“So, dear Ms. Monroe, what other things about me would you care to deconstruct?”

“I’m sorry. Sometimes I can’t stop talking, and the more I talk, the harder it is to stop. Nervous habit … but really, why do you drive an SUV?”

He’s still smiling at me, amused at my bizarre behavior. “I guess it comes in handy when I need to haul things, or when I need to get around Vermont in the winter. And, yes, Ash, I know how to work.”

“So, you haul around hookers in your SUV?” Fuck! What has gotten into my mouth? But he’s chuckling at my ridiculousness. He did give me the floor after all. Still, I try to move the conversation back to some semblance of logic. “So you come to Vermont often then?” Well, isn’t this just turning into a normal conversation?

“Yes. Often enough. My family is from Vermont.”

“Family?” I don’t know why I’m shocked to hear him mention it. He must have come from somewhere, but I’m surprised to hear it nevertheless.

“Did you think I was spawned from hell itself?” He’s smirking, but I shake my head anyway. I could never assume anything like that.

But he’s opened the door, and I have no intention of not passing through. “So, tell me about your family. Where are they now?”

He eyes me speculatively. He’s deciding whether he wants to continue this conversation or not. I thought I was the one with a buried past, but every sidestepped question and refusal to delve deeper convinces me further that this man hides as much from me as I do from him.

Eventually, his expression softens, and he responds, “Washington DC … for the most part. My father is involved in politics, and my mother is involved in charities … any charity, every charity… It really doesn’t matter. We’re not close.”

“Why?” I’m entering the danger zone, and I know it. I’ve been here plenty in my life, but I’m powerless to stop my mouth now.

His face hardens further with every second that passes as I wait patiently for a response, and to my utter shock, he gives me one. “Let’s just say they don’t agree with my lifestyle choices.” As he continues to glance at me while I process his words, his face falls, and his eyes show a sadness I’ve never seen before. “I don’t blame them for that. A lot rides on their reputation. Fortunately, discretion is the name of the game at Trimbles … for the most part.” His brow furrows at this last comment as sadness is replaced with resentment.

But as quickly as his emotions shift from one to another, they flip yet again, and he looks at me with a gentle smile and one last comment. “Now stop talking so I can concentrate on driving. Your loose tongue is turning me on, and if you keep distracting me, I’m going to have to pull over and fuck you. Quite frankly, I’d very much like to get you to a bed to do that.” He smiles one last small smile before he returns his eyes to the road.

And as I return to watching him, I realize he indeed knows this place. He’s home.

After a few hours of very comfortable silence, I start to see signs for Lake Champlain, and as the scenery we pass becomes more and more lush, Derek pulls off the highway onto a smaller road that weaves farther and deeper into the woods. Another hour or so, and many more small, heavily wooded roads later, we pull off onto a long lane that takes us deep into thick and secluded woods. After about a half mile, a contemporary single story house appears before us, and we pull up out front. It is oddly out of place, and yet it blends with the environment perfectly.

As I look to Derek in confusion, he ignores my questioning expression. Derek unlocks the door and lets us in the house. It is beautiful. Simple, contemporary, and yet, at the same time rustic, but not at all campy—instead authentic and comfortable. I’m suddenly glad I packed jeans and not a dress. I would definitely be overdressed otherwise, and for the first time, I notice Derek is in jeans as well. I’ve never seen him in anything but slacks, incredible rich slacks, but slacks. Casual just hasn’t been my experience with him. Yet, now, as I take in his appearance, suddenly very aware of his clothing, I realize just how perfectly at home he looks here in his jeans. They are faded and worn, but fit him perfectly, and as I walk behind him, I can’t help but take in the view from the rear. A man’s butt in jeans is always something to enjoy; Derek’s impressive butt in jeans—yes, he has more impressive attributes than just his cock—is downright shameful. He’s gorgeous, and this place suits him. I always assumed him to be cut from the fabric of city life—our high-rise, downtown, plush surroundings, dress-to-the-nines sort of existence—but this is so very him, and I love it. And this is my type of space too, warm and inviting.

