Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“You don’t like champagne?”
“I’ve never had it.” She shrugs. It looks defensive. “Not the real stuff.”
I turn back to the bottle, not sure what to make of her discomfort. Wine runs through our family’s veins. I was raised with discerning tastes. But I get that it’s not the same for everyone. I guess that’s something I’ll save for now. It might make us sound like a bunch of raging alcoholics. Besides, there’s no need to mention I have three older brothers, all with their own brand of female magic. So I peel off the foil and basket of a half-decent bottle of Bollinger, twisting the cork from the bottle. For the first time tonight, things feel awkward. So fuck that, I think as I turn and yank the cork from the neck with the kind of finesse that would make my brothers all choke. As in zero.
“Oh, my God!” Kennedy exclaims, jumping back as the champagne cascades from the neck, unexpectedly spilling onto the carpet like a teenager in his bedroom with a pilfered copy of his dad’s Penthouse. “Wow, that really went off!” She brushes a few spilt drops from her bare arm, filling my mind with the kind of thoughts that make me feel like a teenager with a dirty mag. I tip the bubbles into a couple of flutes, unable to ignore how she looks anywhere but at me. “Your room is much nicer than mine.”
I watch her take the room in. I guess it’s okay. It’s not quite a suite, but it’s spacious. I don’t exactly love the postmodern décor or the austere shades of the grey palette. The drapes are still open, the sheers closed, the chrome lamp on the nearby desk doing little to rid the space of its frigidness. Not that it matters because I’m looking at the one thing guaranteed to keep me hot.
My wife, Kennedy.
What a happy mindfuck.
“It’s our room now,” I answer, much to her amusement. “What’s yours is mine . . .” My gaze drops to her mouth before devouring the rest of her.
“That seems a little one-sided.” Her voice has turned a touch sultry, her gaze sliding down my body as smooth as a silk sheet.
Now we’re talkin’. A glass in each hand, I hold out my arms as though offering myself up as a sacrifice. Here I am. Take what you want—what you will.
And she does . . . lifting a glass of champagne from my hand. But this time, her eyes don’t lift from my sternum. No, not my sternum but the hollow of my throat. Which is a bit different, judging by the instinctive kick of lust to my gut.
“To us.” My voice sounds rusty, the glasses chinking as they meet, rim to rim.
“To us,” she repeats.
“To new beginnings.”
“To experiences.” Her gaze lowers coyly as though taking in the contents of the glass, but I now know what this is. She can barely trust herself to just look.
I can sympathise.
She takes a sip of her champagne and says it tastes good, unconvincingly, before making her way over to the wall of windows and pulling back one of the sheers. Beyond, the Vegas landscape proves that not all that glitters is gold, but the woman framed by the window is all the riches I need tonight. Her skin is the colour of caramel, untarnished and smooth. I drink in the length of her spine and the sinuous arch at the base, thanking the fashion gods for the brevity of her dress.
“Is that why you married me?” I ask, moving behind her. Wanting to touch but forcing myself not to. “As an experience?”
“Why did you?”
As her gaze meets mine in the darkened window, I find her expression unreadable. But me? I’ve married a girl I barely know for no other reason than I want her, that it feels right, yet I find I’m embarrassed to say. To admit. I know she’ll have her own motives, and they’re not likely to be the same as mine, but maybe, just maybe, if this is meant to be, both of our reasons will find some place to align tonight.
If nothing else, at least the sex will be good because this whole night has felt like a teasing prelude.
I set my glass down on the table, drawing her attention and her frown as I pull out my phone. But her expression is fleeting, chased away as the soulful tones of Otis Redding rise through the room.
“What are you doing?” Her question is as effervescent as champagne bubbles as I take her glass from her hand.
“Covering all the wedding bases.”
“Oh?”
“I carried you over the threshold. Served you champagne.” Bringing my lips to her ear, I whisper, “I plan on being the best husband you’ve ever had.”
She gives a soft, husky laugh. “The bar is pretty low given you’re my first.”