Page 94 of All Twerk, No Play

“They didn’t have any gluten-free pastries,” he said, brows furrowed as if he expected somebody in this house to care.

“Oh god, you’re my favorite,” I said, taking the mug.

He placed the fruit platter on the vanity. “Don’t sleep on the pineapple.”

“Great for my libido,” I deadpanned. Not that it mattered. He thought my kiss last night was to make Spencer jealous, then I’d shut him down.

No surprise that after I turned off the light, he kept his distance. I’d faced the ceiling, remembering last weekend’s three mindblowing orgasms that left me boneless. Now I couldn’t even touch him.

He inspected my reflection. “You gonna wear your hair like that?”

“Of course not,” I said, reaching for my straightener.

“Too bad, the curls are cute,” he said, shutting the bathroom door to block my explanation that they were too unpredictable.

When he emerged in a cloud of steam, looking like an ancient Roman warrior with a towel around his waist, I yanked open the second suitcase. I might have gone overboard with the Ralph Lauren Polo Golf line. “Here, I brought options for you.”

With one finger, he lifted a white cable knit sweater. “Did you confuse me with Carlton?”

“Like the Ritz-Carlton?”

“Fresh Prince.” He did a dorky dance and I felt my shoulders relax. He’d been pissed at me last night, but he was still here, bringing me breakfast, making me laugh. Still trying.

A half-zip sweater stretched taut across his shoulders, and twill shorts clung to his thighs. I imagined every woman at this party staring and whispering, “Who does Vickie Sinclair think she is, bringing home a man like that?”

I’d seen Spencer’s scorn at Eric’s muscular frame, crooked nose and long hair, and I bit my lip, knowing what needed to be done to make him look more like he belonged. I stepped closer, my body wash wafting off his skin like I’d claimed him, and stroked his beard with my thumb.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured, leading him to the bathroom. He sat on the toilet as I lathered his cheeks with my shaving gel.

“I’ve never done this before,” I confessed, stepping between his legs.

“It’s been a while for me, too. Since the day I got out of the Navy,” he said, leaning into my palm tilting his head. “Uniform requirements included being clean-shaven every day. I got nasty razor burn.”

I paused, my razor hovering an inch above his face. “Want me to stop?”

He glanced at the blade, then shrugged. “It’ll grow back. My sister’s always bugging me to shave anyway.”

I carefully slid the razor along his skin, revealing his smooth bronze skin. I took my time, every movement careful, noticing the flecks of caramel in his eyes, the bob of his Adam’s apple. I didn’t ask what song he hummed as his hands came to rest on my hips, his fingertips tapping the beat on my pelvic bone. My core heated, wishing his fingers would rise, tug the belt of my bathrobe, slide his calloused fingers underneath the fabric …

A flush crept up my neck and he tracked it, his eyes dilating. I swallowed thickly against the desire to lean in closer, steadying my hand against his cheeks as I discovered a hidden treasure.

“You have a dimple,” I said, touching my knuckle to the divot in his cheek. A comforting smile spread across his face, more charmingly boyish than ever, and my heartbeat quickened. He looked more polished, but without the beard, his face also looked younger.

Would that make me seem older, in comparison? Instead of people criticizing his scruffiness today, would they call me a cougar?

“All set,” I said, wiping his face with the washcloth before retreating into the bedroom to escape the steam, which was already frizzing my hair. I slipped into the Zimmerman dress I’d painstakingly selected to fit in at a garden party, and when he emerged from the bathroom, I asked, “Can you zip me up?”

His breath hitched as his fingertips found the zipper at the base of my spine and dragged it up, careful not to touch as it lifted past my strapless bra. His fingertips lingered at my nape, his breath warm against my neck. I turned around and fluffed the skirt. “How do I look?”

“Honestly?” His reverent gaze dragged over the lilac pattern, cream tulle, fluttered sleeves, and ruffled neckline. “You look like a wedding cake.”

I laughed, shoving his shoulder. His playful grin reappeared, knocking me out with that unexpected dimple. “Nah, no wedding jokes allowed here. This dress is a birthday cake.”

"Yesterday," The Beatles

Victoria

WithEricanchoringme,I felt braver facing the petty drama of the entitled elite that I’d once run from. I guided him through the house, my heels clicking on the walnut floors, until a scent made me pause. Sandalwood and bergamot, but different. Wrong.

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