I look up at him, his beautiful vision swimming in my watery eyes, and rake my nails down his ass.
He comes with a cry, spilling into me. I react on instinct, swallowing until he’s finished. His cum is salty and warm, but not unpleasant.
“Holy fuck,” he groans, rearranging himself and buttoning up his pants.
He kisses me, and it’s so hot because he doesn’t hold back. Surely, he can taste himself on my tongue. I still can.
When we break apart, I manage, “Better than your dreams?”
“Better than any dream.”
We kiss and cuddle, lick and lave and snuggle for hours as we ride until at last, we turn off the interstate onto a county road and then down a private drive. Willow trees stand tall on either side of the drive as we follow the curving path.
We pass a small pond and cross through a guard station with a wrought-iron gate that slides open for the car. We continue a little farther down the path, and I am clenching Ian’s hand.
“Ow,” he says loudly, and I realize I’ve probably been cutting off circulation to his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
“My mom’s excited to meet you.”
My knee starts bobbing, and he places a heavy hand on it.
“I’m saying don’t be nervous, sweetness,” he says.
“I’m…” What am I going to say because I can’t deny it? I am nervous.
“My parents will love you,” he says. He holds up a hand and ticks off a finger with each point. “From a wealthy family. Beautiful. And smart, so she won’t miss any thinly veiled threats should they become necessary. You’re perfect.”
As we follow the curve of the drive, I realize that my grandparents’ wealth is a drop in the bucket. The house, though it really shouldn’t be called that because it’s more of an estate, sprawls for acres. The front is three stories of brick and mortar with white columns along the veranda and an enormous circular driveway with a fountain.
“I’m probably not wealthy enough,” I squeak.
Ian laughs.
“Well, if you were, my father would’ve already tried to arrange our marriage and charged your family a hefty dowry to make sure their wealth never surpasses his.”
My nose scrunches. Such an archaic idea, a dowry.
He grabs my hands and squeezes, which startles me so much that I jump and hit my head on the roof.
Ian rolls with laughter, holding his stomach and mouthing words that I don’t understand because he stopped breathing.
“I’m sorry,” he manages with a wheeze as we park in front of the home. He wipes away tears of laughter and opens the door.
I follow him out onto the cement drive.
Still chuckling, Ian catches my hand between his again and tugs me up the enormous brick steps toward the front doors.
“What about the bags?” I ask, my heart pitter-pattering. I am suddenly desperate to avoid this.
“The driver will get them.” He raises one thick eyebrow at me. “I told you not to be nervous.”
We haven’t even made it to the front doors, made of wrought iron and glass, that are at least 12 feet tall, when one is pulled open. We are greeted by a woman in an emerald green silk dress.
“Ian,” she breathes, pulling him in for a hug. She is breathtaking, and I immediately know where Ian gets his good looks.
Straight, shiny locks of black hair dust her shoulder blades. She slightly tan, even in late fall, and she looks effortlessly beautiful. She’s got crows’ feet but no other wrinkles on her otherwise perfect face. She is slender and tall and stunning.
“Mom,” he mumbles, hugging her back. He steps away from her to introduce me. “My girlfriend, Harlow.”
Her blue eyes land on me, and I give her my best smile.
“Harlow,” she repeats. Good Lord, even her voice is beautiful. “A pleasure.” She offers me her hand, which I shake quickly. “Ian has told us so much about you.”
Told them about me, I think, and introducing me as his girlfriend? Guilt leaves a sour taste on my tongue because I just told my parents we were dating. I didn’t define it.
“Oliver,” Mrs. Beckett presses the intercom button on the wall, “our son is here.”
“I’m here, darling,” a man says as he enters the foyer, his polished loafers clicking on the floor. I can see where Ian gets his height, but the man is not classically handsome. He reminds me of a cougar, pretty but in a deadly way. “Buxton let me know when they passed the gate.”
Mrs. Beckett jumps at the surprise as Mr. Beckett nods towards Ian. “How was your drive, son?”
“I hired a car,” Ian replies. “The ride was fine.”
“We need a play-by-play of the final game,” Mr. Beckett says. It takes me a moment, and then I realize he’s talking about the state championship. He doesn’t even say congratulations. “Schedule it with my assistant.”
“Yes, sir,” Ian says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “I’d like to introduce you to—”
The elder Beckett doesn’t allow Ian to finish.
“Harlow,” Mr. Beckett says, offering his hand and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “glad to have you. Anyone who can help Ian with that translation drivel Ms. Edmonds is pushing this year is welcome to stay with us.”
I slice my gaze to Ian, fighting a frown. Who is helping whom with Adaptive English?
“Thank you for having me,” I say as a butler appears and hands Mr. Beckett his suit jacket, which he shrugs on over matching tuxedo slacks.
Mrs. Beckett smiles politely and wraps an arm around Mr. Beckett. “You’ll have to excuse us,” she says to Ian. “We have the gala for your father’s foundation upstate tonight, and we must get going. Let Rosalind know what you would like for dinner.”
As they walk away, Ian leads me by the hand under an iron chandelier and up the spiral staircase.
“Congratulations,” he says dryly. “That’s the most they’ve ever said to anyone, including Everett. They love you.”
I want to ask him if he is sure, but I don’t think he’d joke
