I woke up in my San Francisco hotel room with sunlight streaming over my face.

And Zane in my bed.

I knew that was true even before I opened my eyes.

In the aftermath of my first couple of hangovers on this tour, I’d been avoiding alcohol. I’d had zero to drink last night. Meaning I was one-hundred-percent sober when I had sex with Zane up against my hotel room wall, and afterward, when he followed me into the shower and we did it up against that wall, too.

And when he followed me into bed, spooned me, put his hand between my legs and massaged me until I came again, then fell asleep. Still spooning me.

And I let him.

I let him do it all.

Which meant that while I was completely sober, I was clearly losing my mind.

I was definitely questioning my sanity mere seconds after I’d woken up, as I felt his arm snaking around me, his hot, hard body pressing up against mine, his hand seeking out my happy zone again—and I let him.

Again.

He’d spent the night.

It was the first time since our wedding night that we’d spent the whole night together. That we’d slept together.

That we’d fucking cuddled.

We were naked together under the sheet as his fingers slid over my clit, moving around and around, drawing lazy little circles as he gradually increased the pressure and my body woke up to the pleasure…

Kinda made it increasingly difficult to think about anything else clearly.

All I knew was that we were taking bigger and bigger risks here. And not just the risk of getting caught.

We were risking everything.

Everything that mattered to me.

At the moment, with Zane’s hand between my legs and his teeth biting gently into my neck, I just couldn’t find a shit to give about it.

I shifted my hips, slowly riding his hand as he kissed my neck, grinding my ass against him. Against his cock, which was standing at attention, long and hard and nestled between my butt cheeks.

You wanted to let a guy know, without words, that you were down to fuck… that was pretty much it.

He groaned in his smoky, rough morning voice, gripped my hip and rolled me over onto my back. Then he was on me in one smooth motion, his toned body poised over mine as I hitched my legs up around his hips.

His eyes met mine. The sun was hitting the side of his chiseled face, setting his blond hair aglow. It hit his eyes; a clear ice-blue, whitish flecks in the irises… the velvety black of his pupils, the golden tips of his dark lashes.

He pushed into me and I closed my eyes.

Slow. He filled me slow. He moved against me slow, and he started kissing my face. He kissed me everywhere he could reach… My throat, my shoulders, my chest.

I started kissing him, too. His shoulders, his neck… his chest. I flicked his pierced nipple with my tongue, sucked it into my mouth, making him groan. I kissed my way up his throat until our lips suddenly met and we melted together.

We slithered against one another, our bodies undulating in a reciprocal rhythm, our hearts beating together, our breathing becoming one panting, shuddering rhythm as our mouths fused.

This wasn’t fucking.

Nope; we were no longer fucking.

This time, we were making love.

We clutched at each other, every muscle in both of our bodies locked up tight. As the delicious friction built between my legs, the pleasure radiated through me, my entire body aching for the release of this sweet, sweet pressure. I bore down on him, riding his dick and rubbing myself against him as hard as I could.

He broke our kiss, gasping.

“Fuck, Maggie… Come on my cock.”

“Yeah…” I breathed.

“Give it to me,” he ordered, kissing my face. “I want to watch you come…”

He pounded into me, rolling his hips, digging for fucking gold—until he made me come. The orgasm tore through my body; a hot, fucking delicious burst… then it washed through me in waves and sparks. I was pretty sure I made a bunch of ridiculous, greedy, ecstatic sounds.

But it was like my brain and my body were in two different worlds. My brain, briefly disconnected from reality, projected somewhere into outer space… while my body writhed and screamed in Zane’s arms.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I can’t get enough of that. Can’t get enough of you like this… so fucking tight. You’re fucking strangling me, sweetheart…”

He kept groaning, muttering dirty shit all the way through my orgasm. And it felt so fucking good.

Amazing, otherworldly good.

The way it always felt with Zane.

His words.

His voice…

His kisses on my face.

Then he started to come, pressing me down with the force of his hips slamming into me over and again until he completely lost it, went rigid, and let go. I felt him blow, deep inside me.

Then slowly he relaxed against me, breathing hard. He gave a few more random, lazy thrusts as he moaned against my neck. He was murmuring more filthy shit about how beautiful I was, how tight and hot my pussy was…

Then he said the dirtiest thing of all.

I heard him say it, but I wished I didn’t. I didn’t want to acknowledge it, and I definitely didn’t want to believe he felt that way about me.

I love you.

I heard the whisper of his smoky voice. Felt his breath on my ear. His lips softly brushing my neck.

And I knew I had to get out of here.

I had to stop this.

I pushed him off. He grabbed at himself, narrowly saving the condom from slipping off.

Fuck. FUCK.

