Page 40 of Librarian & the Rockstar

"You let me put a ring on your finger."

Her whole body goes still, her expression stunned. "What?"

I tip her head back, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Marry me. I don't care if it's next week or next year, but I want my ring on your finger when I'm in our bed next to you tomorrow night."

"You really want to marry me?"

"No," I whisper, tipping her over backward to spread her out beneath me. "I don't want to marry you. I desperately need to marry you. I need you tied to me in every conceivable way. I need my ring on your finger, your name on my bank account, my kid in your belly." I hook her leg over my hip, sliding into her with a groan.

She's already soaked for me. Christ, she's always so fucking wet for me. I bury my face in her throat, nipping at the sensitive skin above her pounding pulse point.

"I need your future so tied to mine, you forget there was ever a time you weren't mine," I rasp, driving into her.

She melts beneath me, her back arching on a moan.

"Say yes."

"Yes!" she sobs almost instantly. "Yes, Ash."

Her answer rips through me like a blast. I feel it in my heart and in that deeper place, the one that belongs to her and her alone. The one that will only ever belong to her.

This woman is my soul. She's my purpose and my salvation.

"Christ," I whisper, my body shuddering. "Christ, baby. I love you."

"Ash," she whimpers, clinging to me like she's never going to let me go again. "I love you, too."

I send up a silent prayer to whichever god listens to motherfuckers like me, more grateful than ever that I ran, that I ran into her, and that she was brave enough to give me her whole heart.

I'm going to spend the rest of my fucking life ensuring I deserve it.

Epilogue

Loralei

Four Years Later

"Dums!" Demi shouts, stomping her foot and glaring at her daddy like she's two seconds from a screaming tantrum if he doesn't listen to what she's saying to him.

"Baby girl," Ash says, kneeling in front of her with a book in his hands, desperately trying to convince her that books are more her speed. "You'll love this book. It's about a giant red dog. You love dogs."

It's a familiar argument. It's also one she isn't buying.

No matter how many books he puts in front of her or what they're about, she always chooses the drums. And no matter how many times she chooses the drums, he always tries to change her mind.

My husband does not want his baby girl to grow up rock n' roll. Unfortunately, his baby girl has different plans. At three, she's already strong-willed and fiercely independent. And she has no problem laying down the law. And the law, according to Demi, is simple: Books are for bedtime, and drums are for every other moment of the day.

"No dog!" she cries. "Dums!"

Ash looks to me for help, misery glinting in the depths of his eyes. He hates when they argue. He hates when she's mad at him. And I know, deep down, he's afraid she'll grow up to follow in his footsteps, facing the same problems he faced when the whole world was screaming his name.

But that isn't his story anymore. It hasn't been in four years. He writes music now instead of performing it, and he's happier than ever. On the rare occasion when he does hop up on a stage, it's for a good cause.

It's funny. Before I met him, when I only knew him through interviews and photos in magazines, I always thought he was happy. He smiled all the time, laughed all the time. And then I got to know him—really know him.

Turns out, people hide a lot behind fake smiles.

The real ones are the ones that count.