I reach inside my back pocket and retrieve my wallet to tip him, and Bruce waves his hands in front of him. “No need for anything extra, my man,” he says, taking a step back. “Go spend that money spoiling your new bride. You guys make it a night you’ll never forget.”
His refusal to take my money only makes me want to give him more. And thanks to a triple blackjack I hit on splitting three aces late last night, I’ve got a healthy amount of cash in my wallet. Thumbing through the stack, I count out twenty-five hundred-dollar bills and pull them out, determined to make him accept every last one.
“We have more than we deserve or need,” I say as I force the money into his hand. “And I promise you, neither of us will forget this night for the rest of our lives. You shouldn’t either. Take that money and go on a trip with your wife, even if it’s only for a weekend getaway. Do it before you can’t. Remind her of why you fell in love with her. I’m sure she deserves it.”
When I word it that way—like if he doesn’t take the cash, then his wife isn’t worth doing something nice like that for—I’ve put him in a spot where he only has one option.
“She does, and thank you.” There’s nothing but appreciation in his eyes as he takes the wad of money from my hand and he tips his chin at me. “If either of you are ever out here again, or if you decide before you leave that you want something else, just come see me. Free tattoos for life.”
I smile and nod, though the odds we’ll ever come back are slim. Not even if we wanted to. “I’ll remember that. And don’t forget to take lots of pictures on your trip.” I wink at Lyra, my beautiful and extremely talented photographer. “They last longer than a lifetime.”
We say one last goodbye to Bruce before leaving his shop and grabbing a cab to our hotel. Neither Lyra nor I say anything during the ride back, but the closeness I feel to her is indescribable. She is a part of me as much as I am a part of her—physically and emotionally.
After paying the driver, we stroll leisurely into the lobby of The Cosmopolitan, and although I have every intention of going straight up to our room and beginning the naked festivities, Lyra tugs on my hand when I move toward the elevators. “No, not yet,” she insists with a sly smile. “Let’s go to the fancy bar that looks like a chandelier and have a glass of champagne. We need to celebrate, right?”
I’m dying to get her upstairs and underneath me, but the glimmer of mischief in both her tone and eyes has my interest piqued. She’s already surprised me with the panties stunt—which I fucking loved—so I’m curious to find out what else she’s got planned. The more the anticipation grows, the more intense it will be once I finally take her as my wife for the first time.
“We most certainly do,” I concur. “Lead the way, Mrs. West.”
Thrilled I’ve agreed so effortlessly, she nearly skips through the casino and over to The Chandelier bar, looking more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her. Being a Thursday, it’s not too crowded, so we’re able to snag a table off to the side on the second level, where the entire room is cloaked in the crystals of a giant chandelier.
Once Lyra is seated and settled, I go up to the bar and call out the simple order of two glasses of champagne to the bartender. He tips his head in acknowledgement, and while I wait for him to pour the drinks, I turn to gaze at my gorgeous wife who’s tucked away in a corner, where only someone standing near me could see her. Lyra gives me that sexy little grin again like she did earlier when she gave me her panties, and then she catches me completely off guard as she uncrosses her legs and slowly starts to spread her thighs. The farther her knees part, the more her dress rides up and comes closer to exposing her most intimate area.
Ripping my stare away from her for only a brief second, I confirm there’s no one else around me who may be getting a free show, and then turn my rapt attention back to her. The hem of the dress is now pulled taut across her hips and I have an unobstructed view of her smooth little pussy. Holy fucking shit, I’m gonna blow my load right here in public.
I throw two twenties at the bartender and grab the glass flutes, somehow not smashing them into smithereens when I snatch them from him and stomp to the table. My cock throbs and presses against my zipper, threatening to break through anything that stands in its way to get to her.
Lyra’s dress is pulled back down to a decent but teasing length on her thighs by the time I reach her, but she doesn’t even attempt to hide the fun she’s having in my frustration. “Thank you. I was getting so hot and thirsty over here.” She giggles, fanning herself as she takes the drink from me.
