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“Dylan!” Tingles zip up and down my spine. I’m so excited I practically topple off my seat.
He beams like a kid coming home with A’s on his report card. “I’m winning again. Winning fairly consistently. I’ve been meditating, drilling into that core wound we discovered, reciting affirmations, chanting mantras. My shitty old beliefs might derail me on occasion, but those fuckers will never own me again.”
“Yes!” I mouth a quick, ‘Thank You’ to the heavens. “But, why am I here?”
“To celebrate. Who else would I celebrate with, baby?”
“Get out!”
And that’s what we do for two solid days. We go to Cirque du Soleil, our seats ten rows back from the stage on the aisle. Close enough to see everything. Not so close to be overwhelmed. He leans in and asks, “Do you think we can do what they’re doing right now on stage?”
“I am not a double jointed fire eater who can swing from a trapeze.”
“Come on. At least try the trapeze for me?”
“God, you’re demanding,” I say, swallowing laughter.
He takes me to a five-star French restaurant where we eat delicately sauced dishes with names I cannot pronounce. We swim for hours in the aquamarine, warm waters of the hotel pool. We get a couples’ massage at the spa. Dylan hires a helicopter to take us far enough out into the dessert to see the brilliant night stars. I cling tight to his arm because heights freak me out a little.
We play blackjack at one of the hotel’s casinos, when a suited-up security guard taps Dylan on the shoulder. “Mr. McAlister?”
“Yes,” Dylan says.
He holds a hand up to his ear and whispers into it.
“Yes, I see,” Dylan says. “Tell him I’ll contact him shortly.”
“Excellent. Have a good night.” The guard walks off into the crowd.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“A business opportunity. I’ll hit the guy up later.”
We take in a concert. Center stage five rows back. “I loved this guy when I was a teenager,” I say, jumping up and down along with everyone else in the auditorium. “No one rocked a pair of purple tights, platform shoes, ratted hair, and eye liner like Johnny Stone did.”
“Throw your bra on stage and flash him your boobs,” Dylan hollers over the din.
I smack him over the head with a glo stick. “You just want to see my tits.”
“Yes, please.” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Dirty old man.”
“Some things never change, baby.”
He fucks me in the shower, pulling my hair back, wrapping it around his hand. The water beats down on us and he slaps my ass, his other hand curved around the top of my pelvis as he pounds me from behind. His cock fills me. His warmth envelopes me. He feels so good and I’m moaning.
“You miss me, Evie?”
“So much, Dylan.”
“Not as much as I missed you.” He reaches a hand around and strums his fingers over my clit until I cry his name and arch and buck against his hand, pleasure coursing through my body. Pleasure comes in rocky waves, crashing everywhere within me. I bite my lip, hit the tipping point, and come in shakes and shudders – little earthquakes.
When I can finally breathe again I grind back against him, taking all of him deep, then deeper inside me. “Come for me, Dylan.”
He roams his hands over my breasts, pinching my nipples, his breath coming faster. I push back against him almost as hard as he’s taking me. It feels like we’re on a roller coaster and I think we’ve known each other forever. Maybe God created us to be together. Maybe this was God’s plan all along.
“Do you want to go shopping?” he asks the next day.