I didn’t even notice him putting the condom on or give it a split second of thought. I was sleepy, barely awake when he rolled me over and started fucking me, but that was no excuse.

It definitely wasn’t the first time I’d let Zane fuck me without making sure he had a condom on. It wasn’t the first time I’d left that particularly important detail up to him.

What the motherfuck was wrong with me?

Fucking seriously.

This was such a mistake.

I wasn’t even on the pill. Hadn’t been for years. I got all kinds of weird side effects when I was on birth control; it just didn’t work for me. Yeast infections and cysts and all kinds of shit the doctors could never quite explain, but I knew it was the hormones in the pill. Every time I was on it, same problems. When I was off it, no such problems at all.

Which meant that as a presumably fertile twenty-six-year-old woman who wasn’t on birth control, I was particularly vulnerable to pregnancy.

Not to mention the fact that every time I fucked Zane I was potentially getting into bed with every skank he’d ever screwed.

And there’d been a lot of skanks.

What the hell did I want to do, end up just like my mom? With some surprise pregnancy, mother to the child of some womanizing rock star who’d never even wanted to be a daddy in the first place—and turned out to be a horrible one?

And with some fucking venereal disease to boot?

Just fuck.

Zane had rid himself of the condom and was staring at me. He must’ve been reading all the shit I was thinking on my face, because his eyebrows furled and he started shaking his head.

“Whatever the fuck you’re thinking in that overactive brain of yours,” he said, “just stop. Right the fuck now, just stop, Maggie.”

“Fuck this.” I flew out of bed and started pulling on clothes. I tripped on his stupid boots, banging the hell out of my knee on the coffee table. “FUCK.”

“I told you,” he said, “just stop.” He was sitting back on the bed, leaning against the headboard like it was his fucking throne or something, all king-of-cool and naked and gorgeous, and all I wanted to do was get the fuck out of this room.

Before I ended up on his damn dick again.

Fully dressed, I yanked on my high-heeled boots.

“You can’t run away from me forever,” he informed me.

“Can’t I?”

“What’s the point of that? You know we’re just gonna end up talking about it anyway.”

And here we go.

I ignored him, checking myself out in the mirror. I ran my hands through my hair; I’d straightened it yesterday, so it was nice and smooth. I still had yesterday’s makeup on, too; I rarely slept in my makeup.

Just another sign that my life was falling apart.

I licked my finger and quickly cleaned away the little smudges of raccoon eyes from under my lower lashes. Otherwise, I looked okay.

Good enough, anyway.

Zane sighed. “We need to talk about this, Maggs.”

“Talk about what?”

“Our relationship. Our fucking marriage.”

Right.

I should’ve known. I should’ve known he’d turn this into an argument.

He couldn’t just fuck me and leave well enough alone.

We had eighteen months, at bloody minimum, to get through, and he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut for a mere few hours?

“This isn’t a relationship, Zane,” I said, hunting for my purse. “This is two people using each other.”

“Using…? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Using. Each other. Fucking. You get me off, I get you off.” That was all it could ever be, anyway. “Let’s not complicate it with other bullshit.”

“What bullshit?” He got out of bed slowly, and started getting dressed while I finally located my purse. “The fact that we care about each other? Because I think the ship has fucking sailed on that one.”

I looked him dead in the eye. “I care about you. I care about a lot of people.” I started digging through my purse for my phone. “This isn’t special, Zane.”

“Like fuck it’s not.”

“It’s not to me.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I was still trying like hell to convince myself that it couldn’t be.

Zane was a sex god and that was that. I wasn’t immune to it, and neither was my pussy.

I never had been.

But I wasn’t gonna make the mistake of letting it become something more.

Something so fucked-up, it would destroy my life.

Not even Zane Traynor’s godlike dick was worth that.

“Meaning what?” he growled. I’d found my phone and glanced up at him; he stared back at me, anger sharpening his features. “You’re gonna go do this with whatever other guys you care about, too?”

I started checking messages on my phone. “If I want to.” I sent a text to Katie.

Me: Breakfast?

I tucked my phone away and found my hotel key card. Then I looked at him calmly. “It’s not as if you’ve been faithful to me.”

He hadn’t. He definitely hadn’t.

Not that I’d ever actually expected him to.

And yet I’d been faithful to him. The entire time we’d been married.

Because I was a fucking masochist like that.

His jaw hardened, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a breath. “Faithful to what?” he said. “A marriage you want no part of?”

“Right. Because when it suits you we’re married and I should play the doting wife. And when it suits you we’re not married and you can fuck whoever you want. Sounds like the marriage of my dreams.” Now I was just getting pissed off. Why did he always have to do this? “I’m not holding you to it,” I informed him. “I never asked you or expected you to stay married to me. I’ve asked you for a divorce, many times.”

