Pop!

There goes an image of me grinding on Marshall’s face, and let me tell you, it’s what fantasies are made of.

The man of the hour just throws back his head and laughs at what I assume is my oh-yes expression. I don’t know how he manages to have such tan skin all year around, especially since it’s just days before Christmas. Mild winter or not, I’m the equivalent of a milk carton and he’s just . . . masculine perfection. His tattooed arms bind me to him, and his broad chest grazes mine. I’ve never met a man with a chest as powerful and as hard as Marshall’s, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he works out even more than what the Blades require of him.

“Have you, um . . .” I wave my hand in his general direction, not even knowing how to finish off that sentence. “I guess what I’m trying to say is . . .” Once again, the words don’t come and I’m left floundering like a besotted idiot.

Marshall’s gray eyes warm as he glances down at me. “You’d be my first, Gwenny, and I’d be more than willing to let you pop my bondage cherry.”

Pop his . . .

Cheeks flushing, I roll my eyes and give a push to his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Nah,” he says, letting me go. From the way he eyes me as I sashay out of his embrace, I’d venture to say every foot I put between us is one that he regrets. “You can be too serious at times,” he adds, “and I’m making it my responsibility to lighten you up. Aren’t you glad you got with a younger man?”

It’s a sore spot and he knows it. But, strangely enough, it’s been days since I’ve thought about our difference in age. Back in college, the gap seemed insurmountable.

Standing here with him now, I can’t help but take in my surroundings. It goes without saying that Marshall has made something for himself. For a man who grew up in the system, he has more opportunities at his fingertips than I ever will. Call me crazy, but that makes me happy—he deserves every bit of good that comes his way.

As for his house, the Tudor-style home is massive. The wood-paneling details throughout the entryway and kitchen are beautiful and not so heavy-handed that it looks like something out of the seventies. And I won’t lie—from the moment I stepped into the house, my jaw did a little drop at the sight of all the stonework. The kitchen is completely new with big appliances and an even bigger kitchen island.

I guess it makes sense because Marshall is no small man—not in height and definitely not in the downstairs department.

I flush at the memory of his erection pressed against me. I’d been half a second away from dropping to my knees, peeling open his jeans, and worshipping his cock in the best way possible.

Taking a turn around the kitchen, I flash him a smile and then drop onto one of the stools at the island. “I’m beginning to like this younger thing. It means that you should have more stamina for certain activities.”

“Should?” he repeats, and I can’t help but laugh at his defensive tone. “Stamina isn’t something you’ll ever have to worry about with me.”

“Do I have to worry about you stealing all of the pie?”

He glances down to where he’s hugging the dessert to his chest like contraband. “Have I mentioned that I enjoy pie?” He looks up at me through thick lashes, and his mouth turns up in a half-smile. “Grab the plates, honey. We’re going to watch a movie.”

“Are we?”

“Yup. It’s all part of my kissing plans.” He cuts me a dark look that I don’t believe for a hot-second. “Don’t make fun of me, but back in college I used to think about taking you to the movies all the time. We’d sit up in the back row—”

“Only naughty things happen in the back row.” I follow behind him with our plates and utensils while he grabs the wine from a fancy cooler next to the refrigerator. We take a hallway leading out of the kitchen, away from the front of the house. “I don’t think I’ve partaken in that sort of thing since high school.”

“Exactly.” With his elbow, he flicks on a light at the end of the hallway, and I’m halfway not surprised that he owns an in-house movie theater. There are three rows of black leather La-Z--Boys, and I count nine seats total. Classic red walls complete the space, as well as the largest TV I’ve ever seen outside of an actual theater.

He gestures for me to take my seat in the back row—naturally—and I do so with a soft laugh. Marshall has clearly thought this whole thing out. Who am I to ruin his fantasy?

I take the back-left seat. “Tell me the rest of your fantasy, and don’t leave out a thing.”

