Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“I snuck into the tiny studio for a couple hours this week to make this. I get a little…batty if I don’t make my decorative art too. And I had this idea,” I explain, then hand the mirror to him.
His eyes gleam as he takes the gift, tracing a finger over the words I painted on. It’s the little surprises, like dragon underwear, that keep the spark alive. I watch as his fingertip follows the lines, then he looks up, locking his gaze with mine. There’s something new in his expression—something that perhaps says I’m a mystery he’s eager to solve.
“Advice from Jen and Hal. That night in Vegas,” he says, and a small gasp escapes my lips. I wanted him to remember, and I’m glad he did.
“Good memory,” I murmur.
“I remember a lot of things. Seems like you do too. And I’m sensing a theme behind these mirrors.”
“What’s the theme?”
He taps the frame, giving it some thought. “Advice on the proper care and handling of an artist. That’s what this is, right?”
“Maybe it’s a roadmap to me, but I think the general lessons apply too. People keep wanting to give us tips, so I thought I’d put it down.”
“Is this your way of telling me I should wear dragon underwear next time?” he teases.
I nibble on the corner of my lip, a little nervous. “Maybe it is. So, tell me—was this too presumptuous? The gift?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Not at all. In fact, I’m going to hang it up tonight.”
That’s a relief, but still, I’m compelled to add, “You don’t have to. I’m not trying to, I don’t know, redecorate your home.”
His gaze is unflinching as he says, “You could though. If you wanted to.”
I furrow my brow. What do I make of that comment? But then it hits me, like a ten-pound bag of obvious. This is fake. Like I told my friends earlier. Just because I might feel some new emotions doesn’t change the score. And I shouldn’t try to read anything more into his comments. “Right. For the photo spread.” Of course that’ll help. If this place looks even more like I live here, it’ll be good for this marriage of convenience—for my work and for his charity rollout.
Briefly, frustration seems to flicker on his face.
“No. Just for you. You’re living here now. And you don’t have to go to the studio you rent to make your mirrors. You can do it in the guest room. You already have your easel and paints in there. Do you want to paint in there? Make your decorative art in there?”
It’s a generous offer, but the guest room is a guest room. “I think sometimes I just need a little distance from where I sleep to create.”
“I get that,” he says, though he sounds a little wistful. I think he wants me to like the guest room.
But also if I did that I’d be taking over, encroaching on all his space. “Thanks for the offer though. And the feedback on how I’m doing.”
“Anytime,” he says with a slow, teasing smile. “But I can give you feedback in other ways too.”
My pulse quickens. “Oh, you can?”
His gaze roams up and down my body, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Yeah. I’ll tell you exactly what I like. But first, I can’t get something out of my head.”
“What’s that?”
“What you promised me before I dropped you off at class. Because all I thought about while I was cooking dinner was what those pole moves might be.”
Funny, me too. “But we don’t have a pole,” I say playfully.
He points to the door. “I’ll get you one right now.”
Oh. I sit up straighter. He’s serious—he’d really install a pole for me. But that won’t be necessary. “The thing about pole dancing is…there are plenty of moves you can do on a chair.” His eyes glint with excitement, then darken when I say, “Or…on the floor.”
He hauls in a breath. “Good, then I’d like to see you get down on your hands and knees, wife.”
And just like that, dinner’s over, and it’s time for the show.
44
JUST RIGHT
Asher
I’m parked in a chair in the living room, sultry music pulsing from my phone, my wife on her back on the carpet, with one knee up. She rises, her back arching in the sexiest way possible.
My throat goes dry.
She’s not even looking my way, and that’s the point.
She’s lost to the dance as she puts on a show for me. She teases me, clad in heels, tight shorts, and a cheetah print bra which hugs her perfect breasts. She’s pushing her hips off the floor and sweeping one leg to the side.
I groan.
As the bass thumps low, she turns around and locks eyes with me before licking her lips. “Let me know if it becomes too much for you,” she says. A taunt. A challenge.