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“I think you got your answer.”
Indeed, I did. Feeling triumphant and light of heart, I said, “You didn’t hold out for long.”
“Can’t help it. Watching you go down on me makes it impossible to stay in control.”
I handed over his Scotch before I put the Chinese food in the fridge and then made a trip to the restroom. I snuggled up with him on the sofa again, settled between his legs. He draped the throw over my naked body. The fingers of his free hand combed through my hair as he sipped his drink. I watched the fire for a few moments before my eyelids dipped. I stifled a yawn as my head rested on his chest, but I couldn’t stop myself from falling asleep.
I was in his bed when I woke up. I vaguely remember my eyes drifting open when he’d moved us from the sofa. Then I’d promptly fallen back asleep. Now, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and eggs made my lids snap open and my stomach growl. I threw the covers off me just as he walked through the large, doorless frame that separated his master suite from the living room.
He carried a tray and had the morning paper tucked under his arm.
“I do like that you feed me on a regular basis,” I told him.
Settling into bed next to me, he said, “I want you horny, not hungry.”
I laughed at the reminder of my verbal bobble last night. “Doesn’t take much to make me both when I’m with you.”
I dug into the eggs and sausage as he opened the paper, setting aside the sections I always read first. This made me falter for a moment, and I set my fork aside. We’d experienced the same thing last night, having our Chinese food ritual. He knew what to order and we both knew what the other liked to start with before we switched. The realization of how in tune we were with each other was both endearing and disturbing at the same time. The latter being a natural reaction to the fact that I wouldn’t have noted any of this if it didn’t bear some significance. The revelation alarmed me, of course, though I fought the twinge of anxiety. Forced it down so we could enjoy our breakfast together.
Afterward I put my clothes back on and told him, “I have to get ready for the party.”
He eyed me curiously. “It’s only ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Yes, but this is one of those occasions when I have a lot hair and makeup to do. We should leave around one forty-five. I want to be about twenty minutes late.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re never late.”
“This time, it’s necessary.” I had my reasons, despite promising my mother I’d be on time. “I want everyone to be there when we walk in.”
“Plan to make a spectacle of yourself, do you?”
“You’d better believe it. They’ll be expecting the poor, dumped fiancée.”
“Instead, they’re going to get hot stuff in a red dress. A party girl ready to have a good time, to hell with the bride and groom.” He gave me a wicked grin that made me so thrilled he understood my plight—and was right there with me to see this crazy plan through.
It was a simple one, admittedly, but there were still a dozen different ways it could backfire on me. The most obvious being that my mother would flip out and demand I drive back into town to buy something more appropriate to wear.
Not a chance.
I said, “I’ll be ready by the time you arrive. Just buzz me on my cell if you can’t find a parking space and I’ll come right down.”
“Don’t forget the overnight bag.”
I stared at him. “Michael.”
“Fiona.” He crossed his arms over his bare chest. “The deal was the whole weekend.”
More I.O.U sex. I’d be lying if I didn’t get a kick out of the idea. In fact, excitement shimmied down my spine. My clit tingled with anticipation.
“Fine. I’ll pack a bag.” I turned to go. Over my shoulder I said, “Thanks again for doing this.”
“Thanks for agreeing to my terms.”
Hard to say who was in for the most trouble—him at this party, or me come Monday morning. A whole weekend with him. I knew my body would be sated, but what about my heart?
Chapter Seven
I was a bundle of nerves as I stepped into my red suede peekaboo platform shoes with the four-inch heels. I was waxed within an inch of my life. Had painstakingly applied my makeup. Sported fat curls in my hair that cascaded over my bare shoulders and down my back. Was tucked into the tightest dress I’d ever worn, with a hem that ended mid-thigh and a bodice that dipped so low, my plumped-up breasts crested the V-shaped neckline. The sleeves were extra long, covering my wrists, one of which was circled by a diamond tennis bracelet.
