Rock Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #3) (33 page)

"Thank you." They're nice shades. Designer. A black frame with a slight cat eye. Grey lenses. I slide them on and check my reflection. Not bad. I almost pull off rock star girlfriend. But then I shouldn't get ahead of myself.

***

T
om directs me south on a street that runs parallel to the ocean. By the time he tells me to leave the main drag, I have the hang of driving.

He points to a parking space in front of a small white and grey apartment complex. We're a few blocks from the beach, close enough to hear the waves and smell the salt. There's beautiful soft light everywhere. And the ocean seems to go for miles.

"It's through here." Tom leads me to a door marked
Three
. He takes back the keys and uses one of them to unlock the door.

Okay. We're going into a strange apartment. It's not his. He lives in Hollywood. What the hell is he trying to show me?

It's a beautiful place. Light streams through the wide-open windows. There's a small kitchen along the wall. A bed, a couch, a dresser, a changing screen in the back.

And there's photography equipment. A tripod. A lighting kit. Gold and silver bouncers. Stands. There must be a few thousand dollars worth of accessories here.

"What is this?" I ask.

"It's your photo studio."

"I can't afford this."

"The lease is paid for the next twelve months. If you don't want it, ignore it. But it's yours." He takes the key off the ring and hands it to me.

It's sharp edges press against my palm. I meet his gaze. "I don't even know if I want to run my own studio."

"Yes, you do. You get this look of excitement in your eyes whenever you talk about it. Whenever you look at your photos. You can think whatever you want about me, kid. But I'm not going to watch you run away from your ambition." He stares back at me. "You deserve the world. This is the least I can do."

"I can't take your money."

"Then consider it a payment."

"For what?"

"I need your help with something."

Sounds implausible. I take a deep breath. "What?"

He pulls his cell phone from his pocket. "You told me to spin the story as the truth."

I nod.

"That's what I did." He taps the screen a few times and hands the phone to me.

It's the same gossip site but the headline is totally different.

Tom Steele Confirms Identity of the Mystery Girl and He's Madly in Love.

What?

Madly in love.

With me.

My heartbeat picks up until it's the only thing I can hear.

"Keep going, gets better," he says.

I do.

There's a picture. A selfie Tom took. From his gorgeous green eyes to the jut of his hipbone. Only.

No.

There's fresh ink on his hipbone. A single word.

Willow
.

My hands are so sweaty I nearly drop the phone.

"Miles did it first, but he got his on his chest. Figured this was the best way to one up him."

I stare back at Tom. "You... You didn't."

He nods, unbuttons his jeans, and pulls them down low enough to reveal the ink. There it is, in curving black letters. My name. On his body. Forever.

"Tom." I set the phone on the windowsill before I break the damn thing. "I..."

"I love you, Willow. Took me a while to figure out what that meant, two people loving each other, but I'm sure." He slides his arms around my waist. "Now I need your help making sure the whole world knows it."

"How?"

He points to the camera poking out of my purse.

"And you're paying me for this service with a year of studio rent?" I ask.

"Unless you demand two years." He pulls me closer.

"No, one year is plenty." My laugh is nervous. He loves me. I tug at his jeans. "Show me again."

He does.

I trace the letters with my fingertip.

Tom runs his hand through my hair and looks me in the eyes. "I hope you're okay with the whole world thinking you're my girlfriend."

"As long as the whole world knows you're my boyfriend."

He nods and presses his lips into mine. The world shifts into focus. Everything is easy. Light. Perfect.

Then he pulls back and he brings his mouth to my ear.

"I love you," he whispers.

And somehow the world gets better.

I whisper back. "I love you too."

He teases. "How can I be sure you're not saying that because you want to get into my pants?"

"You can ask me again after I'm done with you."

He takes my hand and leads me to the bed. "I can arrange that." Tom does away with his t-shirt as he pulls me into the bed.

His lips go to mine. It's like all the kisses before it but it's better in every way. Feelings pour between us. Love. Affection. Tenderness.

