Page 39 of Meant For Love
“Sure.”
“It should be about twenty minutes,” she informs me.
“Perfect,” I say, hanging up the phone and walking into the shower in time to see her pinning her hair on top of her head. “Twenty minutes,” I tell her. She looks over her shoulder, and I see a hickey on her ass cheek next to bite marks. My cock goes to half-mast. “You didn’t tell me you were taking a shower.”
She opens the glass shower door and steps in, laughing. “I didn’t know I had to run it by you.” Putting her head back and to the side, the water runs down her body. My cock is now fully hard as she turns around to make the water wash over her back. My hand goes to my cock. “You going to stand there and ogle me?” she asks before turning to face me. “Or are you going to come in here and wash my back?” She doesn’t have to ask me twice. I take the four steps to the shower, pull open the door, and step in. My head bends to kiss her, and the taste of mint hits my tongue at the same time my hand finds her pussy and two fingers slide into her. “Hmm,” she purrs, opening her legs more to give me access as she grips my cock in her hand.
“Turn around,” I instruct her, and she turns so her back is against my chest as I kiss her neck. “Put your hands against the wall.” She lays her palms flat against the tile wall, the water falling on the middle of her back. “Now, spread your legs and lift your ass for me.” She doesn’t make me wait long, and when she does, I squat down a little, grabbing my cock in my hand. “That’s my good girl,” I praise right before I push my legs up and slam my cock into her.
She comes three times before I come again. This time, it’s not inside her. Nope, my girl drops to her knees when I tell her I’m close, and she swallows all of me. I’m slipping on the hotel robe when I hear a knock on the door as she walks out behind me. “I’ll get it,” I say, walking to the door and letting the room service guy in. He wheels in the cart. “I’ll put it outside when we’re done,” I tell him, and he nods, turning and walking out.
“Where do you want to eat?” Zoey asks me once I wheel the cart into the bedroom, standing here wearing a matching robe.
“The only reason I ordered this was to get you back into bed,” I tell her, and she gets on the bed. I grab the big tray in the middle of the cart and put it in the center of the bed. “I got you stuff for your taco shit.”
She shakes her head and laughs. “Don’t you even try to pretend you don’t like it. You ate two yesterday.”
Her skin looks sun-kissed, and her freckles are even darker than they were before, and every single day I have to pinch myself. I watch her make a taco and then hand me the plate. “Here, don’t say your wife never made you breakfast.” She smiles big, and I laugh. “We need to talk about things.”
“I have never been married before,” I start, reaching for the plate, “but I think it’s never a good thing when your wife says we need to talk about things.” Holding the pancake close, I take a bite. I’ve never had this before her, but I have to say, I will never eat pancakes any other way again.
“You might be right on that.” She fixes her own plate, folding one foot while she stretches the other one out.
“Before we start,” I say, holding up my hand, “happy anniversary.” I smile at her. “I got you a gift, and it’s waiting for you at home.”
“Anniversary?” she asks.
“We’ve been married one week.” I hold up my hand.
“Oh,” she replies, not sure what to say. “Um, happy anniversary,” she mumbles.
“Now, what did you want to talk about?” I ask nervously.
“I know I said I would give you ninety days,” she says, and I drop my plate, the food that’s in my mouth suddenly tasting like shit. “And I will,” she quickly adds, “but where are we going to live?”
“I have a house.” I don’t know why I have to tell her this. “So we are going to live in my house.”
“But I live in New York,” she retorts. “Like, my house is in New York. My things are there in the house.”
“Yeah, I assumed that when you said you live in New York.” I wink at her, earning me a sneer. “Can I ask you something?” I take another bite of the taco. “Why do you call New York home?”
“What?” she asks, not sure of my question.
“Why is New York your home? Besides the fact you have a house there with things in it.”
“I don’t know. It’s just home. I’ve always lived in New York.”
“You grew up in Long Island,” I point out.
“Yes, but I went to school in the city. It’s my home.” She motions with her hands going around in a circle.
“But what I’m saying is, there isn’t anything but your things in your house that keeps you there. Your office is there, but your office is in your home, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And you have no children that I know of.” She just stares at me. “So, technically, you can move into my home.”
“I can’t move to LA,” she gasps.