“Yeah, it does. But not for the reason you might be thinking!” he retorted. “I’m afraid to take away your freedom.”

He made it sound like he was sentencing me to solitary confinement. I just didn’t see it that way.

I shook my head to disagree. “I thought you might be ashamed to be seen with me,” I whispered.

“Ashamed?” He looked at me like I was being absurd. “Is that what you think? That I’ll be ashamed if our relationship becomes public?”

I silently nodded my head.

He slapped the gear shifter into drive and squealed the tires as he turned the car around.

Ryan parked in my spot in the lot. Photographers descended on us before we even got out of the car.

“Wait, let me get my bags first and then I'll get your door,” he instructed.

We were followed all the way down the street as we hurried to the front door of my pub. The lights from the camera flashes in the dark were blinding and disorienting. It was like staring into strobe lights. I made the mistake of looking up at one of them when we crossed the street. Their intrusive questions never stopped either.

While I fumbled to get my key in the lock, one of the groupies asked Ryan for his autograph, to which he nicely obliged. I was surprised that several men wanted Ryan’s autograph too. They were prepared with glossy prints of him in hand. I recalled Ryan referring to them as “autographers” once.

I couldn’t get the door opened fast enough. Ryan and I hurried through the door and he shut it with force to lock the insanity out. I started to panic

slightly when I couldn’t see the keypad properly to turn the alarm off. I had to blink repeatedly until I finally punched the code in. Then I set the alarm again to be sure to keep the insanity out.

“I’m seeing spots.” It was hard to navigate through the darkness.

He chuckled lightly. “Me too. No matter how many times… one of them still gets me in the eyes.”

Ryan helped me with my coat, which he tossed onto the living room chair.

“I’m sorry for the way I reacted,” he said, looking at me with apologetic eyes. “You need to realize that I only want to protect you.”

“I know. I want to protect you too,” I whispered.

I slid my hands into the space between his shirt and jacket, skimming my fingers up over his shoulders. I didn’t care that we were just hounded by photographers; I wanted to feel his skin on mine.

I combed my fingers into his hair; our kissing was intense and passionate.

The fingers of both his hands caressed in the space between my shoulders. I could hear the metal teeth separate as he slowly unzipped my dress.

He raked his fingers across my back, peeling the dress from my body. I felt the satin when it landed around my ankles.

His eyes took in the sight of me as I stepped out of my dress. I presumed he liked the look of the matching silken lace ensemble I was wearing underneath my dress - that paired with my high heels. His head swayed and his breath was rough before his open mouth locked onto mine.

I unbuttoned his shirt while he kicked his shoes off and opened his belt. My fingers slid over his bare chest, pulling his tucked shirt out of his pants. He shuddered ever so slightly under my touch.

In one quick movement he leaned down, catching my waist with his shoulder. His arm wrapped around my legs to hold me in place. I giggled as he quickly carried me down the dark hallway to my bedroom.

We spent most of the day lounging in bed. In between the marathon sex sessions and a nap, we managed to shower. We even had breakfast in bed.“

So how do you deal with it?” I asked. I pulled the sheet up over my shoulder.

“Deal with what?” He looked over at me.

“Everything. The demanding schedule, the obsessed fans, the photographers, and still manage to make movies.”

He laughed quietly. “I honestly don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I’m having an out of body experience.”

“Come on! Tell me!” I rested my hand on his bare chest.

He rolled his eyes a bit. “You have a schedule to follow, right? Every day you get up and you either go to work or you have other things you need to accomplish.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have people screaming at me.”

“That’s not true,” he insisted. “I’ve seen people bark orders at you many times. I want sixty mixed drinks and forty pitchers of beer.”

“It’s not the same,” I disagreed with his comparison.

“How is it so different? You run a business, and with that comes dedication and responsibility. You have to be in front of people, some of which you don’t like, or don’t know. But yet you smile and play your part. They expect something from you, and you have to deliver. If you truly think about it, we all are acting in one way or another,” he remarked.