Paul McCartney Imagines

58

PART I

The air in Los Angeles was heavy with heat and hysteria — the kind only The Beatles could cause. Screaming girls lined the streets outside the Beverly Hills Hotel, where Paul McCartney had barricaded himself in his suite with his guitar, a cigarette, and a slowly sinking mood.

It was his birthday. No one had said a word.

Sure, Brian had arranged a quick press interview, George had given him a joking slap on the back that morning, and Ringo had offered him a slightly smashed cupcake he swore was once chocolate. But there was no card from you. No wink. No sly kiss. No hint that you'd remembered.

Paul stared out the tall window, watching fans swarm below. You'd been his rock for two years — steady, loving, understanding. But now, with the chaos of the American tour, you'd become distant. Always tired. Always talking to Mal or Neil, helping out with press duties or hiding away on the phone. You'd barely touched him in days. And today, of all days, you'd disappeared for hours.

He wasn't used to you forgetting things. Especially not something like this. Not when you knew how sensitive he could be, especially during the tour — when the only privacy he got was in his dreams.

He sighed and lit another cigarette, then picked up his guitar again, strumming aimlessly. "Happy bloody birthday to me..."

Meanwhile — just a few doors down — you were in a flurry of satin and nerves. The red lingerie you'd bought in secret clung to your body like a sinful whisper, hugging every curve. You adjusted the garter one last time, your heart pounding like one of Ringo's drums. The lights were dimmed, the room filled with soft vanilla scent and a bottle of champagne chilling on the side table. A record — one of his favorites, Marvin Gaye — was spinning low on the turntable.

You had waited weeks for this.

You'd been planning the perfect surprise for weeks — through the interviews, the jet lag, the exhaustion. You'd ordered the lingerie to the hotel under a fake name. You'd bribed the hotel manager to let you sneak into Paul's suite before he returned from soundcheck. And you'd done it all because you knew your man — sweet, tender Paul — deserved a night that reminded him he was more than just the face on a thousand posters. He was yours.

And tonight, you were going to worship every inch of him.

You smirked as you heard footsteps outside. A key turned in the lock.

Paul entered the suite with a grumble, expecting darkness and emptiness.

But instead — the record player crooned, the lights glowed amber — and there you were, standing at the foot of the bed, draped in red silk and lace.

His jaw fell open.

You bit your lip and gave him a slow spin, letting him see everything. "Happy birthday, love."

He closed the door behind him slowly, blinking as though he'd stepped into a dream. "You didn't forget..."

"I would never forget you," you whispered, stepping toward him on bare feet. "Especially not today."

Paul's eyes roamed your body, helpless and wide. His breath caught in his throat as he tossed his jacket to the floor and crossed the room toward you, almost hesitantly. "You're unreal. You're... Jesus."

You smiled, pressing a kiss to the center of his chest as you ran your hands down his sides. "Sit. Let me take care of you tonight."

He sank onto the edge of the bed, still stunned, while you climbed onto his lap, straddling him in your lingerie. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently as you kissed him — slow and open-mouthed, letting him feel your hunger, your devotion.