Somewhere during my rant, Declan’s lips start to curve up.
When I’m done, I exhale a long breath. He laughs. “My apologies. I’d intended to change into something more casual, but my meeting ran late. I didn’t have time, especially since I wanted to grab a cheesecake from Flemings.”
My cheeks warm. I realize how ridiculous I’d just sounded, but I’m touched he felt picking up a dessert for us was worth such an effort.
I sweep my arm to indicate he should come in. “I’m sorry. I was just fantasizing about you in jeans,” I mutter in a shameless admission.
“Oh really,” he drawls with great interest. “What exactly would me in jeans do to you?”
“You’ll just have to wear them some time to find out,” I reply smartly, nabbing the bag. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I lead Declan into the kitchen, placing the bag in the fridge.
“Cute kitchen,” he remarks as he takes off his suit jacket, then sets it over the back of one of the chairs.
“It’s a bit dated,” I remark as I move to the stove. “But the yellow is cheery.”
Immediately, I feel him at my back, his hands at my hips and the warmth of him pressing into my back. His lips come to my neck, and he kisses me there. “Smells delicious.”
“The lasagna?” I murmur in a daze, the feel of his lips causing my body to flush with arousal.
“Among other things,” he replies softly, leaning around to press his lips against mine.
When he pulls back, he smiles. “What can I do to help?”
I blink to shake the spell this man so easily puts over me. “Um… you can pour the wine while I dish out the lasagna.”
“On it,” he replies, and I grab an oven mitt to pull the bread out.
We work in quick but companionable silence. I put the plates together to bring to the table, and Declan pours wine into my regular tumbler glasses without even a word as to how uncouth it is.
When we sit at the table, Declan’s eyes are drawn not to the food or even to me, but to a tiny ceramic vase in the middle where I put a silk Gerber daisy. His smile is warm and unlike any I’ve seen before.
He looks up. “That’s a really nice touch.”
And he means it. It’s a crappy silk flower in a two-dollar vase in my seventies-styled yellow kitchen, and he’s charmed by it.
“Thank you,” I reply softly.
He holds up his tumbler of wine, and I do the same as he toasts me. “To a beautiful woman and a beautiful meal. Thank you for having me in your home.”
Oh, God. Still so much formality in him, and I know he can’t help it. It’s probably how he’d thank anyone for a dinner invitation, but I can tell by the timbre of his voice he’s actually into this.
To me.
To who I am.
It’s the first time I think… maybe we really can have something together.
We eat and talk. Sometimes about work, but that’s only inevitable. We’ve been continuing with Declan’s plans to build a sex club-themed resort.
I’m surprised when he asks, “You said you were married before? What was the deal there?”
I chew my bite of cheesy lasagna. When I swallow, I say, “I’ve been divorced about a year now. My husband left me for another man.”
Declan’s eyebrows shoot almost into his hairline. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope,” I reply with a wry smile, my gaze going to my food. Even after all this time—even having this gorgeous man in my home and knowing he’ll be in my bed tonight—it’s still embarrassing.
“You know him being gay has nothing to do with you, right?” he says, causing my eyes to snap to him. “And him hiding it from you… that has nothing to do with you either. That only speaks to him being a dick for not being truthful.”
“Yeah,” I say on a wince. “I do, deep down. I guess I just don’t understand how I didn’t see it.”
“People who don’t have the guts to be themselves and have to keep that part hidden are exceptionally good at the deception. And if you were in love with him, you wouldn’t have wanted to see it. It’s why love is tricky.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say with a laugh, picking up my glass for a sip of wine. When I set it down, I lock eyes with him. “It’s hard for me to trust after that. Hard to trust this thing between us. We’re so different.”
He nods. “In a lot of ways, yes, but in some ways we fit together nicely.”
I give him a faux glare. “There needs to be more than sex for a relationship to work.”
“But having great sex sure helps,” he quips.
“That’s true,” I admit.
“Are you anti-relationship because of your family?” I ask. I mean, it’s only fair since he knows from where my trust issues stem.
Declan shrugs as he cuts into another bite of lasagna. “I certainly didn’t have the best role models in my parents as to what a loving relationship should be.”
“How so?”
“My father routinely has a mistress on the side,” Declan says bitterly. “When I was younger, they used to fight about it a lot. As I got older, I realized they’d come to an acceptance of sorts. My father wasn’t going to stop, and my mother wasn’t about to give up her wealthy lifestyle, so she pretended not to know.”
“That’s awful,” I murmur, amazed at how the wealthy let money dictate behavior even in the areas of love and commitment.
Declan shrugs again. “My mother gave as good as she got. She had affairs with a handful of young men. And she drank… a lot.”
I grimace. He’s matter of fact about their dysfunction. Frankly, it’s a miracle Declan isn’t a complete misogynist given his father as a role model.
“What about your sister? You two don’t seem close.”
“She’s eight years older than me, so we didn’t do much together. She and my mother are close, and she takes after her in so many ways other than looks.”
I take that to mean she probably cheats on her husband, is snobbish, and perhaps a drunk. I won’t delve into the details.
