“What was hot?”
“Mr Alphahole Billionaire!” Ri pulled a funny face, dropping into a ridiculous, baritone. “Do you understand how busy I am? Fix it, simple as that! My wife!” She threw her head back and moaned in a way that scratched a part of my brain that I hadn’t realised was itchy.
“I don’t sound like that.” I grouched.
She giggled, her toes peeking out of the water, painted a deep, sparkly sapphire that I wondered if she’d chosen to match her wedding ring.
“No, you sound like a man, all the time. But just now you soundedlike a man who gets shit done, and then throws his wayward wife over his shoulder and drags her to bed for an afternoon of back-to-back orgasms.”
I coughed violently, which only made her giggle more, the sound tingling through my chest. I quite liked it when I was the reason for that sound—even if sometimes it was because she was teasing me.
If I was honest, I quite enjoyed the teasing too.
“So, what am I apparently so busy with today?” she asked, stretching her lithe body. Her breasts appeared above the water line, and my gaze strayed to the gentle curve of them in her modest racing one-piece.
“I … uh …” There had been something important we needed to do together, but the sight of her breasts had wiped my memory clean. I’d seen them multiple times on her Tickle posts, and in a much more advanced state of undress. But there was something about them, damp, clad in lycra, her nipples tight against the fabric … and within reach …
“We have to provide a history of our relationship, for your visa,” I rasped. She sat straighter, breasts sinking beneath the bubbles, and thankfully letting me clear my head. “We need to come up with a narrative and a timeline together.”
Ri’s grin turned cheeky. “Well, obviously you stalked me.”
My mouth fell open. “I … what?”
“We need to keep it as close to the truth as possible, right? So, you saw my profile on Tickle, liked what you saw, did a deep dive into my activity on the app, and then you slid into my DMs.”
“But you hadn’t started creating on Tickle until after the ‘official’ date of our marriage,” I protested, my face on fire.
“Oh, Henry,” she floated closer, patting me on the cheek. “I was on your app for months before I started making content! And do you know how many random guys popped up unsolicited in my DMs?”
“I don’t think I want to know,” I muttered, flexing my fingers under the water. The urge to grab her wrist, to pull her into my arms, was getting too hard to ignore, even if the urge was wildly inappropriate and crossing a line we shouldn’t even be toeing.
Oh, like the line you crossed last week when you kissed her groaning mouth and were a hairsbreadth away from tearing off her T-shirt?
“No, you probably don’t. But it happens.” She sidled closer againuntil she was sharing my spa jets, her leg occasionally bumping up against mine under the water. “And if they need proof, well … I know someone who can create months’ worth of conversations inside the app.”
I pursed my lips. She had a point. It worked on more than one level—creating our love story inside a platform I could manipulate. Having me approach her was also clever—the authorities might question whether she was soliciting for a husband on Tickle if she’d initiated contact with me.
“You know it makes sense,” she cooed, as if reading my thoughts. Her hair drifted over to brush against my shoulder, and I shivered. “So, now we come to the big question.”
“What’s that?” I asked, my words tight when her fingers accidentally brushed my thigh under the water.
“What was your pickup line?”
“My pickup line?”
She smirked, blue eyes glinting with merriment. “You know, the first message you ever sent to me. What would it have been in this little scenario we’re concocting?”
“I don’t know …” Was that water or sweat trickling down the back of my neck?
“Just say the first thing that comes to mind!” She nudged me with her hip.
“What’s your star sign?” I blurted, flustered and aching in ways that were not appropriate for her to know about.
The silence that followed was so drawn out that I chanced a glance at her. The expression she wore almost made me laugh, it appeared so truly horrified.
“Are you for real?” she squawked. “What’s your star sign? Would that really have been your opening line to woo me with?”
“No!” I protested, turning towards her. “You put me on the spot! I’m much better when I have time to formulate a considered tactic. If Ihadapproached you via DM, I would have looked at your user history, noted the kind of content you gravitated towards and probably made some mildly sarcastic remark that doubled as an interesting factoid.”
