The sound of a package ripping open, causes me to grip the covers beneath, preparing. “Feel Like Making Love” starts playing as warmth invades my insides, my breath forced out. Erratic and out of control, he plays, toying with my body, testing boundaries by touching forbidden places. I leave no room for misunderstanding of what I like and what I don’t. His body falls forward, his chest against my back with quickening thrusts and jagged breaths that foreshadow his release.
Fingers slip around and down my stomach until they find that place I’ll never turn him away from. His rhythm found is my reward. As I tremor, he comes. Moans fill the bedroom before we collapse, exhausted.
Twenty minutes later, we’re soaking in my jetted tub, bubbles covering our bodies and I ease back, resting against him. Dropping my head back on his shoulder, I close my eyes. The sudsy water makes my skin feel silky and his hands roam. His sweet words cover me as he pushes water up and over my chest, “You’re incredible.”
“You’re pretty incredible yourself,” I say, returning the compliment. When his hand dips, I wiggle. “I think I might need a little recovery time.”
Bringing my hand up from under the water, he places my wet palm to his mouth and kisses it. “I’m sorry. Was I too rough?”
“Not too rough. I enjoyed it, but I’m starting to feel the effects.”
Strong arms wrap around my middle and a kiss is placed on my cheek. “I can give it time.”
While drying off, I admire his tattoos, running my finger over his ribs. “You told me you’d tell me about the gun tattoos one day.”
“Each one represents an album that hit number one.”
“Three guns. That’s impressive.” I wrap the towel around me and stop, shocked I didn’t know he’s had that much success. “How many records have you recorded?”
“Four,” he replies, tucking the towel around his waist. He chuckles. “But our first was complete shit. We were so fucking arrogant and wouldn’t listen to our producers. They did the best they could. We just sucked back then. That album should have never been made.”
I slide onto the bathroom counter, leaning against the mirror and watch him. “What about the hula girl?”
“Wish I had a cool story to go along with it, but I don’t. That was just a drunken night in Hawaii.”
“You’re lucky it turned out so well.”
“Damn lucky.”
I don’t ask about the tiger tat on his chest. I love to lick the skin of that tattoo in particular and don’t want to find out he got it on a dare or something ridiculous like that, tainting it.
After changing into pajamas and pulling my robe on, I walk downstairs and find him in the kitchen.
Dalton holds a big box in the air, and says, “I love that you buy the family size frozen lasagna.” I barely notice the box because he’s standing there naked except for a pair of boxer briefs, and frozen dinners don’t compare to how good he looks. I watch as he reads the directions and starts the oven. “It’s getting late and these take almost two hours to cook.”
“I can wait if you can. Do you want to watch TV to pass time? I blew off work earlier and need to return a few emails.” I straighten the belt of my robe at the waist.
“Can I hang out with you?”
“And watch me work? Ummm—”
“I want to watch the magic happen.”
“There’s no magic,” I say, laughing. “Just a lot of wasting time online, looking out the window and praying for inspiration to hit.”
He feigns offense. “It’s okay if you don’t want me in there. I can hang out here.” Adds puppy eyes, and says, “I probably have a few emails and messages to return too.”
Tugging him closer by the waistband, I say, “Join me in the office when you’re ready and we’ll work together.”
Dalton is noisy. He also has trouble sitting still. More insight is good, but Mr. Wiggles-Around-A-Lot is distracting. Kicking his feet up, he flops back on the couch in my office and starts playing drums against his legs.
I can’t concentrate. I should be annoyed, but he’s too cute to be irritated by. When he reads, he whispers and responds aloud. I don’t think he even realizes he does it. When he huffs, I ask, “Everything alright?”
“A wedding invite,” he replies, keeping his eyes on his phone.
“Whose?”
“An ex.”
Wow. Okay. Guess they left on friendly terms. “Impressive that you remained friends.”
“We didn’t.”
I get up, walk across the room, and sit down next to him. He’s bothered. I can tell by the way his forehead is crinkled. I’m curious, so I ask, “Why would she invite you then?”