Huh.
I climb out of bed, my body aching in a few specific ways that signal a good time was had by all on my—our—wedding night.
I’m naked, but… she’s my wife. It’s probably fine. I should meet her properly, the woman who laughed at all my stupid jokes.
I remember a lot of laughing.
I pad across the thick carpet and test the doorknob. It’s not locked, and through the frosted glass of the shower door, I see a silhouette. She’s small, with curves that my hands vaguely remember in a good, familiar way. An unexpected heat coils low in my belly, and my cock lifts.
He remembers more than I do, probably.
When was the last time I had this kind of instant reaction to a person? Maybe never.
I think I like being married.
Maybe I have a marriage kink. Amy wife is cute and hotkink. A?—
She turns around and lets out a sharp, piercing scream.
“Shit. Sorry! Sorry, sorry,” I say in a rush, stumbling back. I snatch a towel from the rack and hastily wrap it around my waist. The shower cuts off.
I notice a little red silicone rose sitting on the counter, and twoveryspecific memories from last night come roaring back.
A rose for your wife?
So much laughter.
And then later, in bed…A rose for my gorgeous wife.
Yeah, I definitely have a wife-specific kink, which isveryinconvenient because mywifejust screamed her head off at the sight of me.
The door cracks open and she peeks out, her face pale, her dark eyes wide. Damp honey-gold tendrils frame her startled expression. “I’m just leaving.”
“Why?”
“For obvious reasons,” she mutters, not that scared after all. “I thought you were unconscious.”
“Unconscious? I don’t drinkthatmuch.” Except I did drink enough that the details of who she is are, at least currently, a bit fuzzy.
“You were dead to the world a minute ago,” she says, her voice tight with panic. “I really thought you’d stay that way until I could get out of here.”
Out of here?
The words hang in the steam-filled air between us.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to my hotel.”
But…we haven’t even been properly introduced.
That’s not right, is it? There’s a cold, hard piece of evidence on my left hand that says we’re very well acquainted.
Can I remember my wife’s name right now? No, not exactly. But I know I said it last night, when I was prompted, right before I saidI do.
“I know that last night was a mistake,” she says, her words coming out in a rush. “A really stupid, terrible, epic mistake, because we just got caught up in…you know. Look, I’m sure you have lawyers and people who can…fix this. I appreciate that so much.” She moves with shocking efficiency, snaking her hand out of the steamed-up enclosure and wrapping a towel around herself in one fluid motion, not giving me an inch of an accidental view.
As I stare, dumbfounded, she scoots past me into the main room.
