Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 34760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 174(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
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.
There's a difference you'd never notice with his smiles unless you knew him. I didn't back them. I do now. His eyes crinkle when he's genuinely happy. His laughter booms. His fingers tap out melodies only he hears.
They aren't tapping right now. His eyes aren't crinkling either. My man is not a happy camper. But his story changed a long time ago. He wrote a new one. And his story won't be Demi's either.
She's three. Who knows what she'll love when she's sixteen? Or eighteen? Or thirty?
Sooner or later, he'll figure that out.
Right now, he's just trying to hang on to his baby girl for as long as possible. And God, I love him for it. I love the way he loves us, and the way he wants to protect us from every hard day he ever faced.
Once, I thought that was because he didn't think I was capable of handling it. I know better now. Ash knows what it's like to struggle. He knows what it's like to wake up, staring at rock bottom. And he never wants me or our kids to ever face the kind of pressure that led him there.
He loves us in a way that steals my breath every damn day.
I'll love him the same way forever.
"Sweetheart," I murmur, stepping into the fray before it gets ugly. "We can't play the drums right now. Your baby sister is sleeping, remember?"
Demi narrows her little eyes on me, and then huffs loudly. "Dums amorrow, Mama?"
"Yeah, baby," I promise, rubbing her head. "You can play the drums tomorrow."
She considers my promise carefully for a long moment, then huffs again, shoots her daddy another dark glare, then plucks the book from his hands and scurries out of the kitchen.