“So? I thought we were past all that bullshit. I thought maybe you were actually gonna give this a fucking chance.”

“So, it’s your fault we’re still married!” Yep. I lost it. Started yelling, which was something I’d promised myself, after the last round of bullshit with Dallas, I wasn’t gonna do anymore. I was not gonna lose my cool with him and yet here I was, screaming at him. “And it’s your fault you can’t stay faithful to the marriage! What the fuck do you want from me?”

Then I turned and walked out before he could answer.

* * *

After yelling at Zane and storming out, then berating myself for all of it—for fucking him, for making love to him, for yelling at him and storming out—I avoided him for the rest of the day.

And the next day.

Even at the show.

After the show, I went along with everyone to some bar, but I stayed the hell away from our lead singer. I definitely wasn’t drinking any of his sexually suggestive shooters tonight. I didn’t even stay long.

The next day, I communicated with him only through text message, and only about business.

After the buses rolled out of San Francisco and I still hadn’t spoken to him, he sent me a single text.

Zane: please take down your wall

I didn’t respond.

* * *

Once we arrived in L.A., it got a little easier to avoid him.

Besides the two shows Dirty was playing while we were in town, Zane was also playing a show with his side project band, Wet Blanket, which meant he was extra busy.

He had a ton of interviews to do during the day, as usual, a few appearances to do with Dirty, rehearsals with Wet Blanket, and he was pretty much busy around the clock. As was I.

Our second day in L.A., the band drove out to Death Valley anyway, to meet up with a film crew and shoot the video for “Somewhere,” a gorgeous ballad written by Seth which would be the second single off the To Hell & Back album. It was a long day; they were gone before dawn and got back after midnight.

I didn’t go to the shoot. Talia did.

Fortunately, we were getting into a pretty decent groove—Talia and I. A groove whereby I had her dealing with Zane on my behalf. Dealing with any texts, emails, phone calls or in-person business involving Zane in any way.

I spent most of my time in my hotel room, on my laptop and my phone. Or at the gym, doing yoga. Nothing like a whole lot of downward dog to keep a girl feeling strong. I was not gonna let anything—even my fucked-up relationship with Zane—mess with my health.

My physical health, at least, was in great shape.

My mental health was a whole other disaster.

The day of the first of our two L.A. shows, I avoided sound check and the venue until showtime. Once I was backstage, I made myself busy talking to whoever else was around so I could avoid having to talk to Zane.

And it wasn’t fun. It was far from fun.

Avoiding him, and spending so much mental energy avoiding him, completely sucked. It was exhausting and torturous.

After the show, both bands went barhopping, and I went with them—because I was trying to make an effort. Not let my bullshit with Zane turn me into a hermit. But I skipped the limos and took a taxi with Talia. We ended up at Dylan’s nightclub, where I danced the night away with the girls. The dance floor was a pretty safe bet; Zane didn’t like to dance.

He definitely liked watching me dance, though.

He also seemed to like several fangirls who were circling around, flirting with him and Matt.

The girls were everywhere. When I really cared to pay attention… they were everywhere Dirty went.

As always.

Begging Jesse to take selfies with them.

Trying to get Dylan’s attention while Amber was busy talking to someone else.

Following the Steel Trap guys around.

Xander had two chicks all over him. They were sitting on him, and one of them had her hand happily planted on his crotch.

When I left the club, I saw Ash outside making out with some dude up against the wall in the alley. No sign of the chick he’d walked in with about an hour ago.

I had to stare for a sec, because really, Ash was super fucking hot—all angsty, badass rock star in his tight black jeans and sleeveless shirt and mussed-up black hair. And sucking face with some hot blond guy?

Holy shit.

I would’ve found it sexy if I didn’t feel so sorry for him.

Ash had been a hot mess ever since whatever number Dylan and Amber had done on him. I loved Dylan, I liked Amber already, but I liked Ash too, and honestly, I felt horrible for him. It was pretty clear he’d had his heart broken and was on some booze-and-sex spree, and I didn’t even know all the details.

Wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Too fucking depressing.

The whole idea of having to be around someone you cared about, maybe were in love with, while they were happily in love with someone else…

Painful.

Depressing.

Not the kind of shit I’d wish on my worst enemy.

I was in enough pain of my own. But at least Zane wasn’t in love with someone else.

Back in my hotel room, alone, I kept looking at his text.

And I kept wondering if he’d come back to the hotel or not. If he was alone.

Zane: please take down your wall

He hadn’t sent me another personal text since that one. He hadn’t followed me back to my hotel room or tried to get me alone tonight. He hadn’t tried to get me drunk.

He really hadn’t tried to get near me at all.

