Dirty Pleasures (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #2)(25)

I drag Creighton toward the bedroom with me. Well, drag is a bit of an overstatement. I’m under no illusions that he’s following my tugging grip for any reason other than he wants to.

Once I pull him into the room and shut the door, I blurt, “I didn’t sleep with him. It was a close thing, which I’m sure you picked up on, but what I told you before was true. It had been a long time for me before you. Anyway, I want you to know that there’s absolutely no reason to get weird about Vale.”

Creighton’s eyes are practically burning holes in me. “This isn’t me getting weird, Holly. This is me getting f*cking jealous.” He jams a hand into his thick brown hair. “And I don’t f*cking like it. I hate knowing that he’s touched you.”

I’m silent, because I honestly have no idea how to respond. But then again, I’m also aware that Vale is waiting. He’s about to wait a little longer.

I grab a fistful of Creighton’s T-shirt and yank him toward me. “Then kiss me. Mark me. Let him know that I’m absolutely and completely out of his reach because I belong to you.”

Where those words—hell, those thoughts—came from, I have no idea. I’ve rebelled against the very idea of being Creighton’s possession since the day we said “I do,” but this is something totally different. This is something I’m desperate for. I’m not willing to put a label on it yet, and it’s nothing I’ve ever wanted in my life. At least, not that I would admit to before.

Creighton studies me, and I’m not sure what he concludes, but he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arm under my ass and haul me up against him. His mouth lands on mine with an almost crazed intensity. It’s all lips and teeth and tongue as we devour each other.

I throw one arm around his neck and scrape the nails of my other hand along the back of his neck and up into his hair. The kiss lasts only a minute—maybe two—but when he lowers me to the floor, my legs are shaking and my heart is hammering so hard, I feel like it could break a rib.

That just-been-f*cked look? I don’t need to look in the mirror to know I’m now sporting it in spades. My panties are soaked, and there’s nothing I want more in this moment than to beg him to bend me over the bed and bang the hell out of me.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful.” He leans in. “And you’re mine. Don’t forget it, and don’t you let him f*cking forget it.”

My nod is jerky, and Creighton turns, yanks open the door, and stalks out of the room. I ease the door shut again with trembling fingers and quickly strip out of my yoga pants, change my underwear, and jam my legs into a pair of jeans.

I take a deep, relaxing breath, attempting to slow my heart rate back down to a level that doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode. When I exit the bedroom, notebook in hand, Creighton is lingering at the front of the bus and Vale is settled into a chair, notebook propped up on the arm and his guitar in his lap.

Creighton’s eyes snap to me, and my feet take me directly in front of him without any conscious thought on my part. He brushes my hair away from my face and cups my jaw. “I need to go take care of something. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

His explanation is vague and my curiosity is piqued. What could Creighton possibly need to do in Dallas that would take a few hours? But I don’t question him.

I’m learning to trust, I tell myself. After all, isn’t that what he’s doing by leaving me alone with Vale?

“Okay. Want to plan to meet up at noon for lunch? I’ve got a radio thing from two to three, and then I’m free until I have to get ready for the meet and greet.”

“That works for me,” Creighton says.

I close the distance between us and lean up on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. “One more for the road,” I whisper, feeling very wife-like.

I’m still absorbing that thought when he steps away and again brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, leaving my own taste on my lips. I like knowing I’ve marked him too.

“One will never be enough,” he replies before his lips skim across mine once more. He turns and heads for the door.

I’m still standing there like a love-struck fool when he steps off the bus.




I lower my guitar with the last chord of “Lost on Fifth Avenue” hanging in the air between Vale and me. He’s silent for long moments, and my heart rate kicks up, waiting for his opinion. I might think it’s awesome, but he’s the one with a couple of Grammys on his shelf, and all I have is instinct.

Finally, Vale speaks. “You’re going to kill it with that song. Absolutely kill it. You’ve come a hell of a long way since the last project we worked on, if all your stuff is like this now.”

My heart thuds even harder. “You think it’s . . . good?”

“Holly, this song is the shit. I’ve been doing this long enough to know what’s good and what’s really f*cking good, and you’ve just written a chart-topper, girl. I take it you wrote this one recently.”

He raises an eyebrow. Given the lyrics, it’s clear that I wrote it after I met Creighton in New York. The song is all about feeling small in the big city, and realizing that as long as you have at least one thing anchoring you, you can’t get too lost.

When I originally started writing it, the anchor I was talking about was my music . . . but listening to it now, I know that the anchor is not a thing, but a person. This man that I’m way too attached to.