“Different how?” A pause, then an eye-opening, “Ohhh. Like a man has gone in and claimed?—”
“Sharon,” I chide, gaping at her in—not only surprise, but sheer terror that she’s thinking about sex at all.
I mean, good for her and stuff, but I don’t want to think about it in the context of how much she likes Richard.
And Richard is my buddy.
He is eighty-two years old, who may need some help in that department, and it’s just a solid no for me.
“What?” she says, hiding her shit-eating smile behind her manicured hand. “You look happy, sweetie. Ain’t nothing wrong about that.”
“But you look like you’re on edge,” Vicki, Sharon’s bestie, tacks on. “Did he do something?”
“What—no.”
Yes.
Yes, he did.
After the carousel ride, there wasn’t a moment after that when Bronte didn’t have his hands on me in some capacity.
Whether it was holding my hand while we walked through the cobblestone streets and soaked in more of the Christmas magic in Prague or his palm resting on my upper thigh while we watched, maybe, twenty minutes ofHow the Grinch Stole Christmas—classic.
But that was the PG version.
After those twenty minutes, he fucked me on the couch, in the kitchen, when I went to grab some water. I rode his cock throughElf,and he had his face between my legs during something or another.
When he carried me to bed, it was with his arms wrapped around my middle and tucked safely into the safety net of our Christmas honeymoon.
The next morning, we roamed around without a plan. He kissed me without asking, and the natural progression of how that began to be okay and comfortable with me didn’t really set in until we got on the plane back home and I looked back on everything.
I have a husband.
Who’s not Bobby but his twin.
We fucked me until I couldn’t breathe anymore.
Who was sexy as fuck, broody as hell, and I crave more time with him.
However, is that safe for me?
We never did talk much about what happened when we went back to our old lives. I knew the conversation would need to be discussed eventually. Nonetheless, I couldn’t break the magic of Prague to kill it with semantics and dream killers.
“Is this part where you tell us you think you’re pregnant?”
I’ve questioned Sharon’s sanity before—mean, I know—butI’m becoming certain she’s been watching too many telenovelas and starting to think they can be a reality.
“I’m not pregnant,” I confirm flatly. “Just…still in honeymoon bliss.”
I wish.
Coming back to New York City was daunting. I love my work with the non-profit, but heading back to my PR job and sitting in an office all day makes me scarily loathe the inevitable.
Apparently, I need to go on vacation more.
Or, I’m ready to move on to something else.
“Any plans for that?” Vicki pries, trying to sound innocent and soft. “You’re going to makebeautifulchildren.”
