Not one to waste an opportunity with my wife, I leaned back in and took another drink from her mouth, this time deeper, sexier, more eager.
By the time I pulled away, Georgia’s eyes burned so hot, if I didn’t do something about it, I’d need to make another call to the fire department.
Since I didn’t know the number for emergency services in Bora Bora, it seemed like a much, much better idea to take her to bed and fuck her until all that remained were a few burning embers and their exhausted smoke.
“Bungalow, baby. Now,” I ordered, and a shiver ran all the way from my wife’s shoulders to her toes. And then she jumped into action. I didn’t need to explain. She was reading me loud and clear.
While Georgia packed up the beach bag, I folded up the towel and made a mental note to, in the very near future, find another way to give my wife a true Valentine’s Day experience.
I didn’t know when or what or where, but I was certain I’d find a better alternative than dad dicks and special dinners at Rally’s restaurant.
Because whether you were the type of person who thought Valentine’s Day was some sham bullshit holiday or not, every woman on the planet deserved to get spoiled in the name of love and Cupid’s arrow.
And if you’remywife? That chubby old guy in a diaper needs to be working overtime.
New York Tri-State Area, Monday, May 22nd
After a long as hell day at the office, I was more than pleased to pull into the driveway of Georgia’s and my new house and shut out the rest of the world with just one tap of my finger to the garage button.
At last, home sweet home.
We had only been out of our Bora Bora bubble and back in the real world for a few weeks. But damn, there had yet to be a day that had gone by when I didn’t mentally wish I could go back in time and revisit what it was like to laze around on the beach and witness how glorious my wife’s ass looked in a bikini.
For a man who loathed frivolous spending, I still would have paid an obscene amount of money to make that happen.
On a relieved sigh that the rest of my night would be a hell of a lot better than my workday, I stepped inside the house, walking through the mud room and toward the kitchen.
“Benny, I’m home!” I called out as I walked through the cased opening between the two, but when I stopped near the marble kitchen island and dropped my wallet, keys, and cell phone on the counter, I realized I still hadn’t heard anything back. Curious, I drew my eyebrows together as I called out again, a little louder this time. “Georgie? Where the hell are you, baby?”
“I’m in here!” she finally responded, her voice a distant nebula in space. To say I knew her exact location in this big house would be an outright lie.
“Where is here, exactly?” I asked, dancing delicately around my confusion.
“The living room!”
Geez. The living room was relatively close. Why did she sound like she was in another galaxy?
Shrugging, I stepped through the kitchen, past the breakfast nook, and into the living room. I glanced left and right and left again like a kid first learning to cross the street. Now, I knew men were normally pretty dense, but not being able to find my own wife in a single room seemed like a bit of a stretch even for the inferior sex. I mean, I did build a billion-dollar company from the ground up. I should be able to find a petite blonde on a canvas of gray décor. “Benny girl, is this some kind of game?” I asked, my voice of a volume that would make me seem crazy if she did turn out to be in this room, but oh well. If she was in here and I was missing her, we’d need to hop in the car and head for the hospital immediately anyway.
“And if it is, does it include me finding you naked?” I added under my breath.
“The living room!” she yelled back again. “I’m in theliving room!”
Okay, what in the fuck was going on here? I didn’t see Thatch today, so it was unlikely that he slipped me a drug. And I’d yet to even crack open a beer. So, I shouldn’t be feeling like I was taking a trip on a hallucinogen.
After the day I had at the office, I was starting to get frustrated. It wasn’t my wife’s fault, and I wasn’t going to take it out on her because that would be completely counterproductive to my end goal of getting into her pants, but I was like a real-life John Travolta GIF, glancing around the room with both arms out.
“Oh really? Because I’m in the living room. And I’m at least ninety-nine percent sure you’re not here.”
Georgia giggled so loud it made me smile, even across the mysterious distance. “You’re in the family room, husband! I’m in theliving room.”
I furrowed my brow and walked through the empty dining room—the one we’d yet to furnish—and into what was apparently theactualliving room. And perched right in the middle of the lush cream sofa—the one Georgie had fallen in love with a few days ago while we were shopping in SoHo and simplyhadto have—sat my beautiful wife.
Flanking her on either side? Our cat—aka my archnemesis—Walter, and our Great Dane, Stan.
Stan the man was a new addition to the family, the dog we ended up adopting because Thatch and Cassie lost our freaking cat. And instead of just, you know, letting someone else find him and deal with his asshole-ish behavior, they had located the bastard in a vet clinicafterhe had fallen in love with a dog that could quite literally pass for a horse.
“So,thisis the living room?” I questioned, a small smile on my lips as I put both hands on my hips and glanced around the half-decorated space.