L I N D Y /// G I R L
Nine letters, split across his fingers.And on his left thumb, three fine slashes?—///.
My breath catches.He turns his hand so I can examine the design.“Three slashes?”
“For the way you count,” he says.“For the way I cut.”
“You—” I reach for him on instinct, tracing the fresh ink with the pads of my fingers.Heat lives there.“You did this for me?”
“For me too,” he corrects.
“Why?”
“So when I break things, the last thing they see is your name on my hands.So everyone knows there’s only one person I’ll ever show mercy to.So I wear you, even when I can’t touch you.”He drags those knuckles up my wrist, along the inside of my forearm, a slow brand.“And so you never doubt that I belong only to you.”
He slips a velvet box from his pocket.“I have a second thing.”There’s a wicked ring inside, knife-edge band, five claw prongs shouldering a shield-cut diamond; a black stone tucked beneath the setting.“I should’ve given you this at our wedding,” he says.“But I wanted it made for you.It’s five point nine-seven carats.”His mouth quirks.“Odds calm you.May I?”
“Please.”
Before he slides it on, he passes it to me.On the inside of the band are two words in perfect cursive script:Say Yes
It settles against my wedding band like it was always meant to live there.
“Every time you look at it, remember that you chose me.You said yes,” he says, kissing my finger.“And, since I promised to be honest, there’s a GPS tracker inside it.”
“I figured.”I laugh, realizing it’s the truth.It doesn’t surprise me that even with all the cameras in Las Vegas at his disposal and full remote access to my phone that this man put a tracker in my ring.“Now, back to part of what I got you.”He swallows when I drag my nails along his belt.I undo it and his button, slide the zipper down.When I pull out his cock, I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.I lick it away and put my mouth on him.The sound he makes is savage and beautifully helpless.
“Fuck,” he breathes, head tipping back.“My wife.”
He gathers my hair, winding it in his fingers like a ribbon.I set the pace I want, slow at first, then deeper, taking every praise he gives.He’s all coiled restraint and then he’s not, hips stuttering, my name falling from his lips again and again.
When I rise, I smooth my dress and swipe my thumb across his lower lip.He looks wrecked and lethal and entirelymine.
He reaches for me, meaning to haul me back down, I laugh, breathless.“There isn’t time for you to ruin my hair.We’re late.”
His mouth curves.“Then you’d better hold still.”
He turns me so the backs of my thighs kiss the dresser, palms sliding up my calves, shoving my hem high.L I N D Y /// G I R Lbrackets the inside of my knees.He drops to his knees in a perfect, predatory fold, tie still loose, suit still on, and lifts one of my legs over his shoulder.He’s wearing his ring, likely irritating theRunderneath it.It flashes as he hooks the edge of my panties aside.
“Give me odds, Lindy girl,” he says against my skin.“I’ll show you every way I mean this ink.”
I grip the dresser edge and try not to breathe too hard.“Three,” I manage when his tongue finds me.Slow, deliberate, devastating.His hands lock me open, thumbs pressing marks into my hips.A wicked drag over my clit that makes my vision grain.“Five,” I choke, head tipped back.He’s careful not to touch my hair.He hums his approval, mouth sealing, tongue relentless.“Seven,” I gasp.“Nine—Cassius?—”
“Good girl,” he says into me, and then I’m gone.Odd numbers dissolving into a sound I don’t recognize as mine.He doesn’t stop until I shake; he doesn’t rise until I tug at his hair, breathless and wrecked.
He stands, straightens my hem with those branded hands, kisses the corner of my mouth.“Hair’s perfect.You’re perfect,” he says.“Nowwe’re late.”
“Wait.”I clear my throat, and go to dig in the closet for the wrapped boxes.“My turn is less dramatic.”
The smallest thing first.I open a flat box and hold up sleek black deerskin gloves.The leather is butter-soft, hand-stitched.
He swallows, then drags me in by the waist.“I’ll wear them every time I leave you.”
“Good,” I breathe, and set another box on the dresser.“For the suits you hate.”
He lifts the lid.A pair of cufflinks shaped like tiny dice in murdered-out black, each face only 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11.The corner of his mouth kicks up.“Loaded odds.”
Next, I give him the book.His favorite book that I bought what feels like a lifetime ago.It’s swollen with tabs and my handwriting spills down margins and around certain lines, small maps of my thoughts.On the title page:Merry First Christmas.Yes, Always, Lindy
