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“I guess some dreams never die,” I murmur. “When I was a kid, I had a dream that I’d be able to fill a house with all the things from the stories I was obsessed with. And then when I was wealthy enough to do it, I thought … fuck it, why the hell not?”
Why the hell not … does she know that I’m talking about more than my decorative choices?
“What about you?” I go on, unable to stop myself. My voice taking on a husky quality.
“What about me?” she whispers, staring back up at me with a gaze that sends signals right to the ancient part of me, the pre-civilization part.
What are you waiting for? Take her. Take her NOW.
“Well…” I find myself smirking as I burn my gaze into hers. “What are your dreams, Sadie?”
She blinks, as though expecting any moment to wake and find out that this has all been a dream. Perhaps that would be for the best, because then we could do anything we wanted without causing Fiona any heartache, without betraying her in a vicious way.
“Do you really care?” she says, a note of sassiness in her voice.
I step away with a shrug, pretending that I don’t care where in fact I care about nothing else at this moment.
Just her. Just my woman.
“I was just making conversation, Sparkplug.”
Now her smile is glorious, spreading across her lips, her kissable, fuckable lips.
“I’m sorry, but what the heck did you just call me?”
“Did I stutter?” I banter right back. “I called you Sparkplug because you seem to ignite pretty damn easy. All I did was ask you a question and you got all fiery.”
She giggles, the sound like music. I find myself smirking more than I have in years as she rolls her eyes and then aims pouting lips at me. That pout causes the base of my manhood to throb, my manhood that is already tense and solid at the sight of her, almost painful as it presses against the prison of my underwear.
“That’s not fair,” she says.
“What isn’t?” I retort.
“Well, if you’re going to give me a nickname, I think I should get to give you one, too.”
I spread my hands in a sign of acceptance. “Have at it … Sparkplug.”
She folds her arms, which causes her breasts to press together in her T-shirt. I can’t help but gaze at them, the shape of them beneath her clothes, my mind flooding with images of me tearing her shirt loose and revealing her fleshy mounds. Sucking, nibbling, coaxing her to orgasm as I swirl my tongue around her lust-pricked nipples.
And then I see her breastfeeding our first child with those life giving mounds, looking over the top of our child’s head to aim a smile at me, a smile that’s mine and nobody else’s.
Stop.
Even this banter is wrong.
“Grumpy-kins,” she says.
I can’t help but laugh, the sound deep and echoing in the cavernous room.
“Grumpy-kins? I didn’t realize I was a character in a children’s book.” I say.
“Did I stutter?” she teases, repeating my own words back to me. “All I know is you’ve been grumpy all night, so yeah, there’s your name. Take it or leave it.”
“I think I’ll leave it, Sparkplug,” I growl.
“Fine,” she huffs, letting her hands drop, her breasts giving a sensual jiggle.
She’s not wearing a bra, I realize.
Oh, Jesus Christ, underneath her T-shirt her nipples are bare. All I’d have to do is slide my hands over her curvy hips and then up the fleshy gradations of her flesh, and her breasts would be right there, ready to grab, to please, to suck and lick, to make them shiny and wet enough so that I could slip my cock between them, pulsing, pumping, firing my seed all over her chest.
I take a step back, letting out a growling breath.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” I say.
“No, it’s fine, I’ll go …”
She trails off as I turn and walk away, already halfway out the door.
My heart is pumping as I stride through the house, a rushing in my ears telling me that what I just did was wrong.
The banter, the closeness.
Sparkplug.
I shouldn’t be giving her nicknames.
We shouldn’t be joking around like that, with an undertone of attraction beneath the words, waiting to rise up like a primordial animal and snap its teeth closed on mine and Fiona’s father-daughter relationship.
I try to close my thoughts.
I walk and I clench my fists, and finally, I find myself in my gym, where I walk right to the punching bag and lay into it without gloves on.
“This.”
I smash it hard, causing it to whine as it rocks in its bracket, the leather of the heavy bag crinkling as my knuckles pulse painfully.
“Is.”
Again, I hit, causing an animal-like squeak.
“Wrong.”
I hit.
“Wrong, wrong, fucking wrong.”
Smash, smash, and smash until my knuckles are sore and red.
