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Being on the surfboard gave me the same feeling. I took to it quick—didn’t bother telling Charlotte I had lessons on another family vacation in Mexico long, long ago, when my father was still alive—and swimming out there, riding those waves, I felt like a goddamn superhero. Such an adrenaline rush.
Almost as good as sex with my wife.
After coming back from the beach, we each took a nap in our respective beds before we got ready to have dinner with a view of the sunset. I decide to dress up a little extra since it’s our last night and we’re eating at the most expensive restaurant at the resort.
I’m going all out. Hopefully Charlotte is too. Seeing her come out in a different dress, bikini, whatever she’s wearing each day has been a worthwhile surprise. One I’ve enjoyed immensely.
Hell, I’ve enjoyed this entire trip. We’ve come to an unspoken agreement. I still don’t fully trust her, and I’m sure she feels the same about me. Sometimes I don’t like how she makes me feel either.
I’d guess she also feels the same.
We’re forgetting all about that today, though. Tonight. We’re just going with the flow and enjoying each other. Reality will catch up with us when we return home, and we can also resume our obvious distrust with each other too.
Can’t wait.
I decide to layer on the rings and the chains. Leave a couple of extra buttons undone on my cream-colored shirt. My hair is looking good. I’ve got a nice tan thanks to all the time I’ve spent in the sun. And despite the lack of sleep last night, I still manage to look rested.
I’m waiting for Charlotte in the living room, checking my inbox when she finally walks in, an unsure expression on her face.
“I’m overdressed,” she says.
I take in her dress. It’s a deep, rosy pink. With flimsy straps and a deep V in the front that shows off her tanned skin—and her tits. The skirt is short and made of three layers of thin fabric and all I can see is her legs and her skin and I immediately want to know if she’s got panties on underneath.
My guess is no.
“You’re not overdressed,” I reassure her as I rise from the couch and go to where she’s standing. I stop directly in front of her, resting a hand on her waist, my gaze eating her up. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Her smile is small. Pleased. “Thank you. You look nice too.”
“Ready to go?” I ask.
She nods. “Let’s do it.”
This woman is speaking my language.
I hope to be doing it with her all night long.
***
The men inthe restaurant can’t stop staring at my wife and I can’t stop glaring at them. I had no idea her in that dress would cause such an uproar, but I underestimated Charlotte.
She’s stunning, and they all know it.
I didn’t even realize until I was sitting across from her at the table that she was wearing the earrings I gave her as a wedding present. She tucked her hair behind her ear, the diamonds twinkling in the light and a surge of unfamiliar emotion made my chest tight.
This woman belongs to me. I keep repeating the thought in my brain and out loud, specifically to her, and I know I sound like some sort of caveman who beats his chest with his fists, but fuck.
She brings out a primitive side to me I didn’t know I had. And I keep thinking about it because it keeps hitting me over and over again, what I’ve done.
What we’ve done.
I got married. To a woman I didn’t know, but I’m starting to actually like.
Yes, before the wedding I had those protective urges surge up that made me demand we move in together, but that was different. I just wanted to get her away from her father. I’m the type of guy who wants to protect people. I’ve run to the rescue of my little sister countless times. I help out where I can. I like feeling useful.
Considering I’m the second son and the obviously favored child of my mother, I never felt particularly useful growing up. I was just there. Yet another Constantine among many.
Winston eventually gave me my shot at Halcyon and I proved to him I could be an asset to the company. I agreed to marry a stranger to help the family—and Charlotte. She needed to get out of her situation and I didn’t mind being the one to assist.
