,” he growls huskily. “Time to put you to bed.”
Somehow, he manages to turn the shower off and get us both out and dried off. Stumbling to the bed, with our hands roaming each other’s body, any notion of slow is thrown out the window. As soon as my back hits the mattress, he’s plunging deep inside of my throbbing pussy. Placing my legs up on his shoulders to give him better leverage, he thrusts in and out feverishly, caressing the sensitive area of my core with the tip of his erection. The pressure inside of me builds faster than I can ever remember, my body enslaved to his touch, and within mere minutes, my walls clamp down around his shaft and I’m calling out his name, coating him in my sensual gratification. Moments later, he stiffens, and that look washes over his face just before he fills me with his warm seed.
Collapsing next to me on the bed, he loops his arms around my waist and cuddles me close. He kisses my forehead, each of my eyelids, the tip of my nose, and finally, my lips before whispering, “I love you, Angel. Sweet dreams.”
“Goodnight, Mase. I love you too.”
SCARLETT
Waking up in the middle of the night in our new home, it takes me a few moments to grasp my bearings and remember where I am. The luster of the moonlight shines through the room at a different angle than our old place, and the deafening silence of no televisions or radios being on is a bit unnerving. Twisting at the waist, I peer over at Mase where he sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. We’re both naked, and I realize we must’ve passed out immediately after having sex.
I lie there for a few minutes trying to fall back asleep, but to no avail. Slithering off the bed ninja-style trying not to wake him, I tiptoe over to the freshly-stocked dresser and grab some panties and a sleep-shirt. I quietly put them on and sneak out of the room to get a glass of water. However, en route to the kitchen I pass through the living room, and the container of photos in the corner calls out to me, begging me to go through a few more. My feet answer their plea, and before I know it, I’m sitting cross-legged in front of them and opening the lid.
Setting aside the ones I’ve already gone through, I pull out another batch, and tears of joy flood my eyes at first glance. The pictures are from the private concert the band played at Hotel Café in Los Angeles—the concert for me.
Life on the road with my rock-star boyfriend definitely had its ups and downs. After a couple of months, I thought I’d faced pretty much anything the lifestyle could throw at me. I realized the overzealous girls weren’t going to go away, Cruz and Sebastian were going to continue to act like the sloppy, horny bachelors they were, and every outfit and hairstyle I wore would be equally loved and hated by the fashion critics. That was, until one of the tabloids somehow found out about Evie and Ash.
People are ruthless. Overnight, my nickname changed to “Angel of Death,” and everywhere I went, I was questioned about why everyone close to me dies and how long it would be until I killed Mason. Not only did these stories and questions bring back terribly painful memories, but they grew into vicious lies about what an awful person I was. They portrayed me as a malicious, cold-hearted bitch that triggered both of their deaths, and some even suggested I murdered them.
Needless to say, I didn’t handle any of it well; I refused to go out in public, spending nearly two weeks without getting off the bus. I withdrew myself from everyone, including Mason. When he tried to discuss things with me, I’d sit silently and cry, and when he’d attempt to hold or kiss me, I’d retract from his touch. It didn’t take long for the media to notice my disappearance from shows and other outings, and the reports about our break-up followed shortly thereafter, claiming he dumped me in fear for his life.
One evening in Seattle, I was sitting alone in Cerrano, reading yet another depressing book while wallowing in my misery, when I heard a tap on the fiberglass door. Groaning, I rolled out of bed assuming I’d have to tell some other desperate groupie to get lost, so imagine my surprise when I swung the door open to see Heather’s face as she stood in the parking lot.
“Oh my God, he wasn’t lying—you do look like shit,” she said as she snarled her nose up at me. “You’ve lost way too much weight.”
“It’s great to see you too,” I quipped back. “Did you come all this way to give me a makeover and make me eat a cheeseburger?”
Pushing past me into the bus, she dropped her bag on the closest chair and put her hands on her hips. “No, I’ve come to pull your head out of your ass, and to remind you that these stupid fucks know nothing about you or what you’ve been through. We’ve talked about this—you were dealt a shitty hand and lost two people you loved dearly. Neither of them would want you to be playing this victim role; they’d want you to put up a fight and show these dumb asses that despite what they print, you are a young woman full of life, love, and laughter.”
I collapsed on the couch and sighed dramatically. “What am I supposed to do, Heather?”
