Page 10 of Ted's Temerity
“So, was the intention to live here long, or are you planning on flipping it?”
Ted rubs his clean-shaven jaw with a large open palm. “Originally, I was going to flip it. It’s too big a house for just me. But,” he looks around again, his eyes going distant, as if he’s reliving the memories of all his hard work, perhaps even memories of horsing around with that tight-knit group of friends of his as they helped, “I think I’ve gotten attached.”
Now I feel a little bit guilty for reacting the way I did. It’s obvious that he’s put love, sweat and tears into this place, now that I hear him talk about it. To judge it or to judgehimjust because of its size and aesthetics was probably a dick move on my part. I don’t think he’d judge me based on my crappy little apartment, after all.
“It is a beautiful home, Ted,” I tell him softly, a little bit of my regret slipping into my tone. “I just wasn’t expecting it. You seem so down to earth for a lawyer.”
A bark of laughter escapes him. “For a lawyer, huh?” He arches an eyebrow at me, then wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me closer to him so we’re practically chest to chest with only a few inches of space between us. “Was the addendum necessary?”
“Absolutely,” I grin, unrepentant. I don’t bother explaining my reasoning. It’s much more fun to tease him.
Those amber-brown eyes of his glint down at me and he shakes his head with an almost rueful, yet entirely playful little smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”
I bat my lashes with exaggerated innocence. “Who, me?”
He practically growls a groan, his gaze dropping to my lips. My heart rate picks up, as if I’m only now noticing our physical proximity or the heat of his arms around my lower back. We’ve been flirting for a week now and I really want him to lower his head those couple of inches, to act on the fire burning between us. Unconsciously, my tongue darts out to wet my lips.
“Fuck, Zephyr, I’m trying to be a gentleman here,” Ted complains, but he doesn’t let me go or step back. If anything, his hold tightens, drawing me even closer against him.
“Gentlemen don’t sayfuck, Mister Masters.”
My taunt does the trick. He chuckles, shakes his head, and then finally dips down to connect our mouths. But he’s restrained, the kiss sweet and chaste, his lips warm and firm against mine. I practically melt into him anyway, parting my lips against his, inviting him to deepen the kiss. He takes the invitation, and our tongues meet and twine together slowly.
We explore each other, cataloging the best angles of our heads and movements of our mouths, setting a rhythm that has me rocking my hips into him without thought, my hands at his hips, fisting into the tight denim of his likely far-too-expensive jeans.
“Oh, tiny dancer, what am I going to do with you?” He murmurs fondly when we part for air. He drops his head lower, nuzzling at the crook of my neck before peppering little kisses up the column of my throat and to the ticklish spot just beneath my ear. I squirm and I feel his resulting laugh rumble through his chest, still pressed against mine. “You’re a bad influence, little one.”
I want to argue or tease back, but my brain is a puddle of goo right now. I can’t recall ever feeling quite so easily attracted to someone before. I’ve been with handsome men before, but this is the first guy to make my heart stutter and my thoughts disappear. It’s not that he’s a Daddy, either. I’ve been with a few Daddies in my time, too. There’s just something about Ted and about our connection that fries my internal systems.
Finally, after a moment or two too long to be considered normal, my brain re-engages.
“Do I get the rest of the tour?” I ask breathily, walking my fingers up the center of his short sleeved, button-down shirt. “Someone said something about a playroom?” He’s still carrying my bag over his shoulder, and I tap the strap. “We can drop this off in there and then you can follow through on your promise to wine and dine me.”
“You know,” Ted snickers and sneaks another quick peck to my lips before he rests his forehead against mine, “for someone who said they were looking for a Daddy to take care of them, you’re unexpectedly bossy.”
“I’m not bossy, I just know what I want.”
He pulls back and arches an eyebrow. “You’re definitely a princess.” Before I can defend myself against the perceived slight against my nature, his face breaks into a breathtakingly gorgeous smile. “I think I’m going to have fun with that.”
* * *
The playroom, despite Ted’s assurance that the room is a ‘standard’ sized bedroom, is at least one and a half times the size of the bedroom in my apartment. It’s stunning. He has a twin sized bed tucked into the far-left corner from the door, and a white dresser on the wall parallel to it. The walls are painted with a fairy-tale mural, running around the entire room. It’s a lush forest full of mythical creatures and characters poking their heads out between trees while dragons and butterflies and unicorns fly through the skyscape above the green treetops. The carpet in here is also a dark, mossy green color, completely different to the white throughout the rest of the house.
A long, low-lying set of shelves, also painted white, runs along the expanse of wall from the walk-in robe to the end of the bed. It is home to a collection of plush toys, a train set, building blocks and one hell of a dollhouse.
I cross the soft carpet to run my finger cautiously over the beautiful item. It’s a four story mansion with working lights and opening doors, and I have the urge to play with it immediately.
“You like it?” Ted’s gentle question startles me from my inspection of the stunning construction (so much more than a toy), and I turn to face him. He’s leaning against the door of the walk-in wardrobe casually, but there’s a flicker of something a bit more intense in his eyes.
Taking another glance around the room, predominantly filled with toys and items more suited to ‘boyish’ play (not that I truly believe that toys are necessarily geared to one gender over another), it clicks, and I feel my jaw drop.
“Please tell me,” I swallow roughly, looking back down at the dollhouse, “that you had this exquisite, probably insanely expensive dollhousebeforeI told you about my preference for femme play.”
“I had that exquisite, notthatinsanely expensive dollhouse before you told me about your preference for femme play,” he semi-repeats dutifully.
I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t really, did you?”
The material of his shirt strains across his chest as he raises his arms in surrender. “Does it really make a difference?”
