Spencer and I look at each other blankly.
“I guess we set ourselves up for this,” he says.
“Being too cute in public? It was likely inevitable. You’re right.”
He pushes the doors open, revealing an open room with curved walls and windows overlooking the water. The center rear is recessed with pink couches and seating, and scattered throughout on elevated platforms are the massive, frilly bed, a hot tub shaped like a giant champagne glass, and some upholstered benches and stools that I can only assume are intended as sex furniture.
Spencer walks over to the mirrored table where a gift basket and more bouquets are waiting. He picks up a card and glances over it quickly. “There’s a private chef available for anything we request, apparently. But they’ve assured me my preordered tournament meals will still be delivered on schedule.” He looks up to me. “If you need something to do during the day, there’s a romantic boat ride waiting.”
I click my tongue. “As though I could enjoy the Miami ocean without my husband.” I set my guitar and bag down and walk over to him. “Anyway. I’ll be watching your game, remember?”
“Right.” He puffs out a breath. “Of course.”
We’ve talked about how to navigate the match already. I know the basic tennis rules, like no yelling or cheering during the points. Basically, I just sit and watch. We’ll make a brief appearance outside the stadium prior, but Spencer spends the time immediately before his match in deep focus, so I won’t really see him again until it’s over.
It should be easy. Hell, I even bought a polo shirt to fit in better. The tricky part, though, is everything outside of his match, and making sure I’m supporting him and helping his win, not muddling his thoughts.
I brush the backs of my fingers across his cheek, feeling his smooth skin, and Spencer relaxes. We’re finally alone, and I’ve been craving his touch for weeks.
Spencer lets out a shaky breath at my touch. “I’m glad to see you, Gabriel.”
I lower my hand to his chest and press my palm there. He’s so strong. The weeks of heavy training clearly paid off. “Glad to see you, too, Spencer.”
He takes in a deep breath. The light shines brightly in his eyes, and I can feel that he wants to kiss me just as bad as I want to kiss him. As soon as he tilts his head to the side, though, a pounding at the door interrupts us.
Spencer sighs. “Right, that should be my meal.” He presses his hand to my chest, too. “Sorry,” he says and hurries over. A moment later, he comes back with a silver cart, overflowing with colorful flowers.
“Flowers? That’s not at all what I expected professional tennis players to eat.”
He rolls his eyes as he lifts the cover off the only plate of food, a massive pile of steamed greens, tofu, and rice. “This is my meal. There’s champagne somewhere in this meadow, too, if you’d like a drink.”
“I’ll wait until you win the finals to crack that.”
He smiles as he lifts the plate. “Tofu? They made me more than enough.”
I shake my head. “I’m good. Sit. Eat.”
He does, plopping down on the pink couch and shoveling the food in. “I always forget how hungry I am at these tournaments until I eat.”
I sit back on the arm of a chair across from him, watching him devour the food for a minute or two. He eats steadily, only occasionally licking his lips or pausing for a drink of water, and his post-game appetite turns me on.
“I had no idea eating could be so hot.”
He swallows and laughs. “How in the hell do you think this is hot?”
“All that energy you burned.” I hum under my breath. “Fuel up, babe.”
He shakes his head but doesn’t stop eating. “I’ve only had coaches and trainers see my tournament routine close up, and never all at once. I’m just glad I don’t have a bunch of humiliating rituals.”
“Like a filthy jock strap you’ve never washed?”
“You wish,” he jokes. He sets the plate down. “I’ll finish this later.”
I glance around. We’re drenched in flowers and sunlight. But even if this were a dreary, stinky swamp, I’m sure I’d still be standing here, eager to touch him, to make him feel happy and good and relaxed.
I cross over and join him on the couch. “Time to clear your mind? I’m sure there’s a couple’s massage with this room, but I can work your sore muscles myself.” I tilt my head toward the champagne hot tub. “That probably doesn’t count as a steam.”
Spencer grins. “I appreciate the offer,” he says, and light flashes through his eyes. I feel his energy opening to me, and when he leans forward, I do the same, meeting him. “But I’m pretty sure the second you touch me, I’m not going to be able to think about anything but getting my mouth on your cock anyway.”
