No, I’m not alone. I have Ian. He’s my partner, in every sense of the world. We go together like two people as opposite as we are should never go together. Since that day we first met over ten years ago and tragically attempted a sexual relationship, we’ve been drawn to one another. Is it our fault that we didn’t realize how well we go together until fairly recently? Does it matter?
No. It doesn’t. Because who gives a shit when you’re in love?
I kiss him harder, letting him know that it’s him and me in this world. The way he nibbles my ear after he breaks our kiss is absolute heaven. I’m giving myself completely over. Not just because I’ve missed him in the most carnal ways this week, but because my heart has been torn in so many different directions this week, and I need him to make it better. In turn, I want to make him feel better too. Because that’s what a wife does, right?
“I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me what you mean to me,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re the only woman who matters in my heart. As far as I’m concerned, you became something like a wife to me a long time ago. I’m not afraid of it. Are you?”
I rub my lips against his throat, wishing he would make love to me, right here, right now. “I’m not afraid of anything you throw my way.”
“Great,” he growls, hand snaking up my blouse. “Because I bought us a house in Belgium. We leave next week.”
I snort. “Belgium, huh?”
“You like waffles?”
I loop my arms around his neck and grin. “I love waffles. You should make me some.”
“I thought that was the wife’s job.”
The only way to make him shut up is to kiss him, which works for a whole ten seconds before he pulls away and gestures toward the hotel room. “What did you pack in that little suitcase, anyway? I never got to find out.”
Nothing can stop my grin now. “Stuff I could only do with my husband. I’m a good woman, after all. I don’t do scandalous things with men I’m not committed to like that.”
“Oh, good. Turns out I love going through luggage with my wife.” He releases me, sneaking out from beneath our blanket and making a grand show of sauntering into the hotel room. I would laugh, but it would only encourage him, and I’ve got my limits when it comes to Ian’s shenanigans. “Would be a shame for you to pack up all that stuff and then do nothing with it,” he calls over his shoulder.
I don’t move from my seat. Instead, I pour myself a little more champagne and wait to hear that zipper come undone and Ian’s whistle echo in the hotel room.
I’m not disappointed.
“This is really naughty!” he calls. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re a nasty girl, Mrs. Mathers!”
He always knows how to keep my hackles raised. He likes me that way—especially when things are getting, ah, sexy. Which they usually are around here. “Don’t call me that!”
“Kathryn Margaret Mathers,” he reiterates, stepping back on the balcony with a pair of handcuffs hanging from his hand. “You are under arrest for being the sexiest woman alive.”
Sighing, I hide my face in my hands and kind of hope he goes away. I am not having sex with someone who makes a corny joke like that. Yet here I am, watching him swing those handcuffs around with the most devilish expression on his face.
“What else did you find in there, Mr. Alison?”
“Touché.” He tosses the handcuffs in the air and catches them, snapping his wrist so they spin in a circle through the air. Show off. “I found a lot of good shit. Kinky shit. Didn’t know I was attached to such a sick pervert.”
Finally, I get up, letting the blanket fall to the bench before approaching him. I am not demure. I am also not overbearing, because I know what that look on his face means. “Guess that makes you a sick pervert too, husband.”
My fingers loop around one end of the handcuffs. The other end is still in his grasp. Ian studies my reaction before replying. “I wouldn’t have it any other way, dearest wife.”
He snatches my end of the handcuffs. The force behind it sends a shiver down my spine.
“I’ve got a fantastic idea.” He pulls me into his arms, teeth going straight for my shoulder. “I only wish I had brought your collar.”
He loves talking dirty, doesn’t he? “Your wife can’t be collared. Sorry.”
“Well, then, we’ll have to do the next best thing.” The handcuffs still dangle from his hand, smacking against my ass. “Because you’re still mine.”
I may not have my collar on, but I can tell we’re entering a scene. I could put a stop to it right now, and he would honor my wishes... but that doesn’t sound like a lot of fun. “Yes, I am, aren’t I? What other man will ever get to call me his wife at any point in time?”