He shakes his head. “No. I meant it. Will you marry me, Lola?”
His arm tightens around my waist, the bedsheet now covering our bodies as I stare into his eyes, seeking sincerity. “We’re too young. I’m too young.”
“Marry me anyway.”
“We haven’t really known each other that long.”
“Marry me anyway.”
“I live in Mexico. You live in Germany, or on the road,” I add.
He smiles, that goofy little-boy smile of his. “Marry me anyway.”
“I don’t like to clean. I’d keep a terrible home.”
He bites his lip now, trying not to chuckle. “Marry me anyway.”
“I might be touring in the future . . . I’m planning on starting my own band too, you know.”
“I know, Iggy. Marry me anyway.”
“You really want to do this?”
He finds my hand and brings it to his face to kiss the palm of it. “I do. I’d love for you to be Lola Sommer. Mine. Forever.”
“I don’t think I want kids.”
That makes him pause. He seems to mull that over for a few seconds, then nods. “Marry me anyway.”
I sigh. This man. He would agree to anything right now, and that’s not fair. He should have the life he wants too, not just what I want. “Karl,” I whine.
“What is it, doll?”
“I don’t feel great that you’re just agreeing to everything I want. I want you to be happy too.”
“There’s only one thing I’ve ever wanted. My very own family. Marry me. Be my family.”
“A family of two?”
“Well, no. There’s the band, and your band when you get it. They’ll become your family too. You’ll see.”
“You want a rock and roll family?”
“With you,” he adds. “Come here.” He squeezes me more tightly and kisses me again. “I’ve never loved anyone enough to consider forever, but with you . . . it’s like there’s no other alternate reality where you and I aren’t together. You’re meant to be mine, Lola.”
I nestle under his neck, letting his body warm me from the cooling perspiration on my skin, hoping he means what he says and that he won’t change his mind later on—that he won’t grow tired of me.
He must notice my shiver because he tightens his arms around me. “It was amazing,” I breathe out dreamily.
“I don’t know how we’ll ever stop,” he says, his fingers sliding gently along the ridges of my seam.
My thighs tighten, and I force myself to look him in the eye because I shouldn’t be as embarrassed as I feel. “I’m a little sore,” I admit.
“Oh,” he says, still caressing my entrance gently but not intruding. Then he waggles his eyebrows. “Want me to kiss it better?”
I giggle into his chest. “No. But a bath would be nice.”
I don’t give him an answer to his question, and he doesn’t press again.