Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(24)

I’m still lazily floating in the post-orgasmic haze, enjoying Creighton’s hand smoothing up and down my inner thigh and the press of lips on my hipbone, when someone knocks on the door to the bus.

“Tell them to go away,” I whine.

At any other moment, I might care that I sound like a little brat, but right now, I really, really don’t. All I want is to savor this feeling for a few more minutes, and then give my own knees a workout while I return the favor.

Creighton complies with my request, and his deep voice punctures the bus’s silence. “Go the f*ck away!”

Points for style to Creighton.

The knock comes again.

“Ugh. Really?”

I open my eyes and look toward the clock. Something about nine a.m. is nagging at my brain. We already hit a seven a.m. radio spot, and this little interlude was my reward for actually rolling out of bed on time. Well, that’s what I’m calling it anyway.

Creighton rises, eyeing my body, which is naked from the waist down. “As much as I hate to say it, you need to put some more clothes on.”

I let out a grumbling groan that is the opposite of sexy. Luckily, Creighton just smiles and adds, “I’ll get the door and distract whoever it is.”

As I peel myself off the couch and stumble toward the back bedroom of the bus, I have a sneaking suspicion that this is what teamwork feels like. And isn’t that what a marriage is supposed to be? Teamwork?

This one-week-old marriage of impulse is starting to feel more real every day, and I’m not certain how I feel about that. It was supposed to be simple. Uncomplicated. An easy way for me to dodge the JC-fake-fiancée situation and try to take some control over my own career—and indulge in a lot more orgasms like the one I just had. But it’s quickly morphing into something else entirely.

Do I want it to be something else? Am I really prepared to make this a real marriage? Is Creighton?

I press my thumb and forefinger into my temples, which are starting to ache. I need time to sit and consider this change in our regularly scheduled program so I can decide how to react—but it’s not like I’ve got many spare minutes to sit and ponder while on tour. I can’t help but wonder if it’s just the fact that Creighton is out of his element that’s causing things to change.

What happens after the tour? The ache in my head ratchets up to a throb. Great. Don’t have time for a headache.

Male voices come from the living area of the bus, and I hurriedly slip on a pair of yoga pants and glance in the mirror. My hair and my expression clearly communicate just been f*cked—which isn’t really fair. Yes, I just had an orgasm, but things were just starting to get good when we were interrupted.

Heading back out to the living area of the bus, still bowled over by the granite countertops, leather couches, and dark cherrywood interior that is altogether fancier than any bus I’ve ever been on before, I remember why nine a.m. was nagging at me.

Because I have an appointment scheduled. With a songwriter. Except no one bothered to tell me it was Vale Garcia.

Fudge sticks.

I plaster on a congenial smile. “Look what the cat dragged in,” I drawl.

Vale’s grin is knowing, and I fight the urge to grit my teeth.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says.

Creighton looks from Vale to me. “I take it you two have worked together before?”

Vale stares at me as he answers Creighton. “Holly and I worked very closely together right after she won Country Dreams. Isn’t that right, Hols?”

He couldn’t be any more obvious than if he scrawled the words I did everything but bang your wife in fat black Sharpie on a yellow neon piece of poster board and waved it around over his head. Except to a casual observer, Vale’s smug smile probably did say I banged your wife—which isn’t true.

I respond with what I hope is ego-deflating nonchalance. “The last year has been such a whirlwind, I can barely remember what I was doing a few minutes ago.” I slide in closer to Creighton and glance up at him. “Well, that’s not entirely true. Some things I remember very vividly.”

Smiling back at Vale, I wonder if my expression looks half as smug as I think it does. “I apologize; I’m being so rude. Vale, this is my husband, Creighton Karas. Creighton, this is Vale Garcia.”

Vale reaches out, and he and Creighton shake hands, clearly taking each other’s measure.

“I guessed,” Vale says, dropping Creighton’s hand after a moment. His eyes cut back to me. “Still surprised you decided to settle down with a one-night stand. Thought you were against those?”

Creighton’s shoulders stiffen. “I’d watch what you say right about now, Mr. Garcia. You’re speaking about my wife.” His tone communicates barely leashed anger.

“I don’t mean anything by it. Just jealous, I guess. I’m big enough to admit that I wish I could’ve been the one to catch her.”

I clear my throat. “All right then. Moving on. Vale, while don’t you settle in, and I’ll grab my notes.”

The man might be an * who stomped out of my hotel room when I wouldn’t let him complete his slide into home base—only to find his way into another woman’s room only a few hours later—but he’s also a damn good songwriter.

Creighton’s arm tenses under my palm, and I’m pretty clear on the fact that he doesn’t want Vale anywhere near me, especially not alone.