I take her in, hair all mussed up, lips puffy from the vigorous workout she just gave them upon mine, and her hand tucked under her cheek. I could totally get used to waking up to this.
But she asked a question, so I answer it. “I often work on Saturday. Sunday too. But I’ll golf sometimes. Other times, I’ll hang at The Wicked Horse. What about you?”
“Definitely not all that exciting,” she quips. “Clean the house, do my laundry. Sometimes, I’ll go for a hike or maybe shopping. I like to read.”
“What are you going to do today?” I ask, realizing the last thing I want to do is go into the office.
“Just the usual,” she replies with a shrug.
“Want to just stay in bed with me all day?”
She grins, shooting me a disbelieving look. “I thought the powerful Declan Blackwood works on Saturdays?”
“Yeah… that probably has more to do with the fact I have nothing better to do than work,” I say with a wink. “But you are definitely something a whole lot better than work.”
“You really want to stay in bed all day?” she asks, her face a mask of skepticism.
“Well, not all day,” I admit. “I mean… your mattress is hell on my back. I’m buying you a new one by the way.”
I cut her off with a hand to the back of her head, and a swift, hard kiss of determination. When I let her up, I continue. “But let’s get out for a bit. Maybe you can show me around your hometown. I haven’t seen much.”
“You’ve lived here over a year.” Laughing, she pokes me in the chest. “How can you not have seen much? This is Vegas.”
“I’m a busy man,” I tease. “I don’t have time for frivolity.”
“Oh, you’re totally getting frivolity today,” she warns playfully, then her mouth is on mine again. Her hand inches down my abdomen to a place below that very much wants our frivolity to start right in this bed.
I have no clue what she has planned, but we will be making a stop at a mattress store for sure because I plan to spend a lot of time here.
I have to admit…
It turned into a damn good day, and I seriously cannot remember the last time I did anything utterly frivolous. Sure, I’ll golf now and then, but it’s an activity that’s usually sandwiched between work. And yes, I’ve spent quite a bit of time at The Wicked Horse fucking away the time, but again… more as a respite from my responsibilities to the Blackwood empire.
Today, I haven’t checked my email.
No clue if anyone’s left me a voice mail.
Didn’t step foot in my office.
Instead, after I fucked Bailey for a second time this morning, we headed out for an adventure. She showered at her place, then we went to the Blackwood so I could shower and change clothes. After which I gave her what she really wanted.
Me in jeans.
I could tell by the overly long time she stared that she liked them, and I made a mental note to immediately switch into denim when I wasn’t working.
Next, we took off on a car drive. A clear, bright, and beautiful November day, Bailey directed me out to Valley of Fire State Park. We rode in my Porsche because I’m the guy… I drive, which is sexist… I get it. We didn’t plan on a hike today, but it was beautiful just driving and looking at the graceful sandstone formations in red, white, and sometimes even lavender. It gave us time to talk more, and there was nothing odd when my hand would find its way to Bailey’s thigh, or she’d drape her arm across my shoulders so her fingers could play in my hair as we cruised along.
We ended up back in Vegas. She took me downtown, where I had yet to step foot in all my time here. We visited the Mob Museum and the Neon Museum. We walked along Fremont Street, and she talked me into riding the SlotZilla zip line along the mall.
All things I never in a million years would have dreamed to do. Even if I had, I would have never taken the time for something so… silly.
And yet, in shuffling through my memories, I can’t remember having such a great time before.
Even now, as we walk back along Fremont Street—having grabbed some hot dogs from a food truck for dinner—I don’t want the day to end.
Bailey laughs, and I look over to see what’s so funny as I arrange the wrapper on my hot dog so I can manage a bite.
She smirks, also working at exposing her meal so she can eat it.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“It’s just… have you ever eaten a hot dog for dinner?” she asks.
I give her a faux glare, her question bordering on impertinent and an indirect slam at my upbringing. Secretly, though, I find it hilarious. “Of course I’ve had hot dogs,” I say imperiously. “But only if we had Grey Poupon in the fridge.”