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Belle was still in bed, which I figured was a natural biological response to being so thoroughly, completely, and expertly fucked last night. Ever since our romp in the vine-filled flower enclosure, one thing had changed between us. She’d stopped fighting the obvious sexual tension.
The only problem was I found myself still wanting more. I imagined I’d get bored once she stopped playing chase, but it only made me feel greedier. Would I take her pussy? Yes, thank you. I’d take second and third helpings, even. But as we came nearer to the end of our trip, I was increasingly aware that I wanted more. I wanted all of her. I didn’t just want the sex. I wanted the shared, secretive smiles as we joked about something inappropriate during one of our venue tours. I wanted the way she rolled her eyes at me when I did something dumb—like she couldn’t believe I was so immature but that she didn’t want me to stop because it made her laugh. I wanted to know things about her like Lance had taunted me with—the small secrets that made a person who they were. What smells made her explode with nostalgia? What was that one crazily irresponsible thing she did as a kid she still thinks about on long, nighttime drives? Who was her first kiss, and why shouldn’t I hunt him down and execute him tomorrow?
I wanted more. Every time she gave me an inch, I craved miles and miles of her.
I sat down and propped my feet on the balcony with my phone in hand. I was composing an email to my brother when Belle stretched and yawned her way out to the patio to sit across from me. As usual, she had her laptop handy, which I’d come to see as a kind of shield she put up between us over the last couple days. Since the big bang in the garden, Belle was either “working,” which meant so focused on looking things up that she couldn’t talk, or we were sleeping together.
Improvement? Yes. But there was still work to do. And if she thought her little laptop could protect her, I was happy to prove otherwise.
“Question,” I said, pausing mid-sentence in my email.
Belle went a little more still, which I took as a response.
“If I were to say ‘for fuck’s sake’ in an email, would that be with an apostrophe or without? Like, is that a possession of the fuck in question, or is it more like a statement of purpose?”
My question earned me a direct glare from Belle. “Why does it even matter?”
“I’m sending an email and I want it to look professional.”
“Who are you even emailing?”
“Damon. Why, want to read it?”
“No. Definitely not.”
“Question.”
“No more questions,” Belle snapped. She closed her laptop with a click and stared toward the sunrise with a troubled expression. I liked that her hair was still a mess from last night. If I used my imagination, I could still picture my hand gripping that thick blonde hair into a ponytail while I took her from behind, or the sound of how wet she was for me as I drove into her.
“Statement,” I said. “You’re trying to keep me at arm’s length, but my cock, while impressive, is shorter than my arm. It’s an awkward position to try to maintain.”
“I’m sorry, am I supposed to know what that means?”
“I mean you can’t keep someone at arm’s length while riding their cock.”
Belle gave me one of her reluctant smiles I’d come to enjoy so much more than the easy ones. With her, I had to steal smiles, laughs, and affection. Just like candy as a kid, stolen things were always twice as sweet. Maybe that was my problem. Belle made me steal and connive every little droplet of emotion out of her, which only made me crave it more.
“You were right, okay?” she said. “I am attracted to you. Obviously. But I still think we can be somewhat professional, and both agree we have important jobs to do here. I mean, after the wedding and then the divorce, I still have a business to run. You still have to play football. Our lives are going to go on after this, so I don’t see why we should get too attached.”
“What if you could be my wife slash girlfriend after the wedding? Who says we have to get divorced right away, anyway?”
She folded her arms. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
“No. I already did that. I’m just saying we could ride it out for a little while. Give it a test drive.”
“Marriage? You want to give marriage a test drive?”
“We’re already going to be in the car. I’m saying we don’t have to drive it off a cliff on the first day. That’s all.”
“Can you stop speaking in metaphor, Chris? Just tell me what you really mean for once. And if you try to turn it into a joke, I swear I’m going to jump off this balcony, walk to the nearest airport, and we won’t see each other again until the wedding.”
