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There, right next to his big desk was a smaller one I hadn’t seen before. It was set up with a vase of flowers and Owen’s special orthopedic chair.
“Now you have your own space to write,” he told me.
“I love it,” I whispered, then smashed my face to his to kiss the thoughtful man.
He grinned down at me, then went to grab the luggage again and hauled them upstairs for me.
“What else have you done?” I asked as he led me up to his bedroom.
Immediately, I saw rose petals on the bed and a candle on the bedside table on the side I liked to use.
“Look around,” he said, dropping my bags beside the wardrobe and opening it.
Inside, it was more than half empty with hangers waiting for me to fill.
“Owen,” I breathed, tears threatening again.
Happy ones this time, though.
I swung around to him but he pointed toward the bathroom.
I went inside and saw that he’d emptied out several drawers on one side of the sink so I could put my beauty stuff inside, as well as one of the shelves in the shower for my shampoo and body wash.
“I want you to be comfortable here,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Whatever you need, big or small, just tell me. I want to give you everything.”
Dropping my chin, I kissed his arms that were criss-crossing around my shoulders.
“You know I love it here,” I told him. “You don’t have to do anything extra for me.”
“Yes I do,” he chuckled into my ear and the pleasant rumble traveled down my spine with a shiver. “In so many ways, I’ve learned to live for you. You’re the first thing I think of in the morning and the last thing I think of when I go to bed, whether you’re with me or not.”
“You sure you’re not a romance writer?” I asked him with a laugh.
He grinned, then kissed me on the cheek before letting me go.
“Nope. That’s your job. It’s my job to be your muse.”
I lifted a brow at him, then glanced over at the roses all over the bed.
“Where is your mother?”
“She went to the park with Paula and the boys.”
Satisfied, I gave him a saucy smirk.
“Ok, muse. Inspire me.”
His grin turned devilish and he lifted his hand to drag his fingers into my hair, catching it almost roughly.
“What kind of inspiration does my woman require today?” he asked.
With all the emotion boiling inside me, I met his eyes and lifted my chin.
“I want it rough,” I stated. “Rough and hard and fierce.”
“Whatever my woman wants.” he murmured, then pressed a fiery kiss to my lips.
It was so contrary to how he was, my normally introverted, intelligent bookworm. As much as I was exploring my own sexuality, it almost felt like he was, too. I was growing into this role of adulthood and finding myself as an individual, but also a partner. He seemed to be doing the same, exploring things about himself that he’d never known before, even in his forty years. It was one of those things that assured me that age didn’t really matter. Once you reach adulthood, it was about experience, not years that gave a person maturity and individuality.
