I laughed, but there wasn’t any humor in it. “Come on, Jordin. You really expect me to believe that?”
She frowned. “Why wouldn’t you?”
I ran my hands over my face. “Because I’ve seen how you are with him. You love him.” I said it like a fact. Because it was.
Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t deny it.
I huffed out a breath, shaking my head. “That’s what I thought.”
Her jaw clenched, frustration flashing in her eyes. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love you, too.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m just—” I swallowed, forcing the words out. “—a backup plan?”
Her eyes softened, and I hated the pity I saw there.
I started to shift away, but she grabbed my face. “You’re not,” she said, her voice quiet but steady. “Oak, you are my home. My best friend. My safe place. And I never want you to feel like you don’t belong here.”
I exhaled through my nose, my hands gripping her thighs just to have something to hold onto.
“So what now?” I asked, my voice rough.
She let out a slow breath, smoothing her hands over my chest. “The first step?” She licked her lips. “Moving out of his house.”
I lifted a brow. “You serious?”
She nodded. “You have a company to run in Tampa. Whenever you’re healthy enough, we’ll go. But for now, I found a condo on Biscayne. I have new clients, new songs to write.”
I studied her, my fingers flexing against her skin. “You sure? You don’t want to wait and see what happens with Ciarán?”
Her lips curved. She tilted her head, her nails trailing down my chest. “You wanna wait for my lover to come back?” she teased, rolling her hips over me. “You like watching him fuck me, huh?”
Heat licked up my spine, my fingers digging into her waist as my dick throbbed.
“Jordin,” I warned. Even though she was somewhat right.
I liked seeing her being given everything she needed. Everything she craved. Everything she deserved. I liked watching the pleasure play out on her face, the way her body melted, the way she let herself feel everything without walls. It was different than being the one giving it. It felt like worship. Like devotion. And she deserved that.
I signed up for this. For her. For her happiness.
She smirked, leaning down until her lips brushed against my ear. “Admit it, Oak. You wanna see me cum for him again, looking you dead in the eyes. I saw how you responded that night.”
My jaw clenched. “The only thing I want to see right now,” I replied, flipping her onto her back, “is you underneath me.”
She gasped, but it melted into a laugh as she pulled me down, her legs wrapping around my waist. I pressed my lips against hers, and she slipped her tongue into my mouth as I pushed into her wetness.
She felt so fucking good. Like her pussy had been made just for me. There was no way I was walking away. I was in until death do us part, and I wasn’t fucking up this time. And deep down, I was hoping this was the last of her Ciarán phase.
But I also knew it probably wasn’t.
Fourty Seven- Ciarán
Four years later.
I sat slouched in a leather chair, fingers drumming against my knee, eyes fixed on the gold plaques lining the wall. My name was on a lot of them. Platinum-selling artist. Most streamed R&B album of the decade. That shit felt like a lifetime ago.
“Ciarán.”
The voice was loud. Clipped. My label’s owner, Gerald fucking Whitmore, stood at the head of the table, his silver hair perfect, suit pristine. Old, rich, arrogant, and white. Typical.
