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“It doesn’t matter. It won’t be necessary. I see you living a long and happy life with me by your side,” I said confidently.
“You’re clairvoyant now?” he teased.
“I just know. Now finish dinner so we can relax,” I urged, smiling.
Oliver dug into his bowl of spaghetti, twirling his fork before taking a bite. I sipped my wine, my appetite gone. Traveling always seemed to do that to me. I picked up my bowl and dumped the rest of the pasta into the garbage before washing it.
“You’re finished?” he asked, looking at me curiously.
“I’m not hungry,” I replied, rinsing the bowl.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked, his concern evident.
“Fine. Just not in the mood to eat,” I said, waving it off.
Oliver snorted. “I’m willing to bet that by midnight you’ll have your head in the refrigerator looking for something to snack on.”
“Not if you keep me occupied,” I said with a sly smile.
“I’m sure I can figure something out,” he replied, his eyes gleaming.
I loosened the sash on my short pink satin robe, letting it fall open. Oliver paused mid-bite, his eyes roaming over my body.
“Do you want something now?” he asked, his voice a little huskier.
“No. I was just giving you a preview,” I said with a wink.
“I had a preview in the shower,” he reminded me.
He did when I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth, doing what he rarely let me. Oliver was a giver, but I liked having his cock between my lips. His taste and masculine scent excited me.
I yawned. “I’m going to lie in bed. I’ll meet you there.”
Oliver quickly shoveled the spaghetti into his mouth and got up from the breakfast bar, taking his bowl to the sink. As I walked out of the kitchen, our dog, Trouble, trotted behind me and hopped on the bed when I slipped under the sheets. He jumped off when he heard Oliver coming down the hall, snuggling up in his bed by the closet.
Oliver appeared at the door, his expression unreadable. "He was on the bed, wasn't he?"
I looked up, meeting his gaze. "So? What's the problem?"
He stepped into the room, his brows furrowing. "Because I don't want him to get used to the idea of sleeping on beds."
"He's sleeping on a bed, his bed," I replied, my tone sharp. "I already told you, if you didn't go away so much, I wouldn't have him on the bed."
Oliver sighed, running a hand through his hair. "And I've apologized about that. I can't stop business," he paused, raising his brows at me, "unless you want me to sell everything."
I scoffed, shaking my head. "If you did, how long would it last before you went stir crazy?"
He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I wouldn't. We'd move to Fox Island and spend the rest of our lives there."
"Through hurricanes? I think not."
Oliver crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "The house is built to sustain winds of two hundred miles an hour. We're twenty feet in the air, so storm surge isn't a problem, besides being on a hill."
"But it's still an island. The entire place could be underwater. I wouldn't want to ride that out," I protested.
"Then we can buy a house somewhere in the mountains where no one knows us. The Adirondacks are beautiful. We could build a log cabin."
I snorted. "You without electronics? I'd like to see that."
