Page 10 of Connor

“Does this whole house belong to you?” I whispered, sidling closer to him like a stray cat. Even the foyer was huge—all mahogany furniture and expensive lamps and high ceilings. He glanced down at me where I had plastered myself to his side.

“Yes. Would you like something to eat?” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to the lady—um, the maid—and said, “Mary, could you bring us something, please? In the library? I presume you’ve lit the fireplace?”

“Yes, Mr. Spencer. Go right in, please, and I’ll send something in.”

“Just something light.”

She nodded and he led me to a set of double doors off the wide foyer. He dropped my hand at the door, and we went inside. It was like something out of Downton Abbey, and maybe even better. The sofas were dark leather and plush, and a few of them were centered around the fireplace, which was lit as advertised and made the room warm and…well, not cozy. It was far too big and rich for that. But it was really nice and comfortable, and I sank down in a couch that sort of wrapped me up in luxury.

“Take off your shoes, Connor. Your feet got wet when we came in.”

“No, I’m good.”

He glanced at me with one raised eyebrow and those intense eyes of his and I shivered. “I’m not wearing socks, remember?”

“Yes, so?”

I shook my head and refused to look him in the eye.

“Connor?”

His tone was firm, and I snapped at him. “I don’t fucking want to, all right? Don’t fucking nag!”

Okay, I didn’t really say that to him. But I wanted to. I wanted to yell at him, but I didn’t have the nerve. It would have taken a bigger man than I was to yell at a man like Jared Spencer in that expensive “library,” okay? Besides it would have been really rude, and I refer you to the aforementioned manners and shit. So I sighed instead and mumbled out the truth. “I’m not wearing any socks.”

“I know. Which is why your feet will be wet.”

“Yeah, but these are some pretty old sneakers, okay? They’re gonna smell—so will my feet.”

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling again. “Connor, I’ve been in plenty of locker rooms. I know what sweaty feet smell like, and I can assure you, I’ll survive. Take them off.”

So I did, and it wasn’t quite as bad as I thought, but I tucked the shoes up under the sofa, hoping that would help, and I covered one foot with the other, trying to somehow mitigate the damage. And okay, hide my toenails. In an attempt to show some Christmas spirit, I had painted them bright red.

The door opened then and two more servants came in. I think they were servants anyway—they wore the black uniforms, but these were different women. They got busy putting down some platters and trays and things on a table behind me, and once they left, Jared Spencer made a little motion for me to get up and make a plate for myself. He didn’t have to ask twice, because I was starving. My stomach had started growling when they first showed up.

There was a tray with beautiful china and real silverware on one end of the table and some snowy-white, cloth napkins. Then after that, bowls of various things, like three kinds of salads, and tiny sandwiches and hot things in sauces and fancy, warm spinach dip, with little pieces of toast beside it. Oh, and little iced cakes too that I knew were called petit fours, and some French macarons, which were my personal favorite cookie in all the world. I tried not to take too much at one time, because of my aforementioned manners and shit, but I still probably got too much, if Jared Spencer’s regular portions were anything to go by.

He was right behind me, filling his own plate, so I waited to see where he was going to sit. He took a chair by the fire and pulled it up to the huge coffee table. I followed him, but took one look at the gorgeous Persian rug under the table and I opted to plop down on the floor beside the table.

I ate until I almost cleared my plate, and I would have, except I thought it might be rude. Then I rethought that shit and finished it off anyway, because it might be rude not to. Jared Spencer finished long before me and sat there in his chair watching me. Normally, that would have made me nervous, and this whole thing was a bit surreal, but I guess once you’ve had your mouth on a guy’s dick, it lends a certain ease to most situations.

I touched the napkin to my mouth and sat back against the sofa, feeling warm and full and surprisingly unworried for the first time in too long. “Thank you for all this, Jared Spencer,” I said, gazing over at him

“Why on earth are you calling me by my full name?”

“Well, it seems rude and kind of presumptuous to call you just Jared. And I think Mr. Spencer is a little formal after I had my mouth on your…”

“Yes, yes, I understand. God, you’re an odd little thing,” he said, almost as if he were talking to himself. I wasn’t sure how I felt about being referred to as a “little thing.”

“I’m not little. I’m five nine, which is not tall, but not actually what I’d call short.”

“Are you rounding up?”

“Maybe.”

He shook his head. “Just call me Jared. I have a few things to explain to you, but they can wait until morning. I think I’ll take you up to your room, so you can get some rest.” He looked pointedly down at my feet. “And take a hot bath.”

“Oh, I’m a shower guy.”

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