“You can start with taking a shower and getting dressed. I’ve been here less than five minutes and you’re already depressing me,” she snapped, sitting down next to me. “Don’t you see you’re letting them win? You’ve already had Evie and Ash ripped from your life—you had no choice in that—but you can choose whether to allow them to take Mason and your current happiness, or to stand up and fight for him, yourself, and what you know is the truth. He loves you. He wants to be with you. He knows that you had nothing to do with what happened to them. Shouldn’t he be all that matters? Not a bu
nch of strangers that truly know nothing?”
I found it hard to argue with her logic, so I said nothing. Over the next few days, Heather stayed on the bus with us as we slowly traveled down the west coast. By the third day, I’m not sure if I was convinced all of her positive mumbo-jumbo talk was true, or if I was simply tired of listening to her, but I promised her if she went home I would get back out in the public eye, let Mason back in again—emotionally and physically—and ignore all of the haters in my life.
The morning we pulled into San Francisco, the guys left for a round of radio station interviews and photo shoots, so Heather took it upon herself to make me an appointment at a local hair salon. After I’d been shampooed, colored, cut, and styled, I really did feel like a new person. In actuality, it wasn’t a huge change from my usual look, but considering I’d been rocking a bun for quite some time, the highlights and trim provided just enough newness to put a spring in my step. After the salon, we spent a few hours shopping, and I picked up several new outfits to wear to the upcoming California concerts. I wanted to look my best for Mason, knowing that the next week was a big deal for the band as they performed their way down the California coast, especially the show at the Staples Center in Los Angeles the following Thursday.
That night, Heather flew back to Houston, claiming that her job was done, and I surprised Mase by showing up at the concert presenting my freshly-styled locks and a sexy new dress. I’ll never forget seeing his eyes light up when he caught a glimpse of me enjoying his voice in the right wing of the stage. As soon as they finished the show, he hurried over to me and picked me up in his strong arms, twirling me around while kissing all over my face. We didn’t make it to the after-party that night; we had lost time to make up for.
Almost instantly, Mase and I found our groove as a couple again, and by the time we crossed into Orange County, it was as if nothing had ever happened. During the first couple of days, pictures of the two of us back together out in public made a few headlines, but I avoided the media like the plague and focused on what I knew to be the truth.
Everyone on the tour was overly-excited about the LA show. Not only did performing in the entertainment capital of the world incite an electrifying buzz, but we were staying there four days for two shows, which meant three nights in a hotel, and a day-and-a-half of free time! I couldn’t wait to soak in a bathtub, and to sprawl out naked across a big bed without worrying about other people sleeping a few feet from Mase’s and my bed.
The first night, they played at the Staples Center, and everything about it was insane. The intensity of the crowd overpowered the massive venue, the band unveiled their new single—which the concert-goers responded wildly to, and the after-party was full of familiar faces from the big screen. I tried hard not to be star-struck, but it was nearly impossible, and to think these celebrities had come out to see my boyfriend sing was just mind-blowing.
The following evening, the band was scheduled to perform an intimate show at the famous Hotel Café. Everyone on the guest list were fans who had won tickets for this private performance on a local radio station over the previous month. During the day, the guys were busy with interviews and photo shoots with the station, and even though I had just been to the salon with Heather a week prior, Sophie and I hit up a day spa, where we indulged ourselves in massages, facials, manicures, and pedicures, all while sipping pink champagne. We talked about everything and nothing, laughing and relaxing as we thoroughly enjoyed our girl-time together.
On the way back to the hotel, Mason texted me that the band landed a dinner meeting with a producer they’d wanted to work with, and that Sophie and I were to meet them at the performance that night at nine. Our names would be on the list. I didn’t think much about it, quickly replying with a “Kk. See you then.”
Deciding to extend our girl-date, she and I arranged to change into our evening attire, and then meet back downstairs for dinner and drinks before the show. For the big show the previous day, I’d dressed up in a sexy black number with matching heels, my hair in a fancy up-do, and my make-up more dramatic than normal. It was fun to get all dolled-up and hang out with all the pretty people, but my feet were still killing me, so I elected to go with a more casual, relaxed look that night. After slipping my slender legs into a pair of fitted indigo jeans, I opted for a sheer, silvery blouse adorned with fine, metallic strands threaded sporadically throughout it, my snowy-white satin push-up bra clearly visible under the delicate fabric. I allowed my subtly-highlighted tresses to cascade into soft waves down my back, while opting for light make-up application—a thin coat of mascara to lengthen my already dark lashes, a touch of cerise blush to highlight the freckles sprinkled across my cheekbones, and a hint of coconut-flavored gloss smeared across my lips. Before sliding my feet into strappy, silver sandals and grabbing the matching handbag off the bed, I did a once-over in the hotel bathroom mirror, pleased with my appearance—flirty and fun.
