Page 25 of Dirty Lyrics
“You couldn’t wait?”
He tilts his head, lips curving in that way that always undoes me.
“Nah, Songbird. I couldn’t wait.”
I inhale sharply as his onyx gaze drifts downward, slow and deliberate. His eyes trail over every inch of me, pausing on the gentle swell of my belly, then lower, then back up again, searing me alive.
When his gaze lingers on my breasts—fuller now, straining against my arm as I try, and fail, to cover myself—I can’t stand it.
I suck in a breath, mortified.
“You changed,” he murmurs, his voice rough silk. “You’re bigger here.”
Shame claws at me. My defenses snap into place.
“I know I’m fat, Rico. You don’t have to point it out.”
His eyes flash, sharp and wounded. He closes the space between us in two strides, voice low, commanding.
“Hush. You know I wasn’t saying that. I never would. Your body is—and always was—perfect to me, Maya.”
The words hit me like a strike to the chest. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not once.
Not in all the years of feeling like the too-big, too-soft girl who didn’t belong anywhere.
A hot tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I shake my head, choking back the sob building in my throat.
“D-don’t. Don’t say things like that.”
His brows furrow.
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
I shake my head.
“Maya, you have to know how beautiful you are.”
“Stop.”
“Why? Why should I stop telling you how fucking gorgeous you are, Songbird?” he demands.
“Because,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I know about you and her.”
His whole body goes rigid.
“Her?”
“Yeah.” My mouth twists bitterly around the name. “I know all about your latest muse, Rico. I know about your Diablita.”
That’s the nickname the press gave her after Rico dedicated Fuego Lento—the song I wrote the lyrics for, for him—to her.
Lucy Volkov.
The beautiful heiress.
The fairytale princess in the tabloids at his side.
The taste of jealousy and sorrow burns on my tongue.
