Run to You

"I can't go to the Grammy Awards like this."

I stood with my arms folded, looking into the full-length mirror across from me in the suite of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. My breasts were practically spilling out of the top of my dress, pushed up
by my underwear beneath to form two alluring round peaks that may well have kept Rick happy all night but left nothing to the imagination.

"Why?" Rick said, peering his head around the corner of the room and moving a toothbrush around his mouth. "I think you look sexy, baby."

I rolled my eyes. "Because, Rick, of these," I replied, pointing two fingers at my heaving cleavage. "Can you imagine the headlines if I go out like this? 'Rick gets the Grammy – and two Golden Globes.'"

"That's funny," he snorted,
heading back into the bathroom.

I let out a sigh and grabbed my smartphone. I shot off the text to
Anita, my stylist, asking if my beautiful but slightly ill-fitting Marchesa dress could be altered. As I hit 'Send', I smiled to myself. Even now, just over 6 months into our relationship, I still couldn't believe this was happening – that
this
was my world.

I was dating a rock star. Hell, it was much more than that. I was
in love
with a rock star. I'd gone from not being able to afford to keep my gas and electric on in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in London to zipping around the world at the drop of a hat in a private jet with one of the most recognisable men on the planet. We had managed to keep our relationship reasonably under wraps; Rick was fierce about maintaining his privacy and mine. But that can only happen for so long when you're as famous as Rick Borrell.

His
solo album had been a huge hit, spawning three top 10 hit singles in the US alone and charting in over 100 countries. Rick had decided not to tour with this album – this was, after all, the thing that would get him off the treadmill of spending life on the road. He'd had enough of that with his band, Beautiful Losers, and decided that he wanted to not only slow down things for himself a little but to also give our relationship time to breathe and to grow.

Boy, did I love him for that.

If that wasn't enough, one of the tracks on the album had been used as the theme song for a major new television show – one of those police procedural dramas full of dead bodies, lots of fake blood and gruesome autopsies. I was so proud the first time we switched it on to hear his track over the opening credits – but, like all those shows, I couldn't watch any more. Well, what's the point with a cushion in front of your face? I still got queasy at things like that. My life had become unrecognisable from where it had been half a year ago, but some things never change.

"How do I look?"

I turned to see Rick in an awesome vintage Hugo Boss suit. He looked every inch the swaggering, super-confident rock star and it was fantastic to see him in something other than faded jeans or a leather jacket for once.

"Good enough to eat," I smiled, looking him up and down. I unzipped the back of my soon
-to-be-adjusted dress and let it drop to the floor.

"Wow," Rick gasped, holding his palms up. "Haven't we got hair and make-up people coming up in the next
fifteen minutes?"

"Hold your horses, cowboy," I laughed, grabbing a dressing gown. "As much as I'd love to
get you out of that suit and into my panties, we haven't got time. Besides, there's always later."

"Amy, something tells me we're both going to be absolutely
wrecked once we've been to the aftershow party. Even incredibly charismatic and modest international superstars need to crash once in awhile, you know."

I walked over to him and kissed his beautiful, soft, full lips. The scent of Davidoff aftershave sent a little tingle down my spine. "Who said anything about when we get back?" I grinned. "There are plenty of dark nooks and crannies in the Staples Center, aren't there?"

He playfully slapped my ass. "You're a bad, bad girl, Miss Reid."

"I know. And I like it."

He gently kissed my forehead. "Not as much as I do."

"So, do you think you'll win?"

"Not a chance in hell," Rick laughed, heading back into the bathroom. "It's not important, anyway."

"Of course it is!" I replied, trying on the diamond earrings sent over by my stylist. "It's your industry giving you recognition. That has to be worth something."

Rick headed back into the lounge area of our suite. "Not particularly. They don't buy my albums. It's just the industry slapping itself on the back. Besides, how relevant are the Grammys anyway? They completely ignore rap and hip-hop music, for example. Totally marginalise it."

"Wait a minute…
since when did you like hip-hop?"

"I don't. But millions of people do so they shouldn't ignore it. Anyway, I'm just getting on my high horse. Let's just have a good time and screw the politics."

As $10,000 worth of jewellery hung from my ears, I smiled at my reflection. "If you hate the Grammys so much, why bother turning up?"

Rick moved in behind me and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close to him. "Because, pretty lady," he said, kissing at my neck and making me giggle, "
twenty-five million people will be watching on CBS tonight. That's a lot of free advertising."

I turned around and kissed him on the lips, running my hands over the hard muscles beneath his white shirt. "You shameless media whore, you."

"Damn right," he smiled. "Show me the money, baby."

Our moment was ended abruptly by a sharp knock at the door. "It's Anita. Can I come in?"

I opened it to see my stylist looking flustered. "You okay?” I asked. “You look shattered.”

"Huh?"

"Sorry, it's a British thing. It means you look tired, stressed out."

