As my body releases, Savage’s does too. He growls as he comes and clutches me, hard. For a long moment, we remain intertwined, our clay-streaked bodies slack. Our lungs working hard. Our hearts beating in tandem.
“So . . .” he says on an exhale. “Did you get inspired to write a sappy love song while I was railing you?”
I laugh. “I believe I railed you, sir.”
“And quite well, I might add.”
Smiling, I reach behind me and grab a handful of wet clay and then caress every inch of Savage’s smooth forehead, sculpted nose, chiseled cheeks, and steel chin with both sets of fingertips, like I’m a facialist at a fancy spa, and Savage is my client. “You’re so freaking beautiful,” I whisper, and his body underneath me physically shudders in reply. I nuzzle his nose with mine, stealing some of the clay I’ve wiped on him. “I feel drugged by you, Adrian,” I whisper. “I feel high as a kite when I’m around you.”
“Laila,” he whispers. And for a long moment, we stare into each other’s eyes, neither of us moving.
“Wait here,” I say. “Before this moment ends, I want to get a photo of you.”
He grabs my forearm. “No, Laila. Don’t go.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t take a photo.”
I knit my brows. “But you look so beautiful—like a statue. I want to remember this moment.”
Savage’s usual swagger is nowhere to be found. He’s earnest now. Vulnerable. And breathtakingly beautiful. “For your own memories?” he asks. “Not to post? Because I don’t want you to post a photo of me like this with some cringey caption that says, ‘Look what happens when I try to teach my boyfriend to use my pottery wheel!’”
Oh, my heart. The look on his gorgeous face is making my heart feel like it’s physically twisting. “I only want a photo for me,” I assure him. “Not to post. Not to brag. Just to remember.”
Savage exhales and shoots me a lopsided smile that says more than a thousand words ever could. He drops his hand from my arm, freeing me to go, and whispers, “Only if you’ll let me take a photo of you, too, for the exact same reason.”
Fourteen
Laila
“Can you believe we’re heading into the final day of auditions?” Sunshine Vaughn says into the camera. We’ve been shooting auditions for the past two weeks now, assembling enough footage for the show’s editors to cobble together the first four episodes. Throughout the shoot thus far, Savage and I have been sitting side by side at the judges’ table, barely able to keep our hands off each other. If we’re not physically touching, we’re shooting each other lascivious looks and flirtatious smiles. When we’re offering our feedback to whichever contestant onstage, we almost always wind up playfully teasing each other or laughing at each other’s jokes. Basically, we’ve behaved on-camera the same way we do when we’re home alone. We act addicted and head over heels on-camera because that’s exactly how we’re both feeling, in real life.
As a matter of fact, real life with Savage has been the most fun I’ve ever had. When we get home from work, we eat whatever fancy meal our private chef has made for us. And then, after doing our required live video for fans, we call our families and say hello, and then plug our phones onto their chargers and leave them there for the rest of the night. After that, we attack each other, basically. Usually, in order to check off another box on our proverbial bingo card by having sex in yet another room or area of our massive house. So far, we’ve been making incredible progress in our game. Thank God, “Let’s Have Sex in Every Room of the House” isn’t a drinking game, or Savage and I would be blitzed out of our minds every night.
Amazingly, though, sex isn’t even the best thing Savage and I do together, as great as it is. The best thing is just . . . hanging out. We work out together in our home gym. We watch movies while snuggled on our couch. Besides watching Ghost, we’ve watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High, too, which was hilarious. We’ve also watched some fabulous porn. And by that, I mean we watched Beauty and the Beast for me and Mean Girls for Savage. Oh, and we’ve played cards, as silly as that sounds. The games Mimi taught Savage as a boy and loves to play with him whenever he visits her.
The only thing not going amazingly well for Savage and me? Writing the duet. Try as we might, we can’t write that damned love song. I thought it’d be easy to do, considering how prolific Savage and I usually are as songwriters, but, for some reason, we can’t come up with an idea that leads to anything good. It’s frustrating, to say the least. Not to mention, anxiety-producing, since we’re now a full week past the deadline Reed initially gave.