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“I’m close,” I whisper.
His face is pressed close, his dark eyes bright with hunger and need.
“You’re so sexy when you come,” he rasps against my mouth. “So fucking hot, the way you trust me.”
Does he mean physically?
I don’t think so.
At least, not only.
I squeeze and I’m lost.
Pleasure crashes into me like a riot of colors and textures playing together in unexpected and gorgeous ways.
Clay groans as he stiffens inside me. In the mirror, every muscle in his back and ass and legs clenches as he comes. He’s art, a damned renaissance sculpture, only he’s filthy and real.
When we come down, I realize we’ve made it to the floor. He’s under me, protecting me from the wood.
“Thank you,” he murmurs into my hair.
I don’t think he means for the blowjob.
His fingers thread into my hair, brushing it away from my sweaty face. There’s so much tenderness on his expression.
“Think the house is sturdy enough?” I ask.
“Might do the trick.”
His slow grin makes my heart skip.
“I haven’t even told you about the daisies.”
* * *
The next two weeks pass in a blur.
The house came furnished, but I’ve been setting up our belongings and ordering things we need.
Clay had most of his things shipped from Denver.
I buy some new art supplies using my money from the mural and arrange the ones he got me in the room we decided would be my studio.
Plus, I paint the entire house. He said we could hire someone, but having a roller or brush in my hand makes me feel more myself.
At Clay’s first home game in LA, I’m introduced to a couple of other wives and girlfriends. They’re nice, but they remind me of the Kodashians back in Denver—only more tanned with sleek waist-length hair, body-skimming outfits, and heels so high I’d need an insurance policy to wear them.
The team gets a win, but there’s not the same excitement within the team as when Denver wins. It feels more like an expectation coming to reality.
Or maybe the chemistry isn’t there with LA.
Yet.
It’s not there yet.
The next afternoon, I take a break from painting to turn on the TV. I’ve just watched a few minutes of Denver playing Boston out East when Clay comes in the front door.
“The place looks good,” he comments, crossing to the couch and dropping a kiss on my head.