“It looked like it,” I grunt as I sit down across from her and pin her with my best caveman glare. “You’re about to get yourself in a lot of trouble, Buttercup.”
She swallows back nearly half her glass in one gulp, never breaking my stare. “That’s still a terrible nickname, you know. It has absolutely nothing to do with me.”
“It’s what I call you, so it has everything to do with you,” I contend and then take a long sip of my own drink. “Now, Mrs. West, do you care to enlighten me to any other requests or plans you have for tonight before I take my wife upstairs and fuck her so hard she can’t remember her own name?”
“Actually, I do.” Lyra finishes off the champagne and sets the empty glass on the table, standing up abruptly. She asks, “You have your phone and room key, right?”
I nod, both confused and curious.
“Good. I’m going up to the room, and I’ll text you when I’m ready. Don’t come before.”
Bending down, she kisses me softly and tauntingly drags her hand over my shaft before walking away without a backward glance. Her hips sway seductively as she crosses the open space, and my dick stands at attention to watch the show. I’m giving her ten minutes before I head upstairs, text or no text. A man only has so much willpower.
At the eight-minute mark, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I shoot out of my chair without even looking to see if it’s her.
I’ve waited long enough. It’s time.
The elevator seems to take forever to arrive, and then even longer to climb up to the top floor where our suite is. My hands open and close into fists as I inhale deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth. I have no idea what is waiting for me, but regardless, I need to get ahold of myself before I reach her. Otherwise, this night might end before it ever begins.
When I finally make it up to our suite, I slip my keycard into the lock on the door and throw it open with such vigor it bangs loudly against the wall once the little green lights flash on. I stalk purposefully into the room with my patience waning thin, but the moment the king-sized bed comes into view, I freeze mid-stride with my jaw hanging wide open, completely captivated by the sight before me.
With her Versace dress in a white pool on the floor, Lyra is kneeling on the bed, not a stitch of clothing covering her gorgeous body, with one hand cupping a perky breast and the other between her legs. My focus bounces back and forth between watching her flick and pinch her hard nipple and her fingers sliding frantically in and out of her tight slit. She’s already so wet I can not only see the juices leaking out of her, but I can smell her arousal hanging heavy in the sticky air.
Her hungry eyes are locked and loaded on me, and the rare confidence she’s displaying is enough to bring me to my knees. My girl is turning into a little minx and I fucking love it. Even though I usually thrive on stability and control, I’m not opposed to her occasionally taking charge in the bedroom. Especially if it means I get more shows like this.
“For the official record, Tavian West from Philadelphia,” she purrs with a kittenish smirk, “I prefer when my husband has far less clothes on.”
Buttons fly across the room as the sound of fabric shredding echoes off the walls. If stripping was an Olympic sport, I would win a gold medal for how quickly I rid myself of all my clothes, from my jacket down to my shoes and socks.
The rhythm of her tantalizing fingers slows from a feverish sprint to a lazy stroll across t
he most sensitive parts of her body while Lyra watches me go from full groom attire to stark-ass naked in less than a handful of seconds. Her roaming gaze lands on my rock-hard cock jutting straight out toward her, and with a muffled moan, she snakes her tongue across her pouty bottom lip as three fingers disappear inside her.
And that’s when my restraint snaps.
It’s time to show my wife just how naughty I can be.
LYRA
09.05.15
It’s here again. Finally. I’ve been waiting a long three hundred and sixty-four days for it to arrive. And I plan to spend the entire day celebrating like the devoted fan I am. Yep, that’s right. It’s International Bacon Day, or as I like to call it, Baconpalooza.
This globally-recognized holiday should not be confused with National Bacon Day here in the US, which falls annually on December 30th, but rest assured, being the bacon connoisseur I am, I observe both holidays with day-long consumption of the best food group on the planet. Hell, I’ll even go as far as to say the best in the universe. If the extraterrestrials knew what they were missing out on, I have no doubt they’d all move here at the speed of light. That, or have a mass abduction of all our pigs to take back to their own planets.
