The throaty chuckle that comes out of him has my pussy clenching. Even though I just came and can still feel the tingles of bliss rushing through my veins. I want more and I’m not ashamed of it.
“So?”
I blink up at him and try to understand the very simple question.
So?
Before I can even begin to put together some sort of response, Rhodes continues. “You don’t owe me a damn thing. I’m not keeping score and we don’t have to even anything out. There will be times when you give more to me and it might be sexually or it could be emotionally.” His grey eyes bore into mine. “I’m not keeping score.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
I’m about to argue that giving him pleasure would do the same for me; but he’s out of bed, his hard length bobbing, and scooping me up into his arms. He takes me directly into the bathroom and all I can do is pout up at him.
With a kiss to my forehead, he murmurs, “Get ready for the day and then show me what these yard sales are all about.”
“You want to go with me?” It’s impossible to keep the shock out of my voice as I ask the question.
“Try and stop me,” he challenges me before winking and striding out of the bathroom. “I’ll make some breakfast,” he throws over his shoulder.
I stand there with my eyes watching the place where he was just standing for a minute. Okay, maybe I’m reliving the view of his ass as he walked away. He’s lucky that he wasn’t closer. There’s no way I could have stopped myself from slapping it.
The morning becomes a montage of showering, coffee, breakfast, and then being led to Rhodes’s truck. It’s perfect. Almost.
“You know, I should probably drive,” I point out, “since I know where I’m going. We could take my car.”
The look my man shoots me is incredulous as fuck and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from smiling. It would only encourage him.
“That’s not happening, Sweetheart,” he growls. “Consider yourself my passenger princess anytime we go anywhere.” He shrugs one shoulder like what he said isn’t the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my life. “You don’t really have a choice in the matter, sorry.”
He doesn’t sound sorry at all. I don’t really feel the need to argue with him and let him get me settled in my seat. As the passenger.
“Why do you go to these things? Is there something specific you collect or something?”
His question is innocent and with a background soundtrack of Jordan Davis playing on the radio. I relax back into my seat and decide to be transparent. Sure, he might think I’m strange, but maybe he’ll surprise me.
“I’m looking for lampshades that I can recover in fabric with a vintage style and if I can use vintage fabric then it’s even better.” When I glance over at him, his eyebrows are pulled together as he steals little looks toward me. “If I can find some fabric, I’ll be over the moon.”
“You recover lampshades?”
I huff outan annoyed breath at the way he sounds flummoxed. “Yes,” I grit out.
“That’s,” he pauses as if he’s searching for the right word, “very specific.” Even though my heart is already breaking at what I’ll see, I glance his way as he stops at a stop sign. When he meets my gaze, I only see curiosity there, but it’s not enough to relax me completely. “What do you do with the lampshades you recover? Do you give them as gifts?” His eyes widen and then he blurts out, “My grandmother would probably love them. Everything about her is vintage.”
I make a tsking sound with my mouth and shake my head at his ridiculousness. “That’s not nice to say about her. What? Just because she’s old?”
“No,” he shakes his head and continues to drive, “because she has that feel, you know? Classic. Nostalgic. Stylish in a throwback kind of way. Vintage.”
I make a noise in the back of my throat to let him know that I heard him as I gnaw on my bottom lip. My voice is small, uncertain as I admit, “I sell them online. I have a modest following because I share my work. Usually when I put something up for sale, it goes pretty fast or people will reach out for a commission.”
“Wow,” there’s awe in his voice, not condescension, “that’s amazing, Helen. Will you show me some of the lampshades you’ve created?”
The fact that he’s interested makes it feel like my stomach is filled with sparkling bubbles. It’s nice. And I believe his interest is genuine.
“Sure,” I try to keep my voice casual, but it comes out more like a squeak.
One side of his mouth tips up at the sound. I almost swoon because my man is so fucking handsome and sometimes it’s hard to believe he’s really mine.
But he’s made it very clear that I’m his. And turnabout is fair play and all that.
