Page 36 of The Client
“Rhys!” she coos, pulling me in for a hug. Then she turns to Izabela. “Andyoumust be Izabela. I’ve heard so much about you, and aren’t you lovely? What a pretty dress. Come in.”
“Your house is so beautiful,” Izabela says as we head inside. “It’s like a castle.”
“Isn’t it?” Mom preens. “I said the same thing when we came to look at it. Oh, I know it’s a lot of house for one woman and a pair of senior cocker spaniels, but Rhys insisted on spoiling me, didn’t you honey?”
“Happy to do it,” I say.
At the sound of my voice, my mom’s dogs come barreling down the hall howling.
“Orson! Violet! Enough!” Mom says, to no avail. “Should I kennel them so they don’t bother everyone?”
“Oh, don’t do that. They’re just excited about having company,” Izabela says.
Orson and Violet attack her legs with licks and snuffles and happy barks, their tails wagging so hard that it’s more of a full butt wiggle.
“Siad,” Izabela commands, holding out her hand with her palm facedown.
Both dogs instantly drop to a sit, looking up at her adoringly.
“Was that in Polish?” I ask.
Izabela blushes and then crouches to pet the dogs. “Yes. I guess I went on autopilot.”
“You’re Polish? How lovely. I can’t wait to hear more,” Mom says, beaming. “Shall we go out onto the deck for a drink? Dinner will be ready shortly.”
We walk through the hall and the kitchen and out the sliding glass doors in the back of the house. Mom sets us up with wine and a fruit tray so we can take in the lapping blue waters of Lake Michigan while she goes inside to check on the food. This is typical for her. She’s not the type of person who can sit still for more than five minutes, so she’s always bustling around frantically like this when I come over for dinner, prepping and sautéing and roasting until she’s prepared a four-course experience with something decadent for dessert.
“This is incredible,” Izabela says, resting her elbows on the railing.
I shrug. “Mom’s dream house. I wanted to make sure she’d never have to move again. After she and my father divorced, we had to shuffle through quite a number of apartments.”
Izabela turns her gaze to me, assessing. “You’re a good son. You take care of her.”
“I try,” I say.
“More than try,” she says.
Moving closer, I slide a hand to her lower back. She looks stunning in a white sundress with yellow roses printed on it and low-heeled sandals, her hair pulled into braid that hangs over one shoulder. The picture-perfect girl next door.
“Is the dress okay?” she asks, misinterpreting the way I’m studying her.
“The dress is perfect.” I whisper the words as I lean close to her ear, then lightly take the lobe between my lips. “What are you wearing underneath?”
Keeping her focus on the lake, she replies, “Would you like to find out?”
I can feel my balls tightening. “Maybe.”
Moving behind Izabela, I shift my glass to my left hand and run my right hand down the length of her thigh, then up under the hem of her dress. It’s been a few days since she moved in and I’ve barely been able to keep my paws off her. I’m sure I’ll get tired of fucking her at some point, but it doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen anytime soon. I love the way sex is brand-new to her. And I can’t get enough of the noises that come out of her mouth when I touch her, the look in her eyes when I make her come…hell, just knowing I’m the first man to ever touch her like this drives me out of my mind.
Skimming the smooth skin of her inner thigh, I’m just about to dip my fingers between her legs when I’m interrupted by the sound of the glass door sliding open behind us.
“Rhys, I only have kalamata olives for the—”
“What, Mom?”
I lazily turn to face her. She’s standing frozen in the doorway, dish towel in hand.
“The salad. Should I put in the olives or no?”
