“In,” I decide. “I want that foot rub.”
He chuckles as he backs his Jeep out of the driveway. We chat in the car about the cold snap and about the music on the radio, but the whole time I’m conscious of his hand resting on my leg in that safe space above my knee, right below the line where it feels truly intimate.
It’s weird how he knows exactly what I need right now, this comfort and affection with safe boundaries still in place. But I can’t help feeling like I want a little bit less safety around Ian. Not a lot less, but a little. The butterflies in my stomach are getting hungry, I guess. And why should I be a martyr for my marriage when my soon-to-be ex spends more nights with his mistress than he does at home?
“Hey,” I say when we pull up to his house. “Before we get out…”
He tilts his head, waiting for me to continue.
I take a deep breath. “I’d like to kiss you tonight.” His ears perk up, and his tail starts to wag. I hold up my hand before he gets too hopeful. “But I don’t think I’m up for any more than that. If you were expecting to get naked—”
He cuts me off. “Nope. No expectations. None. I mean, I havehopes.”
I squirm in my seat, my pussy remembering what went down the last time I was here. She definitely has hopes, ones I’ll have to disappoint. Just to torture myself, I ask, “Like what?”
“I hope you’ll sleep in my bed with me,” he says earnestly. “That’s the main one. But you can put pillows between us if you want to make sure I don’t grab your butt in the night or something.”
I giggle. “Or to make sure I don’t grab yours.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t, either,” I confess. “I just need to set things straight with Richard before we…”
He nods, filling in the blank in his head. “Kissing is on the table, you say?”
“And foot rubs,” I remind him. “And bedtime stories.”
“You got it. How about…carrying you over the threshold?”
“What?!” I squeak, but he’s already out of the Jeep, circling around to open my door. He grabs my overnight bag and loops the strap over his arm before scooping me out of my seat. I cling to his neck for dear life.
“This okay?” he murmurs as he kicks the car door shut and starts toward the cabin. It’s actually quite a distance from the driveway to the porch, wherea few brave moths are gathered around the light. I feel as fluttery and dizzy as their circles.
“I mean, I’m okay. You’re sure I’m not too heavy? You can put me down until we get there, if you need to.”
He snorts, stopping short. “You have got to be kidding me. I’m not even breaking a sweat.” To demonstrate, he lifts me up and down a few times, like he’s doing bicep curls with my body. “See?”
“Okay, okay,” I giggle. “You’re very strong. I’m sorry I doubted you. Carry on.”
He snorts at the pun and makes his way to the front door, where he pauses and groans. “The key is in my front pocket. Can you reach it?”
I try and fail to contort enough to reach with my outside hand, so I’m forced to slide my inside hand down his body, wedging it between us to feel for the pocket’s opening. I fish the keyring out, my fingers grazing something very firm along the way. Neither he nor I mention the little dick detour, but I feel my whole body flush as I unlock the deadbolt and turn the handle so he can enter the house without putting me down.
It’s silly and vain, really, but I love how easily he whisks me inside, depositing me in the comfort of the soft couch cushions. He kneels in front to remove my ankle boots. Each knee gets a kiss before he releases my foot, and my pulse jumps every timehis lips touch me. He makes me feel so damn pretty. And so damn needy, too.
He drops a kiss on top of my head, too, before taking my shoes back to the entryway. When he returns to the living room, he detours to the large, stone fireplace. “Thought we might want a fire if we’re staying in,” he says over his shoulder, as he crouches to lay the wood and light the tinder. When it’s crackling and popping to his satisfaction, casting a warm, flickering glow over the room, he stands, dusting his hands.
Before he rejoins me, he fetches us berry-flavored tea and some buttery little cookies with a dot of jam in the center of each from the kitchen.
“Did you make these?” I ask between melt-in-your-mouth bites. “They’re delicious.”
He shakes his head. “Mam did. She went a little crazy baking while Meg was in labor, so we all had to take some home. I’m more of a pie guy.”
“That pie you made was orgasmic,” I say without thinking.
“Why, thank you. I’d like to think many of my skills have those results.” He pats his lap and beckons to my feet. “Speaking of which, let me demonstrate one of them.”
He makes good on his word, giving me the most thorough, patient foot rub I’ve ever experienced as we relax on the sofa. I’m not going to have anorgasm, but it definitely feels incredible. While he turns me into a puddle by kneading my sore soles, he catches me up on how Meg and Conall and the new babies are doing, and I tell him about Trashleigh’s dedicated mission to snipe all my customers so I don’t get the commissions.