The floors are wide-plank hardwood; the kitchen is sleek and modern but still warm and neutral. The furniture is perfectly worn leather, and the wool rugs that cover the floor are amazing and high quality. The large windows overlook the surrounding woods. The thick trees surrounding the house are nearly claustrophobic, but in the most amazing and comforting way. There is no view but the thick trunks of trees, branches, leaves, and the forest floor as far as the eye can see. Off the back of the house is a well-maintained pond, manmade, with perfect landscaping and stone work surrounding a good portion of it. The large deck off the back expands the width of the house. It has no rails and simply ends as it overhangs the closest edge of the pond. I have no idea how they’ve melded the water with the house without losing the foundational integrity of the house, but it is stunning. You could literally lie at the edge of the deck and stare straight down to the pond beneath. For that matter, the water is so close I could reach out and touch it a mere foot below.

As Derek shows me around, I fall more and more in love with the place. I could stay here forever with him. Trimbles fades to the background of my mind, and I’m suddenly and completely at ease. I know we’ll only be here for one night, but I have every intention of forgetting the rest of my life until we leave this place tomorrow. I want this break from that life; it is a much-needed respite.

Derek walks me down a long hallway to the master bedroom. One entire wall is made up of windows that open to the same long deck and pond beyond. The bed is large and inviting, and as I eye it longingly, I imagine Derek making love to me here. I want him to make love to me more than ever before. I thought that giving myself to another man would somehow dash that desire for him, but on the contrary, I can’t wait for him to “reclaim” my body, as he spoke of the night before. It is more than a want, and far more like a desperate need pulsing within my body. I do belong to him, and I need him to take me back from that disgusting man and all his romantastic bullshit. Derek catches me looking longingly at the bed and whispers, “later,” as he pulls me from the room.

Once back in the living room, Derek looks to me, waiting for me to speak. And I do. “Derek … sorry, Mr. Pennington, it’s beautiful. Whose is it?”

He walks to me slowly, palming his keys in his hand as he approaches, and he leans toward my ear. “I like Derek. And it’s mine. I have more talents than just managing escorts.” He winks as he brushes past my shoulder toward the door.

“You mean you built it?” My question trails after him.

When he reaches the door, he looks back with a smirk gently pulling his mouth. “I designed it. I was an architect before I sold my soul to the devil … or Mr. Grayson more precisely.” He pulls the door open, still eying me with his beautiful smirk, and gives me his parting words. “Stay put. I’m running to town for some groceries.” And he’s out the door as I stare slack-jawed after him. Architect! I’m starting to think he belongs at Trimbles even less than I do.

While he’s left my mind reeling with his words, they’re certainly not enough to stop me from spending this time exploring his home some more.

I end up lying on my stomach at the edge of the deck, trailing my hand through the water below. It is cool and clear, and I’m suddenly overcome with a fairly childish desire to jump in naked and swim. I learned to swim early in life, and I’m as comfortable in water as I am on land. I love the feeling of being completely surrounded by water, and the weightless relaxation of floating around in a pool for hours. As I peel myself out of my clothes, leaving them heaped on the deck, I only pause for a brief moment to wonder if Derek will be upset with me before I jump in.

I swim, diving deep to the sandy bottom. The water is so incredibly clear. I float on my back endlessly, spacing off into comfort, and I think about Derek and all his mystery. I know nothing about him at all. He comes from a political family, he doesn’t talk to them, he designs houses … what else don’t I know about this man? I’m guessing far more than I’ve figured out thus far. I drift aimlessly around in the clear water that is speckled only with leaves that have fallen from the lush trees, with Derek’s beautiful lips and exceptional features in my mind. I have no idea how long I’ve been swimming, floating, daydreaming, but as I reinvigorate, I dive back down below the surface, not yet ready to give it up. When I return to the surface though, I look toward the deck. He’s back, and at this distance, I can’t tell if he’s upset to see me swimming alone in the pond or not.

He’s leaning against one of the pillars that support the overhanging roof of the pergola-style deck. I continue to watch him as I start to slowly, hesitantly swim back toward the deck. When I reach the deck, I see by the smirk on his face that he isn’t upset in the least, or at least he’s not going to say he is. He reaches a hand down to me and pulls me easily to the deck. He stands in front of me, letting his gaze travel every dripping inch of my body as I inhale deep and needy breaths, waiting and hoping for him to make a move. He does, and moments later, I’m in his arms and he’s carrying me away to the very inviting bed in the master bedroom.