“Do you want me to call for room service,” he asks, moving my hair to nuzzle my neck. The whisker growth on his face scratches my skin.
I like it.
It also explains why my cheeks, neck, chest, and thighs are so red. Whisker burns from last night.
Blanche:Last night was amazing.
It was.
“Coffee,” I say, needing to get out of my Wyatt-induced haze and into a clear head. And I’m not going to get that done without caffeine.
wyatt
I easemy cock out of Brie to get up to call room service. His new favorite place to be is inside Ms. Moore. Or should I say, Mrs. Reed?
Why don’t I feel freaked out about being married?
She rolls to her back after I pull out and stretches out her arms and legs. Our combined juices leak from her pussy. I reach down to rub them around her clit.
“Mmm,” she moans when I touch her. I like that too. So many fucking things I like about—
“Ohmigod! Wyatt, we didn’t use a condom.” She bolts up, eyes wide. My brows furrow. Why is she worried about this now?
“I know,” I say.
“Well, we should.”
“You said you were on the pill.”
“I am.” She looks confused. “But it’s not one hundred percent effective. Plus, who knows where your whore of a penis has been, and—”
“My whore of a penis? Are you kidding me with this?” I think I’m offended.
She shakes her head. “No?” She says it like a question, but it should really be a statement.
“We just talked about this not even six hours ago. I haven’t been with anyone in over a year.”
“How’s that possible?” she asks.
I shrug. “Does it matter?” When she doesn’t say anything, I keep going. “Work. It’s because work was my priority. Why are you bringing this up again? Fuck, Brie, it was your idea to go without a condom.”
She frowns. “But there are four condom wrappers on the floor.”
“Because we didn’t talk about it until after that.” I study her for a moment trying to figure out what’s going on in her head. And I realize what it is. “You don’t remember?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “My head is a little fuzzy,” she whispers.
Fuck my life.
“You don’t remember the conversation? Or you don’t remember more?” I ask.
“I think, maybe more.”
“How muchdoyou remember?”
She shrugs. “The pole dance?” She says it like a question, but once again, it should be a statement. And a much more definitive one at that.
“You don’t remember anything after the pole dance?” My voice is shrill, I can’t help it. How can she not remember one of the most momentous occasions of all time? Or what came after? Last night was huge on the barometer of life.