“I never leave out the details,” he rumbles. “I’m not that sort of guy.” Bringing the pie and the wine to a wooden sideboard to our left, he snags the plates and utensils and doles out two slices. “I hope you’re okay with drinking straight from the bottle?” Gray eyes twinkle at me in challenge. “It’s part of the fantasy.”

“We can be heathens together.”

His grin is slow and panty-meltingly sexy. If I weren’t so determined to follow his fantasy to a T, I’d strip off my underwear and throw them across the room.

Get the show on early and all that.

Patience has never been a virtue of mine.

Marshall returns with our pie and the wine bottle, then makes a quick detour to shut off the lights. When he settles in beside me, the space feels immediately smaller. His left leg presses into mine, and our elbows do a little dance as we stake our claim.

His elbow to the back of the arm rest—mine to the front.

It’s like a tango a couple only makes once in their life, and I hide a smile by digging into my blueberry pie.

For a night that started out in nightmare status…this is everything I needed to feel better, to feel right. With Marshall, I belong, and I wish it hadn’t taken me years to realize that.

“What do you want to watch?”

His palm falls to my thigh with the question, and right then, that’s when I realize why he wanted our first kiss to be like this.

It’s a throwback to our youth when first kisses were secreted in the back of a theater. When you waited, in hope, for your date to make the first move. An arm around your shoulders. A hand to the thigh. A kiss that starts light and easy before you’re hauled onto a masculine lap and grinding down like the soundtrack to the movie is something straight from a nightclub.

I cover Marshall’s hand with mine, and it’s so much less than what I want to do in this moment. Squeezing his fingers, I hope he gets the message loud and clear: I can’t wait to take this step with you.

With his pewter gaze on me, he flips his hand over, palm up, so that we’re holding hands.

Swoon.

Seriously, I’m feeling a little lightheaded right now.

“Movie, Gwen?” he prompts, a little knowing smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve got Netflix.”

Is he asking me a question right now? I look down at our entwined fingers. Yup, my heart is beating a mile a minute and all I know is that I want this moment to last forever. I don’t think I’ve ever—not ever—anticipated a man’s kiss like I do Marshall’s.

Considering the fact that I’ve already seen him naked, too . . . I feel like that says a lot.

“Um, honestly I can go with whatever.”

“Horror?” He thumbs the controller in his opposite hand and turns the TV on. The instant lighting casts his handsome face in a glow, highlighting his strong jawline and his perfectly sloped nose. With a squeeze of my hand, he adds, “I like the idea of you wanting to jump into my lap.”

Before I have the chance to process the words, I say, “I don’t think you’ll need a movie to guarantee that.”

Again he laughs, the sound rich and throaty, and again I feel swept away on a fantasy that didn’t belong to me though it’s now one I cling to with both hands. Or with one hand—the other is gripping my fork and half stabbing my pie.

“Sounds good to me.”

Marshall selects a movie, and, as the opening soundtrack kicks in, I do myself a favor and focus on the pie. Better than staring at him like a crazy lady.

The film opens with a woman screaming—she’s blonde, always the first ones to go in movies like these—and being chased by a guy with a chainsaw.

Classic.

I dig into my pie with gusto, chowing down as fast as I can go.

Marshall leans over to whisper, “You swallowin’ over there?”

If his intention was to make me think about getting on my knees before him, then he did his job well. I choke on the pie and he shoves the wine bottle at me with the order to “drink.”

I don’t think it has the same effect as drinking water in times like these, but I pull down the wine anyway. “I’m good. All set.” I set the bottle at my feet and finish off the pie, and then put that to the side, as well.

Step One, done.

After all, I need my hands empty if I want to snuggle up against Marshall, right? And I can’t do that if I’m nursing my pie all night.

I turn slightly, just far enough that my crossed legs brush his and my breasts are now shamelessly rubbing up against his arm.

Marshall makes a coughing sound.

“You okay?”

“Yup,” he grunts.

And then he flips the script on me.