Staged (Exodus End 3)

“Roux, oh, Roux,” he said with exaggerated passion. “I love your sweet, tight pussy so much it makes me weep.”

She poked him in the ribs. “For that, I’m taking this even slower.”

“Such cruelty.” But he was grinning, and he stopped trying to speed her motions, giving himself to her completely.

Her legs and hips were starting to fatigue when the urge to find release overpowered her need to have him inside her for as long as possible. As her tempo changed, Steve met her strokes to drive himself deep. She opened her eyes and held his gaze, teetering on the brink of orgasm, waiting for him to find his peak. She worried that he might be doing the same as his forehead crinkled with intense concentration. She churned her hips, not willing to give him the victory. He clung to the sheets and tightened every muscle in his sweat-slick body. She reached behind her and gently cradled his balls in one hand. He gasped, and his back arched. Still fighting release, he let go of the tangled bedspread with one hand and shifted his fingers to her clit. She sucked a breath in through her nose, massaging his balls with her palm, extending her fingers toward his ass. She was willing to play dirty to win the battle. The instant her fingertip slid against his hole, he went off like a cannon, crying out in triumph over his ultimate defeat. The hard, pulsing twitches of his cock inside her sent her tumbling over the edge to join him in rapture.

Body completely spent, she dropped down onto his chest, trying to catch her breath while aftershocks of pleasure continued to ripple through her pussy.

“I win,” she whispered. Her first victory in their “who came first” tournament. He was still the champion, though.

“You win,” he said, turning his head to kiss her temple. “You win.”

By a second, if that, but the specifics of her rare victory didn’t wipe the smile off her lips. And their subsequent rematch—when she lost by three points—only spread that smile wider.

*~*~*

Early the next morning, Roux sat across the table from Steve, enjoying her room service breakfast of fruit and toast and replaying the footage Steve had captured on his phone the night before.

“Not bad for my film debut,” she said with a grin.

He was scarfing down eggs like a starving man. “Hottest fucking thing ever,” he said, his mouth full. He chugged down half a glass of orange juice before reaching for a bowl of steel-cut oats.

“What’s the rush?” she asked.

Steve pointed at the clock. It was just before seven. “Butch will be here in a few minutes.”

Roux eyed his gorgeous naked chest appreciatively. Breakfast had arrived just when he’d stepped out of the shower, and he had yet to put on anything but a towel. “Are you going to your interview like that?”

“He’ll wait for me to put on clothes. He won’t wait for me to finish eating.”

“I thought this rock star gig involved a lot more pampering and a lot less work,” she said, nibbling on a strawberry.

“Not while on tour. At least not for us.” He tried a sip of his coffee before setting it down with a wince. “The coffee in England is always vile. When will I learn?”

“You should have ordered tea. Best I’ve ever tasted.”

A knock sounded on the door. “Time!” Butch yelled from the corridor.

“I have two more minutes,” Steve yelled back. He grabbed his toast to munch on as he hurried to an open suitcase.

Roux watched, wondering if she’d died and this was her heaven when he dropped his towel and gave her a glorious view of his naked ass. Toast caught between his teeth, her rock star put on his underwear, then pants—one leg at a time, as the saying went.

The video that had been playing on his phone ended, and the picture she’d taken of his face when he’d been inside her the night before appeared on the screen. It was the sexiest image she’d ever seen in her life. And perfect for her campaign against the Brennan sisters. Eat your heart out, Tamara.

“Can I post this online?” she asked, rising from her chair and approaching Steve. She caught his toast midair when the shirt he was pulling on knocked it from his mouth.

When his face came into view, he looked incredulous. “Our sex video?”

“No. That’s for you to watch when you miss me.”

“Which is whenever you’re not near—including while you’re in the bathroom.”

So sweet. She kissed him and then stuck the piece of toast back in his mouth. “This picture of you.”

He snorted when he saw it. “Me with my sex face on? Why would you post that?”

“It’s sexy.”

“Is this that perfect-couple bragging thing you were talking about last night?”

She nodded.

“You have my permission to post any picture of me you want.”

“This is going to be fun,” she said. “I should have taken a picture of your naked ass a few minutes ago. The world would thank me.”

“Any picture not showing my naked ass or junk,” he amended his previous permissions. “Now, give me my phone, I have to go.”

“Send me that photo,” she said.

“You’re so obsessed with me.”

She rolled her eyes—even though he was right—and pulled him close for a kiss.

