I turned in his arms and looked up at him. “Show me the master.”

He got me, I knew it when his arms tightened and he murmured, “Cher.”

“Show me, Preacher.”

He studied my face for another year and then he took his arms from around me, placed a hand on either side of my head and brought his face closer to mine.

“I didn’t bring you here for that, Lyla.”

“We’re celebrating something you worked hard to earn by me giving you something else you worked hard for. And earned.”

He made this groaning, growly noise I felt like a physical touch in a very private part of me before he erased the minimal distance between our mouths.

We made out, right there by the windows with a view of LA at my back before Preacher broke it, took my hand and walked me down a hall to the end of it.

The master was large.

I could see it had its own bathroom and walk-in closet.

It also had white walls and white furniture and diaphanous white curtains on the French windows.

But mostly, I was staring at the bed, which was a king-size mattress set on a tall boxy platform (painted white).

It had a white comforter and loads of white pillows.

And above it, the only color in the place.

A huge picture of three pink tulips with white edges on their petals.

Preacher stopped us just inside the space.

It was me that walked him to the bed.

Once there, I took a deep breath, turned to him, lifted my eyes to his and kicked off my pumps.

Then I stated, “I’m in love with you, Preacher McCade.”

There was no groan in his growl when he heard that.

I then had his hands on my ass, his mouth on mine, his tongue in my mouth and in short order I had my ass to the bed, and after, his body on mine in said bed.

By now, I knew his sweet spots.

And he knew mine.

But as he peeled the clothes from me, and I returned the favor, we found new ones.

His lips and tongue and beard could make miracles.

And they did.

The only time I felt funny was when he slid down between my legs, right before his mouth closed on me.

And then I didn’t feel anything but his mouth on me.

I had never had an orgasm.

In all of our groping and rubbing and kissing, I’d come close.

But I climaxed against his mouth, arching toward the white ceiling, my fingers buried in his hair.

He was up and covering me, working my neck with his lips, cupping me between my legs warmly with his hand, when I recovered.

“That was…wow,” I whispered my understatement.

“I’m in love with you too,” he said against my neck.

I stared at the ceiling. “What?”

He lifted his head and all I could see was the beauty of Preacher McCade.