I'm no stranger to opulence. From birth, I was surrounded by wealth and the luxury it brought with it. Mother even painted her boudoir, her crazy-ass boudoir, because according to her, it wasn't anything less than a French-inspired masterpiece, with 24k gold-leaf ceilings. But the hotel suite that Charlie McKenna reserved for us is the epitome of indulgence, with a respectful use of resources. No gold-leaf or diamond-encrusted chandeliers here. I suspect queens and presidents and prime ministers have stayed in the same three rooms. For now, I have one to myself as Caden showers in the second full bath and hangs out with JT in the sitting area. Peeling back silk brocade curtains, I stare out the window to find the White House on the other side of the square. Just beyond that lies the Washington Monument.
Power and greed shroud the district. The feeling is palpable and woven into the fabric of suits the men and women wear as they hustle through the streets at the end of a busy summer day. The falling sun reminds me it's time to prepare for a dinner party with the First Lady.
The First Lady. Holy shit. In the shower, I take my time to appreciate the marble and three fountains of water, I scrub and rub and think about Caden. Because he's all I can think about.
Five days ago, I left JT with Maisie for an hour to witness Dax and Cara say their I dos. After the beach ceremony, the band belted out a stirring acapella rendition of "Nothing Compares to You," and that's when Caden found me wandering through the crowd. Without hesitation, he moved toward me. And even though the early evening sky bloomed neon orange above us, the air seemed to disperse and I couldn't breathe, not with his broad, powerful shoulders weaving through guests. Not with his chiseled jaw clenching, or when he ran his hand through his ruddy hair, grabbing the ends, and definitely not when he bit his lower lip. He let it go just in time for his mouth to crash onto mine as he dipped to grip my waist, hauling me against him as if I were a feather to his mountain.
I melted. And ever since then I've been loose like Gumby, but cuter and not green. I'm butter in his hands-especially when they touch me, which is not nearly enough. I hope that changes tonight.
I'm quick to blow-dry and wrap my hair in curlers to set while I sweep on liner and mascara. A leftover from my San Francisco days, my gown hangs in the closet. It's pale pink and long. The hem meets the ground in an understated silhouette, but with an open back it calls for a bustier. For the fun of it, I add a garter belt and stockings before tucking the ends of my hair into an updo. I head out to find my boys with the cool air of confidence only luxurious lingerie can induce. But I stumble to a stop at the end of the short hall.
Holy, wow. There's coffee and Caden, JT and his bottle. All things one would expect when this is your family. But one item is missing. Clothes.
Caden is buck naked.
Round butt muscles, ink and all man, holding a diapered but otherwise equally naked baby in the crook of his arm-a beautiful mirage. Still as a marble statue, he stares out the wall of windows and into the bustling district. My cardiac rhythm is steady and loud, thundering really, proof chemistry exists between us at the most elemental level. P24 + C30 = Explosive + 1, but will we survive the experiment?
I'm not so sure. I may combust.
My nipples tighten against lace, my fingers resting on the hammering pulse in my neck. He shakes his head and then notices me, turning to flash a full frontal in my direction. I almost miss the subtle vibration of his shoulders because my focus is driven dead-center to his ginormous appendage that's waking up to say hi.
"Hi." I wave at it, I mean him. Eyes, Piper-drag them away from cock and up to face. You can do it. Good girl, good girl.
But that's a mistake too. Caden looks at me like I'm a bad idea and a good decision. The contradiction wars in his tension-filled jaw and with the smooth molasses in his voice. "You're gorgeous, sunshine. Ready to go?"
I shiver under his unwavering inspection. Heat curls in my sex, and I grow wet and desperate to touch him.
"I . . . what . . . You have a big dick."
He waits a beat as if processing the words and then throws his head back, laughing. Oh, God. Now it's bobbing. I cover my eyes and fumble to a stool at the kitchenette's island, peeking through my fingers to assess the situation. Ah, good, counter coverage. He reaches for a cup in the overhead cupboard, still chuckling when he pours coffee, blocking the last bit of dick from view.
"You forgot your pants," I point out as he pushes the mug over granite to rest in front of me.
"They're hanging up in the bath with the shower on hot. Steam-the magic wrinkle-remover."
"Ah." One sip of his strong brew and I'm a new woman. I can deal with dick before dinner. "I thought you were trying to woo me into bed with an eight-pack narrowing into the Holy Grail."