Page 101 of Good at Being Alive
I smile. It’s certainly not the behavior of a man who’s interested in anyone butme.
He reaches the room and sets me down in front of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt, watching as I slide the shorts down my legs and throw the tank overhead. I scoot backward on the mattress as his pants fall to the floor, and then he is hovering above me, his erection straining against his boxer briefs, pressed between my legs. I arch upward, urging him on, desperate for the feel of him sliding against my clit.
He pushes his boxers down, tugs my panties to the side, and then his fingers are against me and inside me. The sound of it—wet, needy—is so loud I’m worried they can hear it outside.
“I know I should go slowly,” he groans, gliding against me. “Tell me I don’t need to.”
“Don’t go slowly.”
He slams inside me, so heavy and full that I am unable to form words, to think, to tell him it might be too much and to tell him to do it again.
“So perfect,” he hisses. “God I’ve missed you.” He pulls out and pushes in again, even harder.
My breath catches. “Keep going. Like that.”
He reaches between us and circles my clit. “Let me feel you come around me. I’m going to explode the second it happens.”
“Oh,” I groan. “That’s good.”
He slides a forearm under each thigh, spreading me wide, watching as he enters me. The sight alone is a feat of nature—it looks like he’s going to tear me in half.
“I’m going to film this,” he says, his jaw clenched. “I’m going to film this and watch it every fucking time I have to leave your side.”
My core clenches hard, swelling around him. “Coming,” I whisper, and that’s all I can manage before it hitsme.
With three sharp jabs he gasps and pulls out, letting his orgasm spray over my stomach and breasts and chin.
“Sorry,” he says once he’s gotten his breath back. “You described it earlier and it’s been in my head ever since.”
I reach up, pulling his mouth to mine. “That was so much better than a putting competition. I guess I’ll share the room after all.”
He walks into the bathroom for a wet washcloth and cleans me up, and then he falls onto his back and pulls me against him.
“I haven’t slept in two days,” he says, his voice slurred with fatigue suddenly. “But fuck it’s good to be home.”
His breath is already slowing as he falls asleep, so I don’t correct him. I’m not sure I would anyway. He feels more like home than any I remember.
• • •
In the morning we are taken to Monte, eighteen hundred feet above sea level. We race downhill on a toboggan steered by two cheerful guides, careening along narrow, curving alleyways flanked by the town’s whitewashed homes, while the Bay of Funchal gleams far belowus.
From there we tour a botanical garden, then eatespetadaandbolo do cacoslathered in garlic butter at a restaurant where we are supposed to have a “tense conversation” about whether or not we rushed into marriage.
“Do you think we rushed into this?” he dutifully asks.
“Absolutely,” I reply. I push thebolo do cacotoward him. “Oh my god, try this…It’s garlic bread on steroids.”
“Bex,” Paula says, “when your husband suggests you’ve rushed into your marriage, you don’t urge him to eat garlic bread.”
“What if it’s reallygoodgarlic bread?” I ask.
Afterward, we shoot some B-roll on the beach, then the guysand Katrina swim in our pool, which ends when LJ again suggests a movie night and Theo says, “Haven’t you heard that we’re newlyweds?” and leads me inside, locking the door behind him once again.
I laugh as I walk toward the bathroom. “For someone who doesn’t want anyone to know we’re sleeping together, you’re being sort of obvious.”
I lean against the vanity as I remove my earrings, the breeze from the open windows blowing my dress around my knees. He steps behind me, moving my hair out of the way to press his lips to my neck. “Sorry. I’ll try to be more careful.”
“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one who’s worried about it.”
