He groans. "Fuck, you're perfect."
It's another thing he often says these days. The glimmer of hope I'll be his forever springs forward, and I try to push it away.
His palm slides up my arm and onto my neck. He glides it under my collar. There's no slack left, and his fingers sprawl around my skin, holding me in place. He thrusts harder until my body's out of control, convulsing underneath him, and he erupts inside me.
He stays on top of me, his heart beating into my shoulder, his sweat mixing with mine. His breath calms, and he rolls over, then slides his palm over my cheek. His eyes full of calm chaos meet mine.
"Do I really have to go?" I ask.
His lips twitch. "How many times have we gone over this, pet?"
"I don't like these meetings. Can't you just pick one for me?"
He shakes his head. "No. I'll interview and negotiate for you. But you need to feel comfortable with whatever agent you choose. This is important."
I crawl on top of him and trace his lips with my finger. "Or, I could stay home, work on some new music, and you could text me when you're on your way home. Then I could put on a mystery outfit and kneel for you until you come home and order me around all night." I beam at him, wiggling my eyebrows.
He chuckles. "A mystery outfit?"
"Yep."
He flips me onto my back.
I screech, laughing.
"Or, you can put on your big girl panties, attend a very important business meeting, and put on the mystery outfit when we get home."
"Aww," I whine.
He rises and pulls me off the bed. "Time to shower."
We get ready and leave the house.
"Who are we meeting today?" I ask.
"Phil Millin, then Jack Secroy, and after that, Noah Kingsley."
"We met with all of them last week," I point out.
"Yeah. They're the top three picks," he states.
I lean closer to him. "Sounds like you have this handled. Why am I here again?"
He sighs. "Blakely, you'll be tied to your agent for years. These aren't short-term contracts."
"Guess they don't have commitment issues," I blurt out, then immediately regret it.
Riggs's face hardens. He questions, "You have something you want to talk about, pet?"
Heat flies into my cheeks. "No," I lie.
"Seems to me you have something you need to get off your chest," he asserts.
"I don't have anything to discuss. Is there something you need to talk about?" I question, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
He veers onto the expressway, then he briefly pins his eyes on me before accelerating and weaving in and out of traffic, grinding his molars.
Why did I say that?