“I’m not sure how I can manage much more,” I told him.
“I searched online, and the desserts look so good,” he said, accidentally kicking the table in excitement. “I think we can travel a little in Brazil, head down to Argentina, then fly out somewhere—maybe we can head to Europe. There’s direct flights to Spain. We could eat paella and go to the beach.”
“Then visit Switzerland,” I chuckled. “Clear out that Swiss bank account.”
He giggle-snorted, his face all red from the amount of wine he’d consumed. He was becoming red wine.
Manuela brought the dessert out on a large silver tray. It was a collection. She pointed to them, telling us the names. “Brigadeiro.” Chocolate balls covered in sprinkles. “Pudim de Leite Condensado.” To these jiggly flans on small saucers. And the last one, brightly colors circular desserts with a hole in the middle. “Quindim.” I glanced at Artemis with the look of the third one. I didn’t want him getting any ideas about putting my dick through that one—but I guess I wouldn’t say no to him.
She placed them between us and quietly cleaned away our plates while setting clean ones in front of us. I barely noticed her around us, which was an awful confession to make for someone who was known to being switched on at all times.
All those thoughts disappeared with the first dessert. The truffle chocolate, decadent, delicious, melting on the tongue. We both moaned as we ate them, almost like we weren’t scared to make as much sound as we wanted in here.
“Or we could stay here forever,” he giggled.
“One night,” I reminded him. “That’s all Mercy had given us.”
The second two desserts required spoons to cut through their somewhat glossy and sticky sweet coatings. I was once again in heaven at how light they were on the tongue, dissolving into a sweetness that had my eyes rolling and Artemis kicking at the table again—think he’d been aiming for my foot.
“You remember when you would tell me never to engage in dangerous things,” he said. “When you would calm me after a nightmare?”
“When you’d reward yourself with my dick?” I recalled. “I wonder if we’ll ever get that back.”
He spooned another bite of dessert into his moan and moaned, making eye contact with me. “I still like sucking dick,” he said. “If that’s what you mean.”
“I know that,” I said. “What else would you even want back from that time?”
He shrugged. “Maybe how protected I felt by you.”
“I still give you that, don’t I?”
“A little bit, bit that was before I knew how to handle a gun,” he said. “And get those bullseyes. I think I might be a prodigy.”
I grabbed his foot with mine under the table. “I know you are,” he said. “You’re my prodigy. All mine. And we’re going to get married. How much more can we get to the oldus? If I’m being honest. I don’t know if I’d even go back. I actually prefer knowing you can handle yourself, even if I am your ultimate protector.”
He nodded and listened, finishing his dessert. “I think the next year of our lives is going to fly by,” he said. “I also think you need to repropose to me in front of the Eiffel Tower.”
“Ok,” I nodded. “So, we’re going to France then.”
“Duh,” he laughed. “That’s where the Eiffel Tower is.”
“What are you going to miss about Sanctum?”
I’d suddenly brought the food down. Art’s shoulders sank. “I’ll miss the access to things. I’ll miss the opportunity of seeing how things unfold.”
“We’ll have the internet,” I reminded him. “You can see the world from there. But I know what you mean. And I’m sure if anything happens, Mercy will let us know. She has her ways. Trust me.”
“I hate the rule about no social media,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and placing it on the table. “I want everyone to see where I’ve been. I want to post pictures of this. The dessert and just the view.”
“And you know why that rule is in place?” I asked, but it didn’t need an answer.
He nodded. “We’re undercover now,” he said. “We’re secret agents.” He giggled. “Super secret agents.” Gesturing with his hands together and two fingers in place of funs. “If we had a third, we could totally do aCharlie’s Angelsthing.”
I laughed. “We’re not even married and you want us to introduce a third.”
Art scoffed. “Not like that. It’s me and you forever. Unless it’s like Pedro Pascal. Because that man could just—watch, like assuming he wanted to.”
“I could deal with that,” I told him. “We should finish dessert and go to bed. It’s been a busy day, and tomorrow—hell, the next year is going to be a ride.”