She rushed over to the Marchesa dress and hurriedly put it into a hanging bag. "Amy, you wouldn't believe the morning I'm having. I've still got fo
ur other clients to sort out and they haven't received any of their dresses yes. I could kill some of these designers. They love to get their names mentioned on the red carpet, but do they get their stuff to me when they're supposed to? Do they hell."

"Sorry," I smiled nervously. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble – it just doesn't fit properly, that's all…"

She rushed over and took my face in her hands. "Don't be silly! You're my dream client. It's everybody else who's a nightmare, honest. Besides, you're my number one priority today. Rick's receiving an award, after all. Everybody is going to be photographing you."

"Nominated," Rick's disembodied voice shouted. "Not receiving, nominated."

Anita leaned in close. "He's so going to win it," she whispered. I held up a pair of crossed fingers. "Right, I'm out of here. I just need to take this downstairs and the seamstress from Marchesa can adjust it. She's busy working on Shakira's dress at the minute – that's if you can call it a dress. I've worn underwear that covers me up more."

"Well, she's got the body for it," I smiled.

"I know," Anita replied, rolling her eyes skyward. "Bitch. Anyway, you can talk." She waved an accusing finger at my cleavage, just visible between the folds of my dressing gown. "The gossip pages aren't going to know what's hit them later on."

I screwed my face up. "
Do you think my boobs might be a bit much? I mean, the dress is gorgeous but it really shows them off. I don't want to look slutty."

She placed a hand on my shoulder. "Firstly, Amy, you are dating the world's hottest rock star right now…"

"Got that right!" Rick shouted.

"…
so you can't go out there looking as if you're going to a charity lunch with some CEO. Secondly, it's a Marchesa dress. Marchesa doesn't
do
slutty. And third - if you've got it, baby, you damn well flaunt it. Despite what you may think, every dude in the place tonight will be jealous as hell of a certain Rick Borrell."

I gave her a hug. "Thanks. It's just a bit daunting, that's all. I've never done anything like this before."

"Don't worry," she replied, heading out the door. "You're going to be a knockout. And the pair of you together?" She made the sound of an explosion as she disappeared down the hallway.

I turned back to see Rick propped up in the doorway of the lounge, smiling at me.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said softly. "I love all your little insecurities. They drive me crazy, but I wouldn't want you any other way. I love you, Amy Reid."

Grinning from ear to ear, I pushed my hair behind my ears and looked up at his gorgeous face. "I love you too."

"We have 44 floors before we hit the lobby."

I leaned back on the elevator handrail and looked across at Rick. His eyes were burning through the ruffled fabric of my red designer dress. "There's no time," I smiled, licking my lips. "We only have a minute or so before we reach the ground floor."

Rick walked towards me, pure lust etched all over his face. He placed a hand on my waist and slowly moved
it up the side of my body, stroking at the curve of my left breast through the fabric and causing me to sigh. Our tongues briefly danced with each other, our lips barely touching. "You look irresistible," he growled.

"I know," I teased, glancing at the elevator display. "32 floors to go."

"I need to fuck you," Rick whispered. "And you need to be fucked."

My legs almost buckled as his hand slipped inside the slit of my dress, slashed to the thigh and giving perfect access to the soaking wet panties beneath. I moaned out as I felt him gently tug at my underwear.

"21 floors left. Say it, Amy. Tell me what you need."

My nipples were sensitive and hard beneath my dress, my insides flooded again with warm juice. I felt a stitch at the side of the seam of my panties give way as Rick pulled at it further. My resistance was in tatters, even as I glanced at the number of floors ticking their way downwards.

"Say it."

"I need…" I stammered, my voice breaking. "I need to be fucked."

Without a further seconds warning, he ripped off my panties in one swift, strong movement. I yelped out as the flimsy, drenched fabric tore from my body, the elastic stinging against my skin as it snapped. I almost lost balance on my high heels as the combination of the lingerie being ripped off me and the weakness in my legs from sheer, unadulterated arousal made me fall forward slightly. With just seven floors to go, Rick spun around and slammed a fist into the emergency stop button, causing the elevator to suddenly come to a halt in mid-air.

I fumbled with his belt, pulling at it violently and erratically. My initial excitement had turned to complete and utter abandon as I desperately wanted him inside me. I momentarily felt the hardness of his fully erect cock as I pushed his underwear down but I wouldn't have time to stop and admire his manhood. Rick had pulled thousands of dollars
of dress fabric upwards and kicked my legs apart. The immediacy of his actions seemed like a blur; suddenly, I cried out as inch after inch of steel-like hardness rose up into me. My heels lifted off the ground as the full force of his erection travelled deep inside me, filling my soaking wet pussy and sending a shockwave of pleasure through my body.

The elevator rumbled and shock as I wrapped my legs around him, locking my ankles
together for stability. Five inches of Christian Louboutin heels dug into his hard, muscular ass – but he didn't flinch. Strong arms held me up; long, slow, considered thrusts retracted then stretched and consumed my inner walls again and again. We kissed passionately and frantically, like our lives were about to end. I opened my eyes to see myself in the mirror opposite, pure ecstasy all over my face as stroke after rock-hard stroke slipped into me.