Sean takes hold of my hand and places it under his cut over the thin cotton of his black t-shirt, where I feel his heart beating fast under my fingers.
“What is real life?” he asks. “Thisis real.”
There are no sounds aside from insects buzzing in the night. Sean slides my hand down to feel his cock through his jeans. It’s hard and ready for me. “Thisis real,” he whispers. “Nothing else matters, Layla. You just have to open the door to that cage and fly out.”
“I want to,” I say honestly. “But the people I loved left me alone with their ghosts and lies. What if … you’re just like them?” I add meekly.
“I’m just likeme. I’ll never lie to you about who I am. I’ll never hurt you and I will skin any motherfucker alive who does you wrong.Thatis who I am. I don’t give a fuck about anything else—what is normal or accepted. Those things are illusions.Those thingsaren’t real.”
He kisses me again until I’m breathless and desperate for him. Then he chuckles and runs a thumb over my swollen bottom lip.
“Let’s go inside before I tear your clothes to shreds in my driveway,” he says gruffly. Sliding his hand down my arm, he laces his fingers through mine. I recognize it as a gesture he does often and find comfort in the familiarity of it as we walk.
“Is that an apartment?” I ask looking over my shoulder at the garage as he leads me to a door at the side of the house.
“Yeah, my mom lives up there,” he says as he unlocks the door.
Of course she does. “That’s sweet you gave your mom her own space.”
Sean looks back at me as he walks into the house. “Sweethas nothing to do with it. If she’s here, I can keep her safe.”
Oh.
Sean flicks on a light as we enter the kitchen. Of course his house is pristine. It smells clean and like Sean. There are walnut beams lining the ceiling in the kitchen. It’s vaulted and there’s askylight overhead. The cabinets are walnut on top and white on the bottom and the counters look like polished white concrete. Everything is modern but keeps with the traditional style of the house. The island has to be eight feet long, and on the other side of it is a dining room with a big harvest table and bench seating. It’s apparent the space was opened up at some point. The stools at the island are iron and leather, and the counters are clean and bare, save for a fancy-looking blender and a coffee maker. Should I be surprised that there aren’t any pictures on the stainless-steel refrigerator, or even a magnet?
I notice the rest of the house is absolutely spotless as he takes me around, showing me the living room with overstuffed leather furniture. The only thing on the walls is a large mirror behind the sofa. The floors are polished hardwood, and there’s a long narrow table on the other wall near the front foyer, but nothing is on it. It would be the perfect place to display photos.
He shows me his bedroom—light gray walls and a massive king-size bed with a wooden headboard. It’s rustic and masculine just like the rest of the house. His bathroom is white tile and there’s a clawfoot tub in the center that looks too big to be original yet still somehow fits with the style of the house. A state-of-the-art home office that I imagine was once another bedroom is behind double glass doors.
“That’s where I work, for both the club and my job,” he offers simply. I nod and look around.
“Do you have anything personal?”
Sean shrugs. “The past is the past. But I’m not a complete heathen. I have a box of things that mean something to me.”
“I think maybe I’d like to see that.” I smile up at him and he nods.
“I’d like to see you spread out on my bed naked.” He begins to unbutton my jacket. “Now.”
“Uh-uh, Sergeant. First you need your massage. I’m notneglecting my job. You hired me for a reason, and we said massages every other day. We’re already behind.”
“I don’t have a massage table,” he says. “And my back is fine.”
“I don’t need it. Just take your clothes off and stretch out on your bed for me,” I say as sternly as I can. “Now.”
“Fuck,” he growls into my lips. “I don’t know why, but that commanding shit is totally working for me.”
“Good.” I reach up and peck his lips. He gives me a look that says he doesn’t hate me bossing him around. I go with it just to test him. “Then do as you’re told.”
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Sean is struggling to get through his massage, doing his best to touch me and distract me every chance he gets. As I lean over him and move my hands in slow, deliberate strokes on his oil-soaked back to work out the knots he has around the area of his slipped disc, he’s busy sliding his hands up the backs of my jean-clad thighs.
I laugh and back away as he squeezes the fleshy part of my upper thigh tight, and he even bites my thigh in his best effort to entice me. I tilt his chin up and he gives me the mischievous smirk I’m starting to find impossible to resist.
“You’re touching me. It’s only fair I can touch you,” he says mischievously.
“Youpromised dedication. You can make it five more minutes.”
Sean pulls me closer, his upper arms flexing deliciously as he does, and buries his face between my legs over my jeans, groaning, “I told you, I’m weak. I don’t think I can.”
