Falling Into Love with You (The Hate-Love Duet 2)

I bite my lip. “I did the same thing, basically—minus the groupies. I could have left the venue every night after my set was finished. But I never did. Half the time, I listened to your set in my dressing room, with a glass of wine. I’d touch myself and listen to your voice singing ‘Come with Me.’ And it never failed to make me come, no matter how much I hated you.”

“Oh, my God, Laila. That’s so hot.”

“Other times, I’d creep into the wings during your set and hide behind that same huge speaker at stage right, so you wouldn’t see me. And your performance never failed to blow me away. It’s how I knew, deep down, I didn’t hate you. If I did, you never could have given me goosebumps—which you did every time I watched you.”

Savage’s chest heaves. “The Video Music Awards. I bet you thought we got put together as presenters, by chance? Or maybe by the producers on purpose, thanks to that viral video of us fighting on the sidewalk in New York?”

I nod, as a mischievous grin spreads across Savage’s gorgeous face.

He shakes head. “I did that. When the show called to ask me to present an award, I said I’d only do it if they paired me with you.”

I bite my lip, feeling turned on by this latest revelation.

“I was desperate. You weren’t answering my texts and I had to see you again. By then, I’d convinced myself you were in love with Charlie. It was the only thing that made sense. And I had to know.”

“The chorus in ‘Hate Sex High’?” I ask, breathlessly. “Was the ‘something’ you didn’t want to feel a kernel of truth or a popcorn lie?”

“You already know the answer to that, Laila. The ‘something’ I was feeling was straight-up obsession, which wasn’t something I wanted to feel—and definitely not something I wanted to admit to you.”

I kiss him fervently, but abruptly break free of his lips, my breathing ragged. “I already know the truth about this next thing, but I want to hear you say it. You’re singing ‘Laila’ at the end of those ‘la la’s.’ Admit it.”

Savage chuckles. “Of course, I am. As a matter of fact, I was hard as a rock the whole time I was recording the vocals to that song. I closed my eyes and thought about you and practically came in the recording booth.”

“That’s so hot.” I kiss him again. And when my clit begins pounding too insistently to ignore, I stroke Savage’s cock to hardness, and then slide myself down on it. I fuck him, slowly, while kissing his gorgeous lips. And as our bodies move together, I whisper that I love him. That I’ll always love him. I’ve never used that word before with him. Never confessed the endlessness of my love for him. Never been brave enough to pledge my forever in words. But I do it now, as my body moves with his. And to my thrill and joy and relief, Savage whispers that he’ll love me “forever,” right before coming beneath me.

Thirty-Four

Laila

Two weeks later

“How’s that?” my makeup artist, Susanna, says.

I open my eyes and look at myself in the mirror. “Gorgeous. Love it.”

“I added a little extra glitter to your lids this time, so your eyes will sparkle like crazy as you look lovingly into Savage’s eyes during your duet.”

“Brilliant. The glitter gives off a ‘fairytale princess’ vibe.”

“Along with a little splash of ‘He’s all mine, bitches!’”

I giggle. “Well, with this face, that’s unavoidable.”

We’ve made it to the last episode of the season—the “live taping” of the finale, during which this season’s winner will be crowned. I’m in my dressing room with Susanna, awaiting my cue to perform with Savage in about fifteen minutes. Currently, the top ten contestants of the season, other than the two finalists vying for the crown—my quirky, blue-haired crooner, Addison, and Savage’s powerhouse belter, Glory—are onstage with Aloha, performing a cheesy group rendition of Aloha’s latest hit.

I look at a large clock on the wall of my dressing room and realize I’ve got a solid ten minutes before I’ll need to hit my mark. “I think I’ll watch the show from the wings,” I say. “I’m too amped to sit still.” For more reasons than one, if I’m being honest.

Yes, I’m nervous to perform the duet for the first time. But Savage and I have rehearsed relentlessly, so I’m pretty confident our performance will go off without a hitch. Plus, the song is fantastic—catchy and swoonworthy—a textbook hit, even if it’s far more about Fish and Alessandra’s uncomplicated love story than mine and Savage’s. No, I think the true source of my nerves is the fact that, since Chicago, Savage has never again mentioned that bonus the show offered him. The one where he’d earn a cool two hundred fifty thousand bucks, merely for faux-proposing to me after our performance. And I can’t help thinking maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t mentioned it because he’s decided to do it . . . and maybe even for real.