I don't answer, because my mouth is full of cock, but I suck harder, stroking and licking as I look up at him.
When the light turns green, cars behind us honk, and he pulls off the road as I continue to suck and lick. I can feel his body tense, and his finger inside me moves harder, pushing me deeper into a spiral of pleasure even as I bring him to the brink.
"I need you to take me as deep as you can," he says.
I take him almost completely, his cock filling my throat. Then I pull back a little. And with another lick I send him over the edge. His come is hot in my mouth, and I swallow it all, licking the rest off his shaft and tip as his fingertips dig into my scalp.
When I sit up, he shudders, his smile slow and sexy, and continues playing with my pussy, rubbing my clit until I too climax, my muscles tensing, body going tight as a wave of pleasure floods me.
We're silent for several moments, holding each other, lost in our own thoughts. "Wow," is all I can say.
"My sentiments exactly," he says.
We tug our clothes back in place, and he starts the car and pulls back into traffic.
There's been something on my mind since the nigh we met, and so I ask the question I really want to know, have been curious about since I woke up in his arms and realized we were married.
"The night we got married… did we? Did I? Did you? Um… did we say the 'L' word at any point?" Oh God, I sound like a moron.
"Which 'L' word would that be?" I can hear the teasing in his voice, and I know I deserve it.
"You know what word I'm talking about. Did we profess our love to each other?"
"Yes." His answer is simple. Short. Incomplete. Because now I have too many other questions.
"Did you mean it?" I hold my breath waiting for his answer.
"I don't say anything I don't mean."
That's a yes. That means he loves me, or he did that night. My heart flip-flops.
"Why did we get married? It seems so unlikely, for either us."
"I can only speak for myself. I married you because I knew that night, and I know this even now, that you are someone I don't want to live without. My mother always said when it comes to choosing your mate, don't pick someone you can live with. Choose someone you can't live without. That's what I did when I married you."
Chapter 13
Home Sweet Home
He lives about twenty-five minutes from the Strip, in a larger house than I would have imagined for a single man living alone. At least, I assume he lives alone. I have to remind myself that despite having married the man, and despite all the amazing sex, I know frighteningly little about him. I guess that's what he thinks this summer will be about—getting to know each other. For me, it's about getting over him. I'm convinced that if I spend enough time with him, his flaws will show, and the bloom will fade. When that happens, I'll be able to put him out of my mind, and heart, once and for all.
But of course, the more he talks, the more I learn about him, the more my heart resists imagining a life without him.
Large palm trees stand sentinel in his lush, green front yard. Lit globes line the walkway to his front door, with bushes trimming the path. The impossibly green grass is dotted with terra cotta colored boulders and stones, and boasts at least three different breeds of trees in addition to the palms. The house itself is Spanish in style, with touches of Moroccan architecture. The dark red tile roof and thick stucco walls gives the house an inviting feeling that evokes images of family and friends.
He pulls into the four-car garage, and I follow him into a spacious kitchen fit for a chef with cast iron pots and pans hanging over an island in the middle. "Do you cook?" I ask.
"I guess you'll find out when I make you breakfast in the morning." He winks at me, and my stomach flutters.
I wish I'd brought a change of clothes, but it won't be the first time I do the walk of shame in the morning, and it probably won't be the last. Though I hear women are reclaiming this term to counteract the prevalence of our slut-shaming culture. Now it's the “strut of pride.” I like that better, though I still hate being stuck in last night's clothes. Time to start carrying an overnight bag with me.
"Welcome to my home," he says, clutching my hand close to him as we step into his living room. It's huge, with a wide screen television taking up most of one wall and comfortable leather couches and chairs arranged strategically for conversation or entertainment. The walls are high, the ceilings tall and there's a fireplace in the center of it all, one that takes real wood and looks well used. An eclectic mix of art pieces hang from white walls, giving splashes of color to the space. In a corner sits a black grand piano. "Do you play?" I ask.
"Not anymore," he says. Before I can ask why, he continues. "Would you like a tour?"