Based on my behavior, he just assumes.
Certainly, the job thing isn’t much of an issue, and maybe, just maybe, the age thing isn’t, either. Love conquers all, right? These days, when forty is the new thirty and thirty is the new twenty, would he even care about a six-year age difference? I mean, a woman lying about her age is hardly uncommon, and shaving five or six years off for the sake of appearances isn’t exactly a crime. Of course, as long as I never show Ford my driver’s license, he’d never have to know. It’s not like I’m in danger of getting Over the Hill cards from anyone in a few years when I do cross into the dreaded forties. Hell, the very last birthday card I received from anyone was from Hollis, and that was back when I turned twenty-one. Nicholas, on the other hand, believes that the greeting card industry is a racket; his assistant buys my gifts, and none of them coming bearing heartfelt correspondence featuring sappy terms of endearment.
But I digress.
For now, I plan to live in the moment, enjoying Ford and everything about him for as long as I can. Love is a bitch, and it’s even more so when you fall for someone you can’t keep.
Tonight, I’m having him to my place. Er, well, to my client’s place.
Yep, another lie.
Fortunately, this house is as cookie cutter as you can get as far as decoration goes. There are no wedding or family photos, nor are there any meaningful mementos that need to be stored away before he arrives. The only preparation I had to do was buy a crockpot (set it and forget it!), pull up one of Marla’s recipes (garlic chicken parm, for the win!) and set some mood lighting with a new twenty-four piece candle set (thank God for Amazon Prime).
Oh, and I adopted a dog. Temporarily. It’ll go back to the yard I snagged it from when I’m finished with it, so no harm, no foul. And really, those electric fences are weak, and people who depend solely on them to keep their pets safe deserve to have their damn animals stolen. It was all so easy; after scouring a few neighborhoods and spotting an unattended dog, all I had to do was make sure no one was watching, figure out which of the its collars was connected to the faux fence, snap it off, and flash some stinky cheese. The fur beast didn’t think twice before following me one block over and two streets across before happily hopping right into my Navigator.
The way I see it, I’m doing these yahoos a favor. Giving them a much-needed wakeup call. Maybe now they’ll install a real fence, one that’s not only meant to keep their loved ones in, but the sick fucks out.
And believe you me, this world is full of sick fucks.
Anyway, according to the tag on the dog’s leather collar, his name is Gus, and he lives at 2245 Cedar Creek Drive. (Which is so helpful, because by the time I grabbed him, I’d taken so many twists and turns in an unfamiliar part of town that I couldn’t tell you what street I picked him up on, much less the house number.) He’s a medium-sized mutt, black with white spots around his nose, and seems to enjoy the lake more than Nicholas and I have in all the years we’ve vacationed here.
I’m sitting on the back deck now, enjoying a drink and watching the dog bounce around in the waves, when I hear a rustle in the bushes to my left. Proximity tells me it’s coming from the other side of the fence, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s my peeper, hoping for a show. It’s been at least three weeks since I’ve, uh, performed for him, and unless his wife is putting out regularly, he’s got to be getting antsy.
But Ford will be here any minute, so there’s no time for my one-woman act. Then again, maybe he’d be interested in a performance of a different variety.
Leaving my drink on the side table, I dash inside, scribble a note for Ford, and stick it to the front door. The spicy-sweet smell coming from the crockpot has filled the house, overpowered the kitchen, and as I rush through, the delicious aroma teases my stomach, makes my mouth water. But when I lick my lips, it’s not in anticipation of the coming meal, but in excitement for what I’m about to do. Just thinking about the risqué act I’m about to partake in has my head swirling, and a mad giggle slips past my lips as I picture it playing out. On my way back through the kitchen, another idea springs to mind, and I pop by the fridge, snatching a can of whipped cream before heading outside, stripping as I go.
Who says you can’t have dessert before the main course?
• • •
“I’ve never been this sticky in my life.”
Ford is still breathing heavy, and his voice is thin from exertion.
We’re outside, sprawled on my favorite chaise lounge, the night air cool on our sweaty bodies. I trail my fingers over his chest (sort of sticky) and then down his stomach to just below his pelvis (extremely sticky). “Clearly I didn’t do a good enough job cleaning you up.”
He laughs, the sound coupled with a strangled exhalation of satisfied exhaustion. “Wha—? God, no. You did an amazing job of cleaning me up.” Pressing his head back into the cushions, he sighs. “Christ. I wasn’t expecting that when I saw your note.”
“Really.” I rise up on my elbow and shoot him a look. “What did you think There’s a surprise waiting for you on the back deck meant?”
Shrugging, he flashes me a lazy smile. His skin, golden when under the light of the sun, wanes silver when touched by the glow of the pale moon. “Coming from you, I figured it could mean anything. Though,” he says, looping his arm across my shoulders and drawing me back down to his chest, “I certainly wasn’t expecting to find you out here wearing nothing but whipped cream.”
I laugh, happy my surprise was such a success. “I wasn’t wearing it long, that’s for sure. You attacked me like a starving man who hadn’t eaten in days.”
“And you were absolutely delicious.”
“No restraint,” I tease.
He bends his head, sucking at a ticklish spot on my neck. I cringe and laugh, the sensation overwhelming, and fling my leg over his thighs, hopping on top and pushing him back into the cushions. I slide against him, rolling my hips as I do.
“You’re one to talk,” he tosses back. But his lids are heavy, his voice strained as he slides his hands to waist, urging me down onto him. And when his eyes close, when he’s lost to everything but my body and the pleasure that I’m giving him, I chance a glance to the fence separating the neighbor’s yard from mine. It’s too dark to see anything, and any tell-tale shadow that could betray his presence has been swallowed by the night.
But he’s there. I know he his.
And the knowing fills me with so much damn power.
I throw my head back and howl to the moon.
There’s an ocean in my head. Some days it’s loud, and some days it’s soft. But it’s always there, always pounding, a subtle hum beneath the surface…rolling and crashing, rolling and crashing.
We’re out on the lake today, a place I seem to be gravitating to more and more lately. Things are calm – the water, the weather, my mind. Ford is a blur on the horizon, a black dot that disappears entirely when he dips below the surface of the waves. His camera, which is protected by some plastic thing-a-ma-jig, goes with him, and seeing him in his element makes my entire being smile, swell with some kind of emotion I have no name for but feels so amazing I never want it to end. The man is a damn fish, and I swear he’s turning me into one, too.