“Good morning, sunshine! Time to get up and play,” I singsong while opening the blinds just enough to let the golden hues of the morning light filter into the room before climbing on the bed where Tavian is fast asleep, buried under the covers.
In the month I’ve lived here, half that time as his wife, I’ve discovered a lot about my husband I didn’t know prior, stuff I never thought about, since I’ve never lived with anyone else. Some things are surprisingly positive, like he always puts the seat down on the toilet, knows how to wash and put away his own laundry, loves to cook for me—which I kind of already knew—and gives the best foot massages in the entire world. Other behaviors I’m learning to adapt to, such as never putting the lid back on the toothpaste, the way he clicks his tongue loudly against his front teeth when he’s deep in thought, and his love for sleeping late—something he never did while on our trip.
“Come on, sleepyhead. It’s almost 9:30. We need to get this party started,” I urge again, gently nudging him.
I count to ten in my head, and when I still get no response, I decide to take action. With a devilish grin, I belly-flop on top of him, causing him to release a loud grunt from the unexpected weight landing square across his midsection. But before I can launch my tickle attack, I find myself flying in the air and then somehow landing on my back with a naked Tavian on top of me, pinning me to the mattress.
Somehow, this isn’t fair to the rest of womankind. Better hold on tight, Lyra.
“You really suck at this sleeping-in thing, you know that?” He grins and rubs the tip of his nose against mine. “I bet you woke up at the crack of dawn even when you were a teenager, didn’t you?”
I stick my tongue out and give him my best annoyed glare. “There’s nothing wrong with being an early riser. Before most people have finished their first cup of coffee, I’ve already gotten more accomplished than they’ll do the entire day.”
“Who’s the overachiever now, Buttercup?” he teases me with the same name I’d called him in Vegas on the day we said “I do” and got our matching tattoos.
“Still you,” I grumble, but my forced serious expression cracks and morphs into a silly smile when he mockingly mouths the words along with me.
Tavian swiftly grabs both my hands in one of his and restrains them above my head, something he likes to do in bed when he’s in a playful, teasing mood. As much as I wriggle and writhe in his grasp, trying to break free, I secretly crave the vulnerability and exhilaration he invokes when he takes complete control of my body. The only sensation I’ve experienced that has a similar freeing feeling is when I soared high above the Dolomites and northern Italian countryside.
“You better behave, or I’m going to boycott the holiday and only eat vegetables all day long,” he threatens as his morning erection nestles directly between my thighs.
I crinkle my nose and shake my head adamantly, doing my best to ignore the tingles vibrating deep inside. “Who are you, and what have you done with my husband? I demand you return him right now. He promised me a day of bacon-eating and movie-watching that I know he’s most definitely looking forward to.” Lifting my hips, I boldly grind against him and add, “Plus, he hates when I behave.”
His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare. Tavian’s already-stiff cock jerks and then grows even harder, poking me in a place where I just need to pull my panties to the side…
“No!” he shouts suddenly, scampering off me and the bed to snatch his boxers from the floor, where they were thrown at some point last night. “You’re such a devious little witch, always using your sorcery to trick me into doing things because you know I can’t say no when you do stuff like that.”
I can’t help but laugh as he loses his balance while trying to rush and cover himself up, and then again when his stiff cock pokes through the opening in the front, virtually eradicating the purpose of wearing underwear in the first place. Unable to battle the hilarity of the situation, Tavian drops his chin and shakes his head, his chest trembling with stifled laughter.
Pushing up to my knees, I crawl to the edge of the mattress closest to where he stands and reach out to help him with his predicament. “For the record, Mr. West,” my fingers circle around his base and he sucks in a jagged breath, “I would never have known about this sorcery you speak of,” my tongue flicks around the swollen tip, “if it wasn’t for you teaching me. So really, it’s all your fault.”
