Page 37 of Bridesmaid By Chance
And that’s what I plan on doing.
Sloane is my wife, plain and simple; therefore, she will be treated like my wife.
“You know, I never pegged you as a white furniture kind of guy.” She sits down on the couch and bounces a few times. “More comfortable than it looks, still in pristine condition. Do you even sit in here?”
“Rarely,” I answer and fill up my glass again. “Do you want some water?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” she says, coming into the kitchen.
I grab her a glass and fill it up for her. She takes the drink from me, then holds it up. “To wedded bliss.” She clinks my glass with hers and chugs her water until it’s all gone. “Ooof, that tastes good. Even your water is fancy.”
She drags her fingers along the marble countertops, observing my place, while I stand there, dumbfounded, observing her.
Jude is going to murder me.
Decapitate me.
I will have no head.
No balls.
No dick.
He will rip me to shreds with his bare hands.
Yet here I am, not doing a damn thing about it.
“So, where is the room where all the magic happens?” she asks, twirling around just enough that her short skirt lifts in the air and I catch a brief glimpse of the bottom of her left butt cheek.
Christ, it’s going to be a long couple of weeks.
“Upstairs, to the right,” I answer.
“This girl is exhausted. Getting married really takes it out of a lady.” She starts climbing the stairs, then pauses. “You know, we didn’t get any pictures. We should have posed at least in front of your desk. Think of all the bonding memories we shared there while we were courting.”
“We never courted.”
“Sure felt like it.” She winks and keeps walking up the stairs.
She’s too much for me.
There is no way I’m going to be able to handle her, not this…this new side of her that I never knew existed. She used to be so quiet, so demure, so…yes, sir, and now she’s mouthy, confident—which isn’t a bad thing—and by no means ready to submit. Not that I need her to, but Christ, might be slightly helpful.
I set my glass down in the sink, turn off the lights, and head upstairs, where I find her in my bedroom—well, I guessourbedroom—making snow angels on the king-size bed.
This is what I’m talking about.
This is what I can’t handle.
She has too much fucking energy, and I know I’m not a grandpa, but she sure as hell is making me feel like one when she does shit like that.
“For a place this large, I’d expect there to be more guest rooms.”
“Can you stop that?” I say as she opens her legs and shuts them. I avert my eyes, trying not to see anything…too private.
She sits up on the bed. “Am I messing up your bedding?”
“No, you’re flapping your legs open, and I…I don’t need to see that.”
