“I can. I have,” I inform her.
“What if I’m not interested in you?”
“You are.”
“How would you know?” she snaps, her tone sharpening.
“Because we’re naked and your pussy is full of my cum,” I tell her, using the vernacular she prefers.
I watch as she sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes heating, then narrowing slightly.
“Sex doesn’t equal marriage,” she snarls.
“It does with us. Ionlyfuck my wife. Ionlygive my wife orgasms. Ionlygive my wife my cum. I’ve fucked you four times, given you several orgasms, and filled you with four loads of my cum. You’re my wife, Octavia.”
Her eyes shutter, and I feel like I’ve lost something. I don’t like the way she’s hiding from me, but I’m not sure what I can do that will make her reveal herself again. I consider if sex would help her feel more open, but decide that she needs to understand what it feels like to be mine and know that I’m not just interested in experiencing sexual gratification within her body.
“We should get cleaned up so we can order some furniture,” I say, scooping her into my arms, then standing and carrying her into the bathroom. Placing her down on the counter, I turn on the faucet over the tub.
“I should shower,” she says, sounding tired.
“No. The tub. I’ll help.”
“I don’t need your help,” she protests, but she’s not actually arguing. It sounds more like she’s informing me of her independence, even though she doesn’t really want to exert it.
“I want to help.”
“Are you going to get in with me?” she asks, her cheeks turning pink.
“I’ve never bathed with anyone before,” I tell her.
“Me neither.”
When the tub is half full, I close the distance between us, then slide the destroyed panties from around her waist and drop them into the trash can. Lifting her up, I carry her to the tub, then step into it, sitting down in the middle with her on my lap, her arms around my neck, her legs wrapped around my hips.
“Why isn’t this weird?” she asks me, her brows furrowed in confusion.
“Because this is exactly where we should be,” I tell her, feeling like the answer is obvious.
“Tell me more about you,” she begs, resting her cheek against my shoulder while warm water rises up around us.
“It would be easier for me if you asked me the questions you’d like to know the answers to,” I admit.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asks after a moment.
“I don’t have one.”
“Of course you do. Everyone has a favorite color.”
“What’s yours?” I ask, even though I believe I already know the answer.
“Most people assume it’s black, but it’s actually pink. I just love how dramatic black clothes are. Plus, my hair is naturally this color, and a monotone palette with just a pop of pink here and there works for me. So…what’s yours?” she asks again.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever really considered color with a preference. Black is easier to keep clean. White looks smarter. Khaki is the color most of my clothes were as a child.”
“But what color would you pick if you had the entire rainbow to choose from?” she asks, her tone more animated now.
“I don’t…” I trail off because I’m not sure how to articulate to her that color is irrelevant to me.