“But you’re not like your mother or your father,” I point out.
Declan tries to suppress a sardonic smile. “I’m a lot like my parents, in some ways.”
“You’re not,” I argue.
“I’m an asshole at times,” he points out. “And I can be very elitist.”
“Not to me,” I maintain. Because isn’t that what really matters?
“No, not to you,” he admits with a soft look. “I had a bit of good influence growing up. A nanny named Leonie Schmidt. She’s from Germany. She could be strict in her rules and the enforcement of them, but she was also everything my parents weren’t. Kind, loving, funny, and she was interested in me. Not because it was her job, but because she loved me.”
“She sounds wonderful,” I breathe out, feeling the tension in my chest loosen. I had not realized it was there until he talked about Leonie.
“She is,” he agrees with a fond smile. “In fact, you should come to dinner with us the next time I take her out.”
“She lives here?” I exclaim.
Declan chuckles. “She goes wherever I go. She’s in a retirement community here in Vegas.”
He describes what growing up with Leonie was like. Along with the funny and heartwarming stories, he says his family all but turned their backs on her when she got too old to look after Marissa’s kids. None of them talk to or check in on her, except Declan, and he more than just checks in.
He cares for her. Pays for her home. Visits her at least once a week for dinner. She’s traveled all over the world with him while he opens new Blackwood resorts.
She’s the mother he never had. Since she didn’t have children, he is essentially her son.
I cannot wait to meet her, and I’m warmed he wants me to. It’s not something I think would ordinarily come so fast in a relationship, but let’s face it… I’ve already met his parents and they insulted me, so why not?
We continue to talk. B
ecause he doesn’t seem to be shy about discussing it, I ask more questions about what it was like growing up a Blackwood. As expected, it involved lavish vacations, absentee parents, the most expensive of educations, and a nanny who doted on him in an attempt to make up for the love he was otherwise lacking.
He asks me what it was like to grow up a Robbins. I described a lot of PB&J and Chef Boyardee lunches, summer vacations roaming the neighborhood on my bike because we couldn’t afford to go anywhere, and cheap department store clothing that made it difficult to fit in with the cool kids.
But I also told him about the love and laughter around the dinner table, a ritualized event where we would eat good food my mom cooked after a long day at the mill, and we’d share how our days went with each other. And even though we didn’t have a lot of privileges, we always had what we needed.
It becomes apparent just how different our lives have been, yet there’s never a lull in our discussion. There’s quipping back and forth, profound questions, in-depth answers, and one of the things I love the most out of what we’re trying to do here… a lot of laughter.
CHAPTER 21
Declan
I thrust into Bailey one more time—the last push I need before I’m coming with a long, drawn-out groan of relief. Bailey had two such orgasms already this morning.
Letting out a sigh, I touch my forehead to hers a moment before rolling off, coming to rest on my back beside her. Our shoulders touch, faces pointed to the ceiling, and we fight to regain our breath.
“Not going to lie,” Bailey pants with a faint underlying chuckle. “Morning sex is awesome.”
Laughing, I roll my head to look at her. She stares at the ceiling with a smile, her fingers laced and resting on her belly. I slide my gaze down to her naked breasts, nipples still hard and contracted. Christ, I want to fuck her again. I mean, my body isn’t quite ready, but everything else in my being is ready.
“I could get used to a lot of morning sex,” I say in agreement, turning back on the pillow to stare upward as well. “And just think… come Monday, we’ll probably have the results of our tests back, then we can do away with condoms. Then nothing will hamper our spontaneity.”
“That’s going to be awesome,” Bailey murmurs.
Sure as fuck is. It’s been a long damn time since I’ve shared that level of intimacy with a woman, and I’m near crazy with the anticipation of it.
Yeah…I could get used to a lot of different things with Bailey now firmly in the picture of my life.
These scratchy sheets I’m on. Not the expensive high thread-count cotton I’m used to sleeping on that feels like clouds. But the sheets smell like Bailey, and that makes them pretty fucking nice.
Her bed is small, a fraction of the size of the huge king in my suite. I usually sleep sprawled practically corner to corner, but I found spooning with her last night to be comfortable. For sure, her mattress is hard as a rock, but…
Well, no. There’s nothing I can think of that makes sleeping on this concrete slab worth it for the long haul. I make a note to buy Bailey a new mattress for the nights I stay over.
And yes… I’ve already started thinking about us spending every night together. I mean, why the fuck not? The sex is beyond amazing, and Bailey is awesome to be around. Where is the downside?
Because you’ve been here before, asshole. At some point, it will probably not be so great, I remind myself.
I shake that thought off. I could suggest she stay at the Blackwood with me, but that wouldn’t be best for her. I know she needs to be closer to her parents because of their health issues. The one clear thing I came away with after our dinner last night is her family is vastly different from mine and far more important to her. We spent a lot of time talking about her parents and how hard they worked to provide for her. They didn’t have a lot. They lived without extravagances, and yet Bailey never felt deprived. Knowing that about her family, I can’t even imagine how shocking it was for her to see my family dynamics.