When I finally draw him in between my lips, he groans and grabs my head, burying his fingers in my long, bed-tangled tresses. “Yep, totally my fault. I take full responsibility. Now stop talking and let’s see just how big we can build up our appetite for this never-ending bacon you keep threatening me with.”
And then, like almost every other morning of our marriage, we start the day with a mind-blowing orgasm and a mouth-watering omelet, only this time he uses triple the normal amount of bacon. After all, it is Baconpalooza.
“I still don’t understand how a major motion picture made in 2009 can have special effects that atrociously bad,” Tavian says as we effortlessly move in sync with each other around the kitchen, restocking our drinks and snacks before we start Eclipse, the third installment in the Twilight Saga.
Shockingly, his only complaint about the first two movies has been the subpar cinematography and terrible computer graphics, especially when Jacob and his crew shift from humans into werewolves. I honestly expected him to bail after the original ended, and with the less-than-stellar acting and obvious low budget, I wouldn’t have blamed him much. But he seems committed to his promise to watch the entire series with me as long as I keep bacon treats and cold beer in front of him.
“I warned you.” I chuckle as I twist the top off his Ultra then pop the tab on my soda. “They’re my most favorite bad movies ever. It doesn’t matter how many times Bella looks constipated or how awkwardly terrible the dialogue is, I can watch them over and over and over again.”
He grins and hands me a bowl of bacon-wrapped tater tots with Ranch dipping sauce. “I won’t tell Scorsese you’re cheating on him with B-list movies, if you don’t tell anyone I kind of like them so far. But I’ve gotta admit, I’m leaning Team Jacob at this point.”
“What?” I gasp, pretending to stumble backward from the punch his words pack. “I can’t believe you just said that. I may need to rethink this entire marriage.”
Tavian’s booming laugh echoes off the walls of our apartment as he swats my ass and motions for me to follow him back into the living room. “C’mon, Buttercup, before I need to rethink letting you wear any clothes while we watch the rest.”
Pure, unparalleled happiness courses through me at a bone-deep level, embedded in the marrow of my soul. From the moment we met, he’s challenged me to step out of my comfort zone and embrace
the life I’ve been given, and now that I’m doing that—with him—I can’t imagine going back to the life I had before. I truly owe him my life, because without his persistence and determination in Spain, I probably would’ve gotten on the next flight home and continued on with my miserable existence until I died next April.
At least now I’m going out with some excitement. And sex. Lots and lots of sex.
For the rest of the afternoon and most of the night, we veg out on the couch, watching the sparkly Cullens and the rugged Quileute first battle each other, and then band together to defeat the evil Volturi, stopping only for food and drink refills, bathroom breaks, and the occasional make-out session. Funny how Edward splintering the bed into a million pieces on his honeymoon suddenly seemed much more arousing than the first fifty times I watched it.
By the time the ending credits of the final movie scroll across the ridiculously gigantic TV mounted on the living room wall, I’m fully stretched out on the couch with my head in Tavian’s lap, suppressing yawn after yawn. The drawback to waking up early is never being able to stay up late. I guess it’s a good thing I was never one for the night owl social life.
“Now who’s the sleepyhead?” Tavian teases, somehow managing to stand and lift me into his arms at the same time.
I smile sleepily up at him and nuzzle against his muscular chest while he walks us to our bedroom. Yes, our bedroom. Not once since I’ve been here have I ever felt like I’m a guest staying in his space, and no matter how much I loved my trendy little loft in Brooklyn, this is now my home. Tavian is my home.
“Before you pass out on me, Buttercup, I want to talk to you about something real quick,” he says as he carefully deposits me onto my side of the bed and then climbs in next to me on his.
With our faces only inches away from each other, my drowsiness miraculously fades and is replaced with nerves building over whatever he’s about to say. I have no idea where he’s going with this, but innately, when someone says they need to talk to you about something, worry and anxiety sets in.