I've got no patience. I need our bodies joining. I need this love pouring between us with nothing in the way. No clothes. No deceit. No holding back our feelings.

I pull off my tank top and do away with my bra. Tom responds with the same eagerness. Kissing my lips, my neck, my chest.

He pulls my underwear to my knees and runs his fingertips over me. It's too much. I'm already sensitive. And I need him. All of him.

I push his jeans and boxers off his hips. Then they're at his feet and my hand is tracing the lines of that tattoo again and again.

That's a lot to live up to. But I'm game to try.

I spread my knees. "Please."

He groans as he slides into me. I'm home. Every time we've been together has been amazing, but it's never been like this.

We move together, arching and groaning and thrusting together. Our lips lock and we kiss hard and deep. In no time at all, an orgasm races up inside me. I hold him close, groaning his name again and again as I come.

It's beautiful, watching pleasure spread over his face. Better now that he's mine. After a few more thrusts, he's coming, moaning against my skin as he fills me.

Tom stays on top of me, inside me. God, it feels right, our bodies together.

I stare up into his eyes. This is everything. "I still love you."

He smiles. "You just came. I'm not sure your word is trustworthy."

"Guess you'll have to try again later."

"I have plans to make you come again later."

"Tomorrow?"

"You're definitely coming tomorrow."

"The next day?"

"Every day for the rest of our lives."

A smile spreads across my lips. "I love you so much."

He runs his fingertips over my jaw line. "I love you too."

T
he most respected photo editor in the country is shaking my hand. There are words coming out of her mouth, something about loving my portraits, about wanting to hire me to shoot a feature for her magazine. A feature spotlighting an A-list, Oscar winning actress. Something edgy, with personality, like all these lovely photos on the wall.

I nod
yes
and point her to my agent. Do I really have an agent? It's hard to believe that this is my life.

A familiar voice grabs my attention.

"Willow, sweetheart, these photos are amazing." Hazel takes my hand and pulls me away from the editor. She scans the walls of the gallery and settles on the first of my dozen pictures—a moody portrait of Tom. "I was worried you'd given up photography to follow him around the country when you turned me down."

"No way in hell I'd give this up."

Hazel smiles. "I'm almost glad you aren't my assistant."

"Almost?" I ask. "What's wrong with my replacement?"

"His ego is bigger than your boyfriend's and he's not even half as attractive." Hazel nods to Tom in the corner, directing a star struck gallery attendee to one of my portraits with a proud look on his face. "Enjoy this night. It's the only time you'll be more in demand than he is."

"Thank God. I'm not sure how the guys do this celebrity thing. It's exhausting."

Hazel kisses me on the cheek. "I'm proud of you honey. Your parents here?”

I shake my head. "No. We're not close. But—" I point to Ophelia, in the corner next to Tom. "Tom's mother is here. She's sweet and badass. You'd like her."

Oh. They're looking at the portrait of Ophelia, the one I took, in her words, to immortalize her one good tit. It gave me an idea—to offer discounted and free boudoir shoots to cancer patients, to help them feel at home in their bodies again.

The demand has kept me busy. Really busy. But it's more than worth the time crunch for the joy that spreads over people's faces as they look at their finished pictures.

Hazel laughs. "You've always been a daydreamer. I'm glad you haven't changed. Good luck with everything."

She nods goodbye. There's someone else ready to talk to me. A fan. I have a fan. It's totally bizarre. I have a dozen portraits in the most prestigious gallery in all of Los Angeles. A showing of my work. For the next six months. The owner is charging outrageous sums for my work.

It's dizzying.

I make it through another five introductions. Then ten. I'm about ready to drop when I feel arms around my waist. My body floods with warmth as Tom pulls me closer.

"You hanging in there, kid?" Tom presses his lips against my neck.

"Mmmm. I'd rather be doing this somewhere else."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

I scan the packed room. It's been a solid three hours of schmoozing. It's overwhelming, everyone here to support me, to see my work.

