MIMI
I can’t stop blushing.Every time I glance his way, I can feel my cheeks heating. I’m not even a blusher, per se, yet here I go again. It’s not even nine in the morning, and I must be on blush number six, at least.
“Kissing your hand makes you blush?” Whit’s gaze shines approvingly as he peers over the top of our linked fingers. The Bentley then goes over a bump in the road and our knuckles inadvertently catch him under the nose.
“Oh, ouch!” I say yet can’t stop my giggle as he, then stares at me through one narrowed eye. “What’s that look for? If you hadn’t been holding my hand—”
“And I can’t help that I can’t stop touching you.”
Ah, me.With each passing day, I turn a little more into Romeo’s love-sick girlfriend. But it can’t go on forever, can it? It’s just all that new relationship energy. And that’s what we’ve agreed on—a relationship. Even if it is going to be temporary. I don’t know. Maybe it’s that factor that makes things seem so much more joyful and brighter—because we have an end date in sight and we’re either consciously or unconsciously trying to cram all those moments in. It would explain Whit’s insatiable sexual appetite, I guess.Mine, too.We just can’t keep our hands off each other. It’s no wonder I blush.
“Then I guess you’ll just have to take those knocks.” Leaning over the center console, I press my free hand to his cheek and bend in for a kiss. But again, the Bentley goes over a pothole, and I miss my intended target, my lips grazing the divot above his finely carved top lip. He gives a satisfied little hum at the contact, and I find myself murmuring, “That answers that question.”
“What question?” Amusement seeps into his reply. “I said nothing.”
And there I go, blushing again. “You didn’t ask the question. It was a question I asked myself. Before.” Before we’d even kissed. Not that kissing was our first act of intimacy. “I just wondered what noise you’d make if I kissed you here.” I press my finger to the space. It fits perfectly. “I liked it,” I add softly. Taking my hand, I pull a face as I land a tiny punch to his arm.
“What was that for?”
“For making me a total simp.”
“I hope that’s a good thing.”
“Depends which angling you’re looking from,” I grumble.
“You don’t have a bad angle.” Dropping his voice, he adds, “I especially liked the rear aspect last night when you were on all fours.”
I inhale a tiny gasp, angling my gaze George’s way.
“Don’t worry. He can’t hear.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because I pay him enough not to.”
“I don’t think that’s how hearing works. Good Lord.” My plea to the heavens comes out on a quiet breath. “This can’t go on forever,” I then mutter to myself.
“What can’t?”
“This…” I make a gesture back and forth between us, kind of manically waving my hand. “How we are.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “It can’t be normal to have this much sex.”
Whit’s peel of laughter fills the car, loud and unrepentant. “Is there a prescribed number of times, do you think?”
I slide him a look because, really. What kind of question is that? Neither of us can get enough, which is only part of the reason I haven’t moved back to Doreen’s place. But then, she hasn’t gone back, either. The house was given declared structurally sound last week, though Doreen has taken Frank up on his sudden offer to make his house slippers a permanent fixture under her bed. They’re even talking about getting married. Of course, I’d asked her not to mention where I was sleeping to my parents.
“Us girls can stick together,” she’d said. “A little white lie won’t hurt them.”
Them, no. Me? I guess eventually.
Meanwhile, I’m just enjoying the benefits of having a man like Whit around. And enjoying those benefits repeatedly. It’s a good thing Whit is so busy during the day, or I’d never get any work done. Because when he is there, oh boy. Yesterday, for instance, he called me into his office to ask me to pick up a dropped pencil. Next thing, his hand is on my ass and from there, our clothes just seemed to disappear. Then there was the spanking I got for trying to redecorate his office (that monument to the love of monotone) when all I did was place a cactus no bigger than a bar of soap on his desk. It was in a pink and yellow pot, and had googly eyes, but still. I also might’ve dotted a few more of them around the place.
But that spanking lead to other things.
Last week, in an effort to do something normal, I bought tickets to a local movie theater. Whit was so amused when I insisted on paying for his popcorn too and made some comment that it would cost me more than a movie and a bucket of popcorn to get him to put out. This was a blatant mistruth given we were forced to leave before the movie had reached the halfway point. It was either that or face a potential public indecency charge. Then there was the drive out to the countryside when it began to rain unexpectedly. We’d taken a picnic but didn’t make it that far, gorging on each other instead. And in a car the Bugatti’s size called for some invention, let me tell you.
I could go on. Netflix and chill were we never got beyond the home screen. A glass of wine after dinner where the bottle ended up being used indecently. Scrambled eggs for breakfast where the only thing scrambled was my brain. It doesn’t seem to matter what we set out to do, we invariably end up doing the same thing.
Each other.
