He’s not playing fair at all.
I take the opportunity to climb out of the pool and wrap myself too. I should prance right next to him and see how he feels about that, but I’m far more concerned with how I’ll look for him when he comes back.
Preston lays out the spread of food on one of the loungers, the little side table not standing a chance.
There’s, of course, my burger, plus fries, a T-bone from some pre-historic creature, since no cow is that big, sea food that smells good enough to teleport me to an island, a gorgeous salad I probably won’t touch, a rainbow of roasted veggies, and dips galore. There’s also a tray with six silver iced lids that I don’t dare peek under yet.
“Oh my God, this is too…” I glance up, eyes softening. “You are too much, Pres.”
“Not even close to what you deserve. I told you one of today’s lessons was to spoil yourself. Now sit.” He points to the other lounge chair.
“What? You’re really going to feed me?” I joke. He misses it.
He feeds me a fry, and I moan. His fingers brush my lips, and I swoon.
“You keep being this good to me, and I might get used to it,” I murmur, mid-bite.
He lifts a brow. “You think I’m doing this just for you?”
“I think you need to stop altogether. The attitude, the words, or we won’t finish this meal.”
He goes for my heart with his next sentence. “I don’t think I can. But more importantly, I don’t want to.”
I don’t think he’s talking about the feeding. So I open up for more, because neither do I.
We eat in silence, except for the unavoidable moans when I try the buttered lobster and all six desserts. We change into fresh robes and share a lounger; I rest my head on his shoulder while he traces every contour of my face with his fingertips. Even with my eyes closed, I feel his prying stare, and it’s overwhelming. As if my eyelids are not protection enough. So I break the spell the best way I know how.
“I still can’t believe I’m here. Being pampered”—I scrunch my nose up to his chin—“and thoroughly fucked by the silver fox.”
He backs up laughing. “The what now?”
“Silver fox. Oh, man. I’ll have to educate you, if you’re really willing to read some of my books.”
“And re-enact them. Don’t forget.”
“Come here.” I stand and lead the way to the full-length mirror in the bedroom. “Look at you.”
“Why would I?”
“Because you said you don’t deny me things.”
“Touché, Miss Thorne.”
It takes him long, apparent torturous seconds, but he manages to face the mirror, and I step behind him. I thread my fingers through that sexy as fuck gray-streaked hair of his.
“You, Dr. Preston Jett, are what us book girlies call aSilver Fox.”
His head turns sideways to face me. “Silver as in gray? You put me in front of a mirror to call me old?”
“Oh, shut up, silly.” I poke at his side, and he goes taut. “A Silver Fox isnotsimply a man with gray hair. It’s so much more than that.”
My arms go around his chest, and I open the lapels of his robe, unhurriedly. “You’re ripped.” One hand slips inside and runs over his skin, down to his abs, my nails trailing back up his pecs. His stomach tightens under my touch. “You’re also smart, successful, emotionally literate. You carried me to bed, fed me, moaned around my stretch marks. You know what you’re doing. Enough to give me lessons.” I give him a cheeky wink. “You’re the Silver Fox dream, Preston. The literal fantasy. The poster boy for hot girl delusion.”
His chest rises and falls while my hand goes rogue.
“You think this is a delusion?” he asks.
“A hundred percent. The only reasonable explanation for this day is that I’m dreaming. Or high on espresso shots and orgasms.”
