Page 22 of Love On and Off Set

He gave me one. Deep, long, and passionate.

Everything I could’ve asked for. “Now, will you fuck me?”

He chuckled. “So impatient.”

I slid my hands down his back to grab his ass. Then I wrapped my legs around his hips. “Don’t be gentle.”

And yet, despite my plea, he was exquisitely gentle. Tender. Kind. In the end, he undid me. I’d never been cherished like this before. Had never been shown so much care. Had never been treated like a treasure.

When I climaxed, the orgasm washed over me in gentle, never-ending waves. “Horatio.” His name came out as both a plea and a promise.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He thrust twice more, then held himself over me, gazing into my eyes.

For just a moment, I saw my future.

And it didn’t scare me.

Chapter Nine

Horatio

The snow was piled nearly two feet high on Friday morning when we finally crawled out of bed.

Dade’s ass would likely be sore for the rest of the day.

He assured me he didn’t care.

I was still a little stunned at my stamina. Yes, forty-one wasn’t old. But some days, I felt that way.

Dade insisted I sit at the kitchen bar while he puttered away, making blueberry pancakes, bacon, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Positively decadent.

He leaned over the island to plant a kiss on my cheeks. “We’re going to burn off all these calories.”

I arched an eyebrow at his obvious correct reading of my ruminations.

He swatted my biceps with an oven mitt. “Not that way.” He considered. “Okay, maybe that way later.”

“You must be sore—”

Another swat. “I like it. No, I meant we’re going out walking in the snow.”

“Are you serious?” I glanced out to see the enormous pile of snow on my balcony. Snow that continued to fall.

“We’ll stick to plowed sidewalks.” He flipped the pancakes. “We need fresh air. That’ll make us tired. We’ll nap, then we’ll make love again a few times before we hunker down to boeuf bourguignon.”

Make love? When did we progress from fuck to make love? And why does that not scare me?

“Sounds perfect.” I eyed the overcast skies. “Well, except the cold.”

“You’re a good Canadian. A hearty boy.”

I laughed. “I’m from the west coast. I have thin blood. That hearty stuff is for prairie folk. Or the crazy ones who live in Newfoundland.”

“Elouise Hynes is from Newfoundland, you know. Oh, there’s a production assistant on Vigilante Justice who’s from the Rock as well. Seamus something…” He eyed his phone. He’d done that repeatedly while cooking our meal.

Part of me was a little irritated with Elouise for having gotten his hopes up. He might pretend it didn’t matter, but he really wanted that call. I almost brought it up—because I was curious to know if he’d get a call from his agent, or if he’d hear from someone on the show—but I held off the interrogation, as he liked to put it. My curiosity could certainly wait. He’d tell me. Of that, I was certain.

“Let’s eat at the kitchen table.” He offered me a grin. “I want to play footsie, and that’s harder on barstools.”