He’d definitely stared at me every chance he got, though. With a penetrating, accusing, expectant stare.

A when-are-you-gonna-get-over-your-bullshit-and-talk-to-me stare.

By now, I knew that stare well.

I knew he wasn’t happy that I wasn’t talking to him. I knew he was mad at me and probably hurt.

I was mad at him, too.

And I’d been hurting for years.

I’d watched him drink himself stupid.

I’d watched him hurt himself.

I’d watched him with other women. And not just since we were married.

I’d known the man for almost eight years, worked with him pretty intimately, built a pretty amazing friendship… and I had watched him hook up with literally hundreds of women who weren’t me.

When it came to Zane, I had wounds and I had scars.

Fresh wounds. Old wounds.

Ancient scars.

Some that were fading and some that may never fully heal.

Some that had burst back open, over and again.

I didn’t want to punish him for it.

I’d never wanted to punish him.

Zane was who he was. I never even wanted him to change. Not at his core.

It was the bullshit destructive behavior, the kind that hurt him, that hurt everyone who cared about him, that hurt me, that needed to go.

I’d never asked him to change, but now he was married to me, and he kept telling me he wanted to be married to me, and yet he still couldn’t see all the ways he was hurting me.

All the ways he was still hurting himself.

Zane: please take down your wall

I kept checking my phone and staring at his last text, long into the night. I started to reply, a few times, then deleted whatever angry bullshit I’d written.

Eventually I let down my wall, just a bit, and wrote back.

Me: Please don’t ever drink again. Please don’t smoke pot anymore. Please don’t sleep with other women. Please just stop.

His response came in moments later.

Zane: please be my wife

* * *

Early the next morning, I lay in bed and tried to formulate some kind of plan. I was always armed with a plan; it was my thing. One of my greatest strengths.

But with Zane, every plan just crumbled to dust.

Usually because whatever plan I had was abandoned the moment he got me alone and got his hands on me.

I wanted to be stronger. I’d always thought I was strong.

But with Zane, I was all over the fucking place.

Maybe we could keep having sex.

Maybe we couldn’t.

I really couldn’t stand the thought of never touching him again.

I wanted him like I wanted my next drink of water. I could put it off for a while, but eventually, if I didn’t have it, I’d wither up and I’d die.

So much for being strong.

I was nothing but weak. Weak and confused and in pain, wanting someone who would only keep hurting me. I did want him, I would always want him, and wanting him would always cause me pain.

I knew this.

I’d been in a constant state of pain for so long now, I’d learned to somehow live with it. To stuff it down. To endure.

Now that I was around Zane all the time on tour, I was also in a constant state of tension and fear, and it was wearing at my nerves. My emotions were frayed, my convictions were shot, my strength was failing.

I no longer had any idea what to do.

I had no plan, and no idea what to do about it.

I just didn’t know how to live this way. I felt utterly lost, out-of-control, and terrified that I’d never figure out what to do about it.

Eight years. It had been almost eight years and I still didn’t know what to do about my feelings for Zane.

Worst of all… I was terrified that maybe I was losing him, that I was losing my friend and I was going to lose my job, and that was the only ending there was ever going to be to our story.

And by fighting it, all I was doing was delaying the terrible inevitable.

And by trying to tell me he loved me, he was only speeding it up.

It was a simple matter of time, of when, not why or how or if. We were fighting over moments between us that, fast or slow, were never going to change a thing.

Any way you looked at it, we were falling apart.

I’d come to this depressing conclusion right around the time a note was delivered to my room on hotel stationery.

Scrawled on the envelope in a familiar hand, it said:

Maggie,

I wrote this to you in February last year, just after Jesse’s wedding.

Then things seemed okay between us, and I didn’t give it to you.

Then things got worse.

Then things got even worse, and I never gave it to you.

But every word is still true.

Obviously, I knew who it was from.

I set the envelope down on a table, and I went about getting ready for my day. Once I was showered and dressed, my makeup on, my room tidied up and my day organized, I picked up the envelope and looked at it again.

I stared at it for a long time, mildly shaking with adrenaline and dread, hope and fear.

Then I sat down on the bed and I opened it.

I took a breath, and I read every word, slowly.

Maggie May.

That night we spent in Vegas rocked my world.

What happened the next morning… blew it wide open.

What happened in the weeks that followed almost killed me.

Pretty sure it almost killed you too.

You wanna look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me? Go ahead.

I’m waiting.

But sweetheart, I’m guessing that isn’t happening anytime soon.

I know I’ve fucked up.

You’re probably thinking if I could take it all back, I would.

You’d be wrong.

Maybe you’re waiting for me to apologize, but babe, I’m never gonna do that.

I’m never gonna apologize for loving you.

Zane.