Slave to the Rhythm (49 page)

What kind of world is it? I didn’t have an answer for that. The world spun around us at a dizzying pace, our lives a confusing mass of moments, colored by highs and lows, joys and sorrows.

He grabbed my grasping hands, laughing with the sheer pleasure of living in this moment. And then he carried me to our bedroom.

It was rough and messy, heated, hedonistic thrusting, gasping into each other’s mouths as he pinned me to the bed and fucked me until my body shuddered with new pleasure. He trembled above me, and his eyes squeezed shut. Then with a satisfied grunt, he pulled out and rolled onto his side.

“Holy shit!”

I laughed a soft papery laugh that was part longing, part joy, part tears that threatened to fall, a pouring out of release that was too much to keep inside.

“We’ll be so late,” I whispered as his thumbs brushed tears from my eyes.

“I don’t care.”

“Me neither.”

He gave me a huge, beautiful smile that I’d missed so much, and flung himself onto his back, pulling me against his chest, his gentle hands sweeping across my shoulders.

When we made love again, I kissed every scar on his back, soothing the scars on his soul and mine.

I kissed his fluttering eyelids and watched his lips curve upward in a smile.

“I’m not doing that again,” he said, his eyes sliding open to gaze at me.

“What?!”

His chest rumbled as he laughed.

“Oh, I’m definitely doing
that
again,” he chuckled. “I meant I’m not touring without you.”

“Ash . . .”

“No, I mean it, Laylay. It’s not worth it. Nothing is worth being away from my sunshine.” He took a deep breath. “Selma said she wants to take the tour to Europe next year. Come with me, my love.”

“I don’t think that would . . .”

“That is your problem,” he said, tapping a long finger against my forehead. “Too much thinking. Whatever happens, we will face it together. Be with me, Laney. It’ll be the next adventure.”

I sighed. “It does sound amazing, but . . . let me think about it.”

“Sure,” he said, rolling from the bed and peeling off his ruined shirt. “But you’ll say yes in the end.”

“I don’t know if . . .”

“You’ll say yes,” he said confidently, leaning down to kiss me into silence.

When he stood up again, he was grinning at me and tucking a semi back in his pants. It was a good thing I was well this week, because his smile told me to expect little sleep tonight.

My eyes slid across his beautiful body, a little thinner than last time we’d been together. And then I saw it.

“You got a new tattoo?”

He nodded, his eyes slanting across mine.

I looked closer, studying the intricate work in ink.

It was a depiction of the sun peeking from behind a cloud, and arcing above it in flowing script was my name.

“My sunshine,” he whispered, his eyes soft.

I reached up, my arms wrapping around his neck as I stroked the soft skin, and I kissed him to say thank you—
thank you for being my husband, thank you for being with me, thank you for being the love of my life. Thank you for being you.

I wondered later if our love was built in tiny, paper-thin slices, moment by moment, day by day. I asked Ash about it once, when he fell in love with me. His answer was enigmatic—typical Ash.

“When I felt my heart beat again.”

THE END

Luka

Look out for Luka’s story later on this year . . .

To Kirsten Olsen, editor, friend, confidant, chocolate aficionado.

To Trina Miciotta for her editing and unfailing support.

To Hang Le for her beautiful cover and never-ending creativity.

To Sheena Lumsden for her friendship and all her work behind the scenes.

To Neda Amini for her marketing expertise and enthusiasm for all things books.

To Alana Albertson, friend and author, who shares my love of dancing, glitter and sequins, and made sure that Ash knew his mambo from his salsa.

To Lea Jerancic who checked all things Slovenian while she was checking out Ash.

To Rhonda Koppenhaver who made sure my Chicago references were on the money.

To Dina Farndon Eidinger and Audrey Thunder—you know why ;)

To Selma Ibrahimpasic, Savanna Phillips, Lelyana Taufik, Melissa Parnell and Sarah Lintott for letting me shamelessly exploit their names.

And to Fuñny Souisa, for loving the idea of this story from the start.

Thank you Stalking Angels. You know how much you mean to me and you never let me down.

Tonya Bass Allen, Neda Amini, Jenny Angell, Lisa Clements Baker, Nicola Barton, Jen Berg, Mary Rose Bermundo, Reyna Borderbook, Sarah Bookhooked, Megan Burgad, Kelsey Burns, Gabri Canova, L.E. Chamberlain, Tera Chastain, Elle Christopher, Beverley Cindy, Paola Cortes, Nikki Costello, Emma Darch-Harris, Megan Davis, Jade Donaldson, Drizinha Dri, Mary Dunne, Dina Farndon Eidinger, Jennifer Escobar, Fátima Figueira, Kelly Findlay, Andrea Flaks, Andrea Florkowski, MJ Fryer, Raquel Gamez, Evelyn Garcia, Carly Grey, Helen Remy Grey, Nycole Griffin, Rose Hogg, Kim Howlett, Selma Ibrahimpasic, Carolin Jache, Andrea Jackson, Jayne John, Ashley Jones, Heidi Keil, Rhonda Koppenhaver, Hang Le, Wendy Lika, Sarah Lintott, Sheena Lumsden, Kathrin Magyar, Trina Marie, Susan Marshall, Sharon Kallenberger Marzola, Marie Mason, Bruninha Mazzali, Aime Metzner, Nancy Saunders Meyhoefer, Sharon Mills, Kandace Milostan, Ana Moraes, Barbara Murray, Bethany Neeper, Clare Norton, Luiza Oioli, Crystal Ordex-Hernandez, Celia Ottway, Kirsten Papi, Melissa Parnell, Ana Carina Pereira, Savanna Phillips, Cori Pitts, Vrsha Prose, Ana Kristina Rabacca, Rosarita Reader, Heather Sulzer Regina, Lisa Smith Reid, Carol Sales, Gina Sanders, Rosa Sharon, Jacqueline Showdog, Johanna Nelson Seibert, Sarah Simone, Adele Sloan, Fuñny Souisa, Erin Spencer, Dana Fiore Stusse, Lisa Sylva, Lelyana Taufik, Candy Rhyne Threatt, Audrey Thunder, Ellen Totten, Natalie Townson, Amélie White Vahlé, Tami Walker, Lily Maverick Wallis, Jo Webb, Krista Webber, Shirley Wilkinson, Emma Wynne Williams, Caroline Yamashita, Lisa G. Murray Ziegler.

And the Fanfic readers who were there from the start.

DON’T EQUATE NICENESS
with weakness—this is one of my favourite sayings.

I get asked where ideas come from—they come from everywhere. From walks with my dog on the beach, from listening to conversations in pubs and shops, where I lurk unnoticed with my notebook.

And of course, I love watching ballroom dancing on TV. I tried to learn Salsa once. My partner said to me, “Stop marching and stop leading! You’re supposed to look sexy.” So I shall stick to writing about dance instead.

Don’t forget to look for bonus chapters for some books on my
website
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