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When I’m right alongside him, close enough I could reach out and slap the back of his stupid head, I slow even further and say, “For months, I’ve been telling people your mother should’ve swallowed you, but now, I realize not even she deserved that amount of toxicity. She should’ve spit you out instead.” I stomp on the accelerator, reveling in the squeal of my tires as I round the corner, hoping he chokes on my exhaust fumes.
It's Friday night and I should be coasting into it with a glass of wine in my hand and nothing on my mind butmyelectrician’s hot body, filthy mouth, and pleasure-dom tendencies. I sure as hell shouldn’t have Bryan on my mind when I arrive at Teague’s house. I’m trying to erase our earlier interaction from my memory, but it keeps coming back to taunt me.
I’ve showered, changed into a cute, casual dress, and curled my hair into loose waves, even though we’re not going out. Looking pretty when I show up for our weekend feels important. And I feel pretty when I check myself in the rearview mirror.
Teague made me promise I would leave the rest of the world behind and let him pamper me all weekend. He’s been trying to convince me to go away for the weekend with him for a few months, but I keep saying it’s too soon. We don’t know each other well enough.I’m not ready to share a bathroom with you for 48 hours!
But here I am, on my way to spend the weekend with him in his house, as if that provides some sacred boundaries a hotel destroys. Okay, he does have more than one bathroom in his house, but still. It’s really not so different.
I know he intends this weekend to be a preview of what an actual trip with him could be. Add in waves or mountains, restaurants and bars, and that would be a weekend away—elevated from a weekend at home in his mind. What he doesn’t realize is that it’s been years since anyone has given me so much of their undivided attention. I can’t imagine I’ll care what’s outside the walls of his house this weekend.
There’s a thunderstorm rolling in, and it’s supposed to keep raining through Sunday. Perfect weather for being pampered by a man like Teague.
I prepped for this. I moved my laser hair removal appointment up by a week, watered my plants a day early, and packed every over-the-counter medication from an antihistamine to an antidiarrheal. I’m as ready as I could possibly be. And still so damn nervous as I drive to his house.
It makes no sense to be this anxious. We’ve spent plenty of nights together. But just the one night. Why is two nights so much more pressure than one?
And why, of all days, did Bryan have to show up and piss me off? I should’ve hit him. Not hard, not like left tire tracks on his forehead or anything, but a little tap of my front bumper might’ve felt good. I smile as I envision him jumping out of the way as my bumper kisses his bony hip.
For a while after I found out about his cheating, I had him running scared, completely unsure of my next move. It felt empowering, even though I knew he was really only afraid of how big a chunk of his assets I was going to walk away with. He was scared of my attorney, not me.
I really just want him to leave me completely alone. He had no problem at all ignoring me while we were married.
As soon as I turn through Teague’s iron gates onto his ten acres, I feel a little stress melt from my shoulders. His place is only forty-five minutes outside of town, but it seems like a sanctuary on the other side of my windshield with no buildings looming and no neighbors encroaching.
His boxer, Angus, nearly knocks me down when I step out of my car. “Hey, big guy. I’m happy to see you, too. Okay, thanks for the drool.” I push against his shoulders when he attempts to jump up for a hug. I’m growing to love this big lug of a dog, but he has no idea how strong he is. “Let’s go inside and I’ll give you loves on the couch, okay?”
Teague opens his front door and whistles. Angus runs for the house. “Go lay down.” The dog minds his owner without hesitation, running past him into the living room, where I know he’ll flop onto his plaid bed in the corner like a good boy.
Honestly, I can relate to the response. It’s hard to deny a husky voice like Teague’s. Raspy and deep, it sets a molten sensation coursing through my veins, not to mention the warm release it never fails to trigger between my legs. I’m not saying I’d fetch or sit or stay on command for him, but I’ve obeyed a few other commands for this sexy, dominant man.
He has full sleeve tattoos on both arms, and looking at him filling his doorway, all I can think about is having them wrapped around me.
As he walks toward me, that scruff on his jaw sparks phantom sensations on my inner thighs. How did it take me so long to learn to appreciate a beard? Oh, yeah, because I’ve spent the last fifteen years married to a guy without one.Faithfullymarried to his clean-shaven vanilla ass, no less.
“Hey, beautiful.” Teague’s strong arms encircle my waist and lift my feet off the ground when his lips meet mine. This is a welcome kiss delicious enough to wipe the outside world away completely. The taste of iced tea on his tongue, the feel of his teeth teasing my bottom lip before he sucks it into his mouth—it’s the perfect kiss to start our weekend, gentle but clear in its message: this is merely a preview of coming attractions.
“Hi,” I say when he pulls away and smiles.
“Where’s your bag?”
“It’s on the backseat. I can get it.”
“No. You can’t.” He opens the car door and pulls out my suitcase with one hand, causing his bicep to flex. I watch his arm work with a reverence some people reserve for sunrises and precious art. To be fair, his arm is a work of art, and the proud stag that wraps around it stares back at me. All the eyes of the animals on his arms are mesmerizing, peering stealthily from dense foliage or from behind one another, but the stag stands in the foreground, looking boldly onward as if he fears nothing.
“I hope you’re hungry. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“You cooked? If you’d waited, I would’ve at least helped.”
“You’re not here to cook. You’re here to eat.” He closes my car door and nods toward the house. “And be eaten.” His wink is a panty-melting promise.
The smell of a familiar meal greets me as I step inside the house, but my brain was expecting grilled meat, so it’s struggling to place this aroma amidst the confusion. “What’d you make?” I inhale deeply, trying to take another stab at a guess.
“Prime rib, roasted potatoes, and salad.”
“Stop. You did not.”
He opens the oven door and pulls out an herb-encrusted prime rib that makes my mouth water. “Why is it so shocking that I can cook? Did you think I ate in restaurants every night?”