I glanced at the alarm clock on the night stand, realizing I was five minutes late, so I hurriedly stuffed my license, money, room key, and phone into the clutch and rushed out into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind me. A quick elevator ride down to the lobby, and I found Sophie at the bar enjoying a pre-dinner glass of wine. Sliding up next to her, she greeted me with a huge smile and a hug, as if we hadn’t seen each other in years.
“You look absolutely perfect, Scarlett. I can’t wait for tonight,” she exclaimed. I thought her excitement level was unusually elevated, but chalked it up to our day of bonding and knowing that the guys had the following day completely free of appointments or shows. I knew she missed hanging out with Aaron, and had a day of activities planned for them.
“Thank you. So do you,” I replied sincerely. I was pleased to see she was dressed similarly in a silky red top, tight faded jeans, and black ballet flats. “Where do you want to eat?”
“I made us reservations at Beso. It’s pretty close to the Hotel Café, so we can just walk over there when we’re finished.” She swallowed the last of her wine, and grabbed her purse from the bar-top as she hopped off the seat.
Shadowing her, we headed out the main doors and made our way to the restaurant. Dinner was excellent; we shared several different items for a sampler effect, and the drinks were even better. I lost count of how many Pretty Girls—their signature drink—I consumed; it was flowing like ice-cold lemonade on a hot summer day. Before I knew it, she announced it was time to go, so we finished up our last drink and paid the tab before heading out.
Exiting into the warm summer evening, I paused for a moment just outside the door, and I closed my eyes while deeply inhaling the southern California air. Tipsy, but not drunk, the alcohol in my blood tingled under my skin. I felt alive and energetic, optimistic and confident. Sophie grabbed my hand and began dragging me down the pavement, insisting we couldn’t be late for some reason or another. I giggled and followed her lead, high on a lot of life and a little Grey Goose, excited to hear the show, and to spend the next day alone with my Mase.
We entered the coffee-shop-turned-music-venue, and were quickly ushered to a reserved table right up next to the small stage. Taking a look around the narrow space, the brick-walled room elicited a cozy, inviting ambiance with its dim lighting and high ceilings. A server hurried over to us the moment we were seated, welcoming us by name and getting our drink order, and the murmuring buzz filling the air in the packed room was nearly tangible as everyone waited for Jobu’s Rum to take the stage. Completely enthralled by the ambiance of the quaint music café, my body began to hum with exhilaration, eager to see Mason sing this up-close and personal.
Shortly after our first drinks arrived, the crowd burst into applause and cheers as the guys casually strolled onto the stage. They all look relaxed and fully at ease in the informal setting, even though it was completely different than what they had grown accustomed to. Mason was dressed in his typical solid black t-shirt that showed off his tatted sleeves, loose jeans, and black Chucks; his hair was
recently buzzed, and his lip-ring glimmered every time the light hit it just right. Looking down at where I sat, his lips curled into a playful grin and his eyes twinkled with secretive mischief as he grabbed the microphone and began talking.
“Good evening, Hollywood! It’s great to see y’all here tonight.” It’d been noted time and time again he had a way of talking to his audience that made people feel like he was having a personal chat with them. Fans couldn’t help but love him. “We truly appreciate you all coming out to witness this once-in-a-lifetime kind of show. I know you were all promised an ‘intimate performance’, but you have no idea how intimate we’re going to get tonight.”
Confused, I tore my eyes away from his lean figure and looked over at Sophie, who was busy blowing kisses and making googley-eyes at Aaron. She was paying no mind to me whatsoever, and I couldn’t get her attention without calling to her out loud, so instead, I refocused on Mason.
“We’re gonna start off by playing a few of our favorites from the first album, and then our two new singles from the second,” he continued. “After that, we’ve got a little something special for you.”
Immediately, they began their set, nailing each song flawlessly, playing with a zealous passion that pulsated deep inside me. It had been so long since I’d watched from the audience as he performed—typically, I watched from the wings of the stage—and it was a truly different experience looking into his eyes as he crooned the lyrics. As the song they had just debuted the night before came to an end, Mason grabbed a wooden stool sitting on the side of the stage and dragged it over to where he stood. The music stopped, and everyone—myself included—remained silent, watching and waiting with ardent curiosity.
Palming the neck of the microphone, he affectionately gazed down at me and smiled warmly, extending his hand down in my direction. “Scarlett, will you join me up here, please?”