My studio business started slowly—a few clients here, a few clients there, but now I'm booked Monday to Thursday and every other Saturday. I mostly shoot boudoir but I make time to squeeze in editorials, headshots, even engagement photos. At first, Tom helped with the practical bits, but now I have the hang of it.

I'm a real, honest to goodness business owner.

A real working artist.

His hands go to my hips. "I have something to show you."

"What is it?"

"A surprise."

"Can I have a hint?"

"No."

"What if I have a surprise for you?" I do. I can't believe I've managed to keep it a secret the last few days.

"Oh, you're after a quid pro quo, are you?" He pulls me out of the gallery, onto the quiet Beverly Hills street. "Maybe if you go first..."

My cheeks flush. I know he'll love it, but I'm still nervous. "Has to be at home."

He leads me to me to the neighborhood around the corner. His red sports car is parked in front of some several-million-dollar mansion. It's a nice place. Too nice, as Hazel would say.

Tom pulls the passenger's door open. "Then my surprise first. You'll have to wait."

"You're a tease."

He slides into the driver's seat and turns the car on. "You keep talking like that, and I'll get ideas, kid."

***

Tom doesn't drive towards his place in Hollywood. He goes west.

The top is down. The cold air sends goosebumps up and down my arms. But it's worth it for the view of the sky. The stars come into focus the further we get from the center of the city. By the time we're in Venice Beach, the sky is filled with them.

"Where are we going?" I ask. "Your place is in the other direction."

"Is it?"

I turn towards Tom to take in every ounce of affection in his expression. "You're up to something, Mr. Steele."

"Not yet." He winks. "But soon."

Okay. It's a surprise. Something tells me it's an amazing surprise.

After five minutes driving city streets, we pull into an eclectic neighborhood. Into the driveway of a house on the beach.

It's actually on the beach. The backyard is sand.

My heartbeat picks up. We're staying in a house on the beach? There are a lot of ways this can go, and they're all amazing.

Tom turns the car off. He holds up his key ring, showing off one key in particular. It's shiny. New.

This place is gorgeous on the outside—very modern, all sharp corners and glass. Big white window shades provide plenty of privacy. If privacy is what we want. If not, well... it has quite the potential for showing off.

It's just as beautiful and modern inside. The den has all sorts of options for seating or screwing. A couch. A rug. An armchair. Wait. That's Tom's armchair, the one that is usually in his bedroom.

Huh.

He's smiling wide. Proud. Excited.

"That's your chair." I scan the room again. It's flashy and classic at once. There's only one possibility. "This is your new place? But... when did you move? I saw you two days ago." The gallery opening has kept me busy.

"It's our new place." He pulls another key ring from his pocket and hands it to me.

"What about Pete?"

"He has a mansion to himself. Don't think he's complaining."

My fingers curl around the key. "Our new place?"

He nods. "You like it?"

"It's perfect."

"Good. I bought it." He slides his arms around my waist. "It's ours, even if my name is on the deed. It won't matter soon... It will..." He runs his fingers through his hair. "It's only a ten minute walk to your studio."

He's nervous about something. It's hard to focus on that when I'm in such an amazing house. Our house. That he bought. For us.

The words bounce around my head. "We're living together."

He smiles. "Yeah, we are."

"And in the mornings, I'll wake up to the smell of coffee and you in the kitchen all sweaty from the gym."

"You sleep that late?"

"I'm a business owner. I can sleep as late as I want!"

"There's an office upstairs." He presses his lips against my neck. "It's yours."

I have my own office. I take his hand and pull him towards the stairs. "Let's see."

"Mmm, bossy today."

Tom leads me into the office. Everything is set up—a thick, white sit to stand desk, an ergonomic chair, a very expensive desktop computer. The one I've been eying for ages.

There are framed prints on the wall. My work. A smattering of different styles but all in black and white.

He squeezes me then leads me through a tour of the place. The master bedroom is especially gorgeous. It's decked with a king bed, string lights, and a disco ball. There's a walk in closet and a master bathroom with a tub that fits two.