AllFreeNovel
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We didn’t do any online shopping the night before.
We fucked and saved Steve from his prison in the bathroom then watched crappy television until we both passed out. I slept clear through to the morning, helped by those multiple orgasms and the many honey rosemary mules I made.
The recipe for which, apparently, was going to be on Lake’s social media. And the vodka company’s.
Something that was Lake’s idea. He asked me and then mentioned it to his publicist and the marketing department for Lake Vodka.
Everyone loved it.
Now my drink was going to be Instagram—and TikTok, I suppose, since we also made a video of us creating a couple of the cocktails earlier today—famous.
Go me.
Nothing was posted yet, so my fame awaited, and aside from the making the video and drinking copious mules and alternating between Christmas movies and looking through the shots I took over the last few days, I spent the hours eating the delicious food Lake made in between fucking on the relatively few flat surfaces in this house.
A busy day.
But it also sort of feels like a vacation.
No fighting. No angst. No asshole.
Just me. My dog. And Lake.
Who glances up, already having lost any enthusiasm for shopping online after about five whole minutes. The last couple of hours as we’ve trolled the interwebs for deals on barstools and a guest bedroom set and a couch (and a coffee table!), he’s alternated between focusing intently on the string of movies playing and looking out the windows, the snow still falling but much less steady than it had been even earlier in the day.
Snowmageddon winding down.
Soon we would be plowed out.
I would go back to my life.
Go back to looking forward.
Steve huffs out a sigh, leaning more heavily against Lake’s strong thigh.
“What the fuck is that?” he asks.
I start giggling.
I can’t help it.
His expression is just too good.
“It’s only the perfect piece of artwork for your family room,” I say, chortling at the portrait of a reality star sitting on a throne, a lion perched at his side. “It’s five feet by eight feet and—”
He plucks my computer out of my lap. “I see you can’t be trusted for any more furniture shopping, butterfly,” he says, disturbing Steve, who groans, as he sets the laptop on the nightstand, well out of my reach.
“Why do you really call me butterfly?”
He stills. “I told you,” he says edgily.
I still.
Then…forward.
“You spun some nonsense about the pushpins.”
“Considering I plucked them out of your body, I would say they made an impression.”
