Page 99 of Lennox Lane

“In a private venue that’s consent-forward. Everything you witness is beautifully consensual. You get to witness art with no shame.”

“You’re inviting me to watch your friend dominate somebody?” She needed to know.

“I’m inviting you to see a woman own every part of herself without apology,” Lennox said. “And afterward, if you want, we’ll go backstage and talk to her.”

Lane looked toward the window, where the dark pressed gently against the glass. “What makes you think I need that?”

“I don’t know if you need it,” he said as his thumb brushed over her hand. “I just think you might appreciate it.”

She was quiet for a while.

Then she asked, “You planning anything illegal?”

“Not for the trip.”

“Robot,” she fussed.

“I’m kidding,” he chuckled.

“Were you?” She asked with a raised brow.

“Mostly,” he winked.

A tired smile tugged at her mouth. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” she whispered, settling back against him. “I really don’t.”

Lennox’s heart went dangerously still as he held her tighter. “I want you to myself for a weekend,” he declared softly.

Lane yawned, her body finally surrendering to the weight of the day. She told him to ask her again after she got some sleep. He hadn’t booked anything yet, but he had a game plan drawn out in his mind.

As she dozed off, he joked as he kissed her neck, “See? Growth.”

“Suspicious growth,” she mumbled sleepily.

“Still growth,” he chuckled.

Lane’s breathing slowed, and a few minutes later, she was asleep.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GETTING OUT YOUR OWN WAY

Waking up before Lane had become a habit he hadn’t meant to develop and didn’t plan to apologize for. His body seemed to understand something his mind still struggled to name, something primitive and soft that made him surface from sleep just to make sure she was still there.

She was.

Lane lay nestled against him, one cheek pressed to his chest, one leg thrown over his thigh like she’d claimed him in her sleep and trusted the claim enough not to guard it. Her breathing was even. Slow. Warm against his shirt. One of her hands rested near his ribs, fingers lightly curled, lavender pixie mussed against his skin.

She looked peaceful, and that did something to him. It wasn’t sexual or possessive. He didn’t want to control her; he wanted to pour into her. His feelings for Lane had grown deep. It was the kind of feeling that made a man afraid to move because he didn’t want to disturb something sacred.

Lane Sanders, asleep in his arms, was a miracle with a mouth that could ruin a man’s self-esteem before coffee.

Lennox stared at the ceiling of her bedroom, one hand moving slowly along her back as he tried to hold on to the calm. It didn’t last as a memory came for him the way it always did when he let himself rest.

His father’s voice first.