Page 11 of Protecting His Brat
I nod. “Clean?”
He nods.
I lose track of the positions and the locations of every orgasm. It’s just a pleasure parade around his apartment, no surface is safe from our fuck-fest. Between rounds, I become aware that I must look like shit. Sweat covers my skin, my hair has to be a rat’s nest, and I know my makeup isn’t where it should be. But Scott doesn’t give a shit. He tells me I’m beautiful. He worships my body and touches me in a way that inches suspiciously close to cherishing.
When I start to give him crap again, or acting the brat again, he spanks me until I’m a puddle of goo in his hands. Sometimes, I act up just to feel the sting of his skin against mine.
God only knows how many hours later I find myself in his bed, wrapped in his arms, sleep swiftly bearing down on my exhausted form. It’s dark outside now, we had a dinner of BLTs and shitty beer naked in bed. I’m satisfied in more ways than ever before in my life. And I’m scared out of my mind. “This doesn’t mean anything. Just because we’re good in bed, doesn’t mean we’re good anywhere else.”
Scott kisses my shoulder. “Shut up and go to sleep, my little brat. Your ass is going to need time to heal, so no antagonizing me for the rest of the night.”
Pulling my back in tight against his chest, Scott nuzzles his face into my neck and releases a deep breath.
God help me, a smile slides across my face. This is bad.
Chapter Six
Scott
“So, are you like a musician or something?” Lacy’s voice echoes from the half-finished studio at the back of the apartment.
Shit.
I shut the door a little harder than necessary behind me. Annoyance has already taken up residence in my chest thanks to the self-inflicted wild goose chase I’ve spent the last hour of my life involved in. All because Lacy wanted a certain all-natural soap that she’s been missing since moving in. Apparently, Dove bar soap isn’t good enough. And since I’m addicted to making this woman happy, I voluntarily went out in search of it.
Only to come home to her and her questions.
“Figured that out finally, did you?” Trepidation creeps up my spine. I won’t lie to her, but I don’t want her finding out about my fame yet.
During some of our post-sex conversations, I’ve been able to figure out that Lacy isn’t much of a music person. When she does listen to music, it is all Top 40 shit that Malfeesance would never be caught dead near. It’s no wonder she has no clue who I am.
“Oh God, are you a starving artist or something?” She pads out from my soon-to-be studio carrying the practice guitar I’ve kept handy during renovations.
All the really valuable stuff is in storage in the basement. The dozens of guitars, amps, awards, magazine covers. All boxed away and hidden in the basement, like porno mags I’m hiding from my mom. Only they’re little pieces of my life I’m hiding away from the girl I’m quickly realizing I can’t live without.
“I never understood people who would rather be poor and an artist than rich and a broker or something. Like what kind of sense does that make?”
“Maybe they’d rather be happy doing something they love. Money doesn’t bring love.” I cross to the kitchen, dumping the bags of food and her soap, which cost as much as all our groceries for the week, on the counters.
I’m unsurprised to see she follows behind. Lacy puts on a big front like she can’t stand me or this place, but when we’re both here, she seeks me out. Sometimes, she pokes at me, like now. Sometimes she just sits nearby. But it is clear she doesn’t like being alone as much as she says.
“Sure, it does. Money can bring you anything.” Laying my guitar on the island, she hops up next to it, her bare legs swinging back and forth over the edge. A couple days ago, Lacy came back from a walk around the neighborhood with bags of clothes. Mostly sundresses meant to torture my cock. No clue how she bought them considering the agent on her case has yet to call back and her funds are still on lock down.
“You have money. Do you have love?” A flash of hurt crosses her face, and I immediately want to punch myself in the nuts for putting it there. “Do I look like I’m starving?” I wave my hand over the mounds of food waiting to be put away. Then down my body, which she has seen quite a lot of these past few days.
“Okay, good point.” The twang of a few strings vibrates through the air as she plucks at my guitar. “So, you, like, make your living playing music?”
One by one, I put the produce away, keeping my eyes glued to the avocados and tomatoes like they might sprout legs and wander off. “Yes.”
Silence presses in around us. She’s thinking. One thing I’ve learned about Lacy is that when she’s quiet, I should be worried. It means she’s putting things together. I don’t want her to put this together.
“If you’re some big musician, why don’t you just hire people to do all the work around here for you? Why do it yourself?” She jumps down from the counter, reaching around me to take out the grapes I just put away. Back on her perch, she pops them in one at a time, looking at me with new curiosity.
“Why pay someone to do something I’m perfectly capable of doing? And who said I’m big?” Does she already know? It shouldn’t be a big deal. Lacy is famous in her own right, as a socialite and daughter of the infamous Frank Falluci. Even before the scandal with her dad, I knew of her, though not much. Though it took that article for me to connect the dots that the woman I saved was the one in the tabloids.
“So, what? You play bars? Small clubs? Are you a solo artist? Do you have a band?” Lacy pops a handful of grapes off the vine and pushes the baggie to the center of the island.
I shift my gaze toward her and raise one eyebrow. That’s all. One eye-brow, and she knows.