She told me last night—with a great deal of pride—that unbeknownst to her growing up, her parents saved mightily to provide her with a college fund. She was able to go to the University of Nevada and graduate without owing a dime.
Of course, she’d said her degree in business administration wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on because she still hadn’t figured out what to do with it.
“Maybe I’ll get my MBA one day,” she had mused over the cheesecake she’d pulled from the fridge.
I had not a doubt she would probably do just that. She didn’t seem like the type of woman that would ever let an opportunity pass her by.
“So today is Saturday,” she murmurs, sounding mellow.
“Yeah.”
“What do you normally do on a Saturday?” she asks, rolling slightly toward me.
I take her in, hair all mussed up, lips puffy from the vigorous workout she just gave them upon mine, and her hand tucked under her cheek. I could totally get used to waking up to this.
But she asked a question, so I answer it. “I often work on Saturday. Sunday too. But I’ll golf sometimes. Other times, I’ll hang at The Wicked Horse. What about you?”
“Definitely not all that exciting,” she quips. “Clean the house, do my laundry. Sometimes, I’ll go for a hike or maybe shopping. I like to read.”
“What are you going to do today?” I ask, realizing the last thing I want to do is go into the office.
“Just the usual,” she replies with a shrug.
“Want to just stay in bed with me all day?”
She grins, shooting me a disbelieving look. “I thought the powerful Declan Blackwood works on Saturdays?”
“Yeah… that probably has more to do with the fact I have nothing better to do than work,” I say with a wink. “But you are definitely something a whole lot better than work.”
“You really want to stay in bed all day?” she asks, her face a mask of skepticism.
“Well, not all day,” I admit. “I mean… your mattress is hell on my back. I’m buying you a new one by the way.”
“You’re not—”
I cut her off with a hand to the back of her head, and a swift, hard kiss of determination. When I let her up, I continue. “But let’s get out for a bit. Maybe you can show me around your hometown. I haven’t seen much.”
“You’ve lived here over a year.” Laughing, she pokes me in the chest. “How can you not have seen much? This is Vegas.”
“I’m a busy man,” I tease. “I don’t have time for frivolity.”
“Oh, you’re totally getting frivolity today,” she warns playfully, then her mouth is on mine again. Her hand inches down my abdomen to a place below that very much wants our frivolity to start right in this bed.
I have no clue what she has planned, but we will be making a stop at a mattress store for sure because I plan to spend a lot of time here.
♦
I have to admit…
It turned into a damn good day, and I seriously cannot remember the last time I did anything utterly frivolous. Sure, I’ll golf now and then, but it’s an activity that’s usually sandwiched between work. And yes, I’ve spent quite a bit of time at The Wicked Horse fucking away the time, but again… more as a respite from my responsibilities to the Blackwood empire.
Today, I haven’t checked my email.
No clue if anyone’s left me a voice mail.
Didn’t step foot in my office.
Instead, after I fucked Bailey for a second time this morning, we headed out for an adventure. She showered at her place, then we went to the Blackwood so I could shower and change clothes. After which I gave her what she really wanted.
Me in jeans.
I could tell by the overly long time she stared that she liked them, and I made a mental note to immediately switch into denim when I wasn’t working.
Next, we took off on a car drive. A clear, bright, and beautiful November day, Bailey directed me out to Valley of Fire State Park. We rod
e in my Porsche because I’m the guy… I drive, which is sexist… I get it. We didn’t plan on a hike today, but it was beautiful just driving and looking at the graceful sandstone formations in red, white, and sometimes even lavender. It gave us time to talk more, and there was nothing odd when my hand would find its way to Bailey’s thigh, or she’d drape her arm across my shoulders so her fingers could play in my hair as we cruised along.
We ended up back in Vegas. She took me downtown, where I had yet to step foot in all my time here. We visited the Mob Museum and the Neon Museum. We walked along Fremont Street, and she talked me into riding the SlotZilla zip line along the mall.
All things I never in a million years would have dreamed to do. Even if I had, I would have never taken the time for something so… silly.
And yet, in shuffling through my memories, I can’t remember having such a great time before.
Even now, as we walk back along Fremont Street—having grabbed some hot dogs from a food truck for dinner—I don’t want the day to end.
Bailey laughs, and I look over to see what’s so funny as I arrange the wrapper on my hot dog so I can manage a bite.
She smirks, also working at exposing her meal so she can eat it.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“It’s just… have you ever eaten a hot dog for dinner?” she asks.
I give her a faux glare, her question bordering on impertinent and an indirect slam at my upbringing. Secretly, though, I find it hilarious. “Of course I’ve had hot dogs,” I say imperiously. “But only if we had Grey Poupon in the fridge.”
Bailey snort laughs. “Good one.”
“I actually like hot dogs,” I say in a more serious tone. “But roasted over an open fire. That’s the best.”
She gives me a surprised glance. “When have you ever cooked hot dogs over an open fire?”
“Believe it or not, Miss Robbins,” I reply drolly. “I’m quite the outdoorsman. I enjoy camping and fishing, and I know how to cook food over a flame.”
“Wow,” she murmurs, pulling her dog toward her mouth. “Color me impressed.”
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