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“I don’t want anything to ruin tonight,” he says gruffly.
“It’s not ruined,” I tell him. “Because nothing else exists, does it? Not now, not here. It’s just us.”
He smirks, eyes glinting for a moment.
“Just us,” he says passionately. “Come on. Let me get you a drink.”
“Hey, I’m underage, remember?” I joke.
He chuckles. “I didn’t say it needed to have alcohol in, did I?”
He takes my hand and turns us away from the light show, walking us through the door and into the lodge. The floor is covered in interwoven rugs, the fireplace crackling and tossing its heat into the building. Hunter is in the laundry room, sleeping, and the only light comes from the flickering in the fireplace.
I feel achingly alone with Liam.
My man.
My Valentine.
He leads me to the dining room, the exposed wood rafters in the ceiling make it feel rustic. The table looks like a tree stump and the chairs are like medieval thrones draped in blankets.
“This is awesome,” I tell him.
“Take a seat. Get comfortable.”
“Wait a second,” I laugh, shooting him a look. “You’re not going to get the drinks, are you? I thought you’d be too manly for that.”
He grins like a savage. In his moon-shaded suit, he looks as if he could erupt any second. Every part of him is tense and throbbing and full of pent-up energy. I shiver just looking into those possessive eyes of his.
“Be a good girl and sit that fine ass down before I find another use for it,” he growls.
I giggle, or I try to. What comes out is a shaky, wavering noise that’s more like a moan.
I sit down on the throne-like chair as Liam goes to get the drinks. The light is low in here, giving everything a warm orange glow. Liam returns with two champagne flutes, setting mine down and then dropping into the seat directly next to me.
Our legs brush under the table. Shivers dance up my inner thighs and caress my sex, still wet, still eager, still screaming at me to take him.
“It’s non-alcoholic,” he tells me. “But it should still work for a toast.”
He raises his glass and I do the same, feeling insanely grownup. I’ve never made a toast before.
“To you Lola and your angelic singing voice. May you one day find the courage to let the world hear it.”
I flush and we clink glasses, my cheeks burning red.
“You should still book an opening act,” I tell him, before taking a sip.
The champagne is bubbly and shivers down into my belly. Even if it’s non-alcoholic, I could swear it makes me warmer, makes me more comfortable.
“I’m not going to,” he says, a teasing note in his voice.
He leans forward and stares hard into my eyes. I feel trapped beneath his gaze, but not in a bad way. I feel as though he’s aware now of only me, and nothing else. I’m all that exists for him. I’ve never felt like this with anyone before.
“I heard you singing earlier,” he says. “Maybe you weren’t singing it the right way or whatever excuse you gave, but it was amazing. It was fucking beautiful. You sing like you come, Lola.”
“What?” I giggle, my neck tingling, the sensation dancing down to my breasts.
“You heard me,” he smirks. “When you come, all your worries disappear. I can see it. All you can feel is the orgasm. I love drawing that out of you, playing you like an instrument. It was the same when I heard you singing. It was like you forgot to be nervous.”
I shake my head slowly. “That’s so freaky. You’re describing me better than I even know myself.”
“Because I know you,” he snarls. “Better than you’ll ever know yourself. That’s why you need to let me guide you. That’s why you need to sing on Sunday. It’s time to face your fears.”
“I’ll think about it,” I murmur. “Can that be good enough for now?”
He nods. “I don’t mean to push you. I just know how talented you are. And everybody needs to hear that from time to time if they’re going to keep going.”
“Who pushed you to keep fighting in MMA?” I ask.
He smiles for a moment. At least, I think he smiles. He doesn’t smirk, he doesn’t wolfishly grin. But then it’s gone and his eyes take on this faraway look.
“My old man,” he says. “My dad. He had me training since I can remember. He was a decent fighter in his own day, you know. Jacob “the Lion” Larson, they called him. My mom hated it at first, but toward the end of my career she was at all my fights, cheering for blood.”
“They sound amazing,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
He nods matter of fact. “I suppose Kayley told you?”
Kayley told me about her grandparents dying in a freak helicopter accident when she was ten years old.