“Will you stop fucking? You’re making us late!” Butch called out in the corridor. But his voice sounded like it was coming from a few doors down.

“Reagan or Logan?” Steve asked.

“My money’s on the newly wed.”

He grabbed his shoes and socks and kissed her one last time before hurrying toward the door. “Last man in the car has to rub Butch’s feet.”

She laughed and said, “I love you.”

“Love you.”

When he closed the door behind him, she went back to the table and began plotting out her revenge against Tamara and her sister. She figured the only thing that would bother them more than being publicly called out on their heinous bullshit was knowing that Steve was in love and happy. Roux hoped her plan worked out the way she intended and didn’t come back to bite her in the ass. But no one messed with the man she loved and got away with it.

Thirty-Five

As they always did when the band was on tour, the weeks had flown by. Steve hadn’t thought he could be any happier than he’d been a month ago, but each day was a little more spectacular than the last. It had all started with that picture Roux had posted online. He’d been a little embarrassed at first to be depicted at his most vulnerable, but women—and more than a few gay men—had gone wild, declaring exploded ovaries and drool-induced dehydration. He’d gotten a kick out of it. He was accustomed to sexually charged attention and was glad that Roux trusted he would never take advantage of all the lust that had been stirred up by his sex face. A few days later she’d posted pictures of the two of them as lovebird tourists in Madrid and embarrassed the hell out of him by revealing his tradition of offering her three gifts at every opportunity. Like his sex-face picture, the recognition of his generous and sappy nature had sent the romantic hearts of tens of thousands rooting for their continued love. It turned out that the American Inquirer hit newsstands the very next day, too soon after they’d gone public to stop the distribution. Highlighting their story with front page headlines, the paper had published a derogatory and obviously false account about his relationship with Roux. The rag hinted she was hiding her identity because her band was a joke. Everyone already knew better on both counts. Roux had won over the public in their favor, having slanted her initial hesitance in revealing her identity in a more favorable light: she shouldn’t have mixed business with pleasure, but who could resist bragging about Steve?

Scrambling to save face—though the libel lawsuits had already been set into motion by Dare’s oddly gleeful attorneys—the paper had published a retraction about the first story and in the same issue had included the pictures of Tamara and Steve together. He wasn’t so great after all, was the inference. He’d cheated on Roux, who obviously loved him with a

ll her heart. What kind of selfish man-whore asshole was he? He’d cheated on his first wife as well—proof provided in the signed divorce papers citing infidelity as the cause. Surely this would turn the public’s opinion on the rock star couple who posted adorable selfies and threw their intense passion and love for each other out for all the world to see.

But brilliant Roux was one step ahead of them again. Days before, she’d posted a video of Steve talking about his experience with being roofied. She hadn’t asked him to reveal who’d drugged him, but his lab results had come back positive, and in the video he’d encouraged anyone who suspected they’d been drugged and sexually violated to at least get tested. That way they’d have proof if they wanted to try getting a conviction.

Roux hadn’t even had to put two and two together for people. Just hours after she’d posted the video on their already widely read page, a side-by-side picture meme had been generated by a follower. It showed Steve’s much loved sex-face picture on one side—labeled “man enjoying some good pussy”—contrasted with one of the slack-faced unconscious pictures of him with Tamara—“man forced to take bad pussy.” The meme quickly went viral. Accusations against Tamara exploded on other sites. Their followers were adamant that Steve press charges of molestation, drink spiking, and even rape against her. He still hadn’t decided if he’d go forward with a criminal case or not. Yet such a bold action might encourage women who’d experienced similar situations. If he could speak out, then so could they.

So by the time the second article about Steve “cheating” with Tamara hit the newsstands, people already knew the truth. A follower spread the idea of buying copies of the paper and burning them as worthless, but Roux was quick to point out that it was far better if not a single copy of that garbage was sold. Stores were surprised when people who initially purchased the paper returned it for a refund.

Steve had no idea how Roux had known that going public would not only destroy Tamara but also cause Bianca’s stupid tabloid to fold. She’d even managed to make him out to be a hero with just a few well-timed pictures and videos. The woman was brilliant.

He stepped up behind her at the table in their hotel room—she never even bothered to store her luggage in Raven’s room anymore—and kissed the top of her head. She was posting a picture on their page of the two of them riding in a horse-drawn carriage around the immense Schonbrunn Palace in Vienna. They were laughing because the horse had chosen to take a shit while they were posing.

She looked up, and when their eyes met, his heart melted.