Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1 Page 29

  I go with the latter.

  I let go of his finger with a little twirl of the tip at the end, then lean in and whisper, “Get off the phone. Now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then I’m going into that bedroom, stripping naked, and taking matters into my own hands.”

  “Taking matters into...”

  “What do you think Edward Cullen is for?” I know what you’re thinking, but that’s the name of my vibrator. Seriously. It’s a great name, because a vampire is the ultimate boyfriend. And, like a vibrator, he only comes out at night, he never dies, and I don’t have to feed him.

  Declan’s eyes do that “ah-OO-gah” cartoon thing, popping out, rolling around like roly-poly bugs, and fitting back in his head. Considering Dec normally uses a grand total of three facial muscles in any given twenty-four-hour period (sexytimes excepted), it’s gratifying to see I have an effect on him.

  “You brought your vibrator on our honeymoon?”

  I could lie. I could. I’m believable. Hey, I was a professional mystery shopper. We’re paid to pretend and obfuscate, to act a part and use deception for a greater cause.

  No one could blame me for doing that now.

  Because what more noble cause is there than getting some with your new husband on your honeymoon?

  “Come into the bedroom and find out.”

  “I’m not sharing you with a battery-operated plastic wand named after a vampire.”

  “No one has ever said anything that romantic to me before. Such a charmer.”

  He frowns. “Why are you being so negative?”

  That’s really it.

  I rip his Bluetooth off his head and march into the bathroom. Flinging the wires into the toilet, I flush. Dec’s right behind me, gasping in my ear.

  One problem.

  I forgot to close the toilet seat.

  Blue water and black wires shoot up in an impressive spray, reminding me of the fountains at the Bellagio, except no one’s playing The Three Tenors soundtrack right now. Dyed toilet water splatters all over me. If some wet substance is going to shoot up and cover me, I’d prefer it come from my new husband, damn it.

  I start to choke, reaching to slam down the lid, Declan’s earpiece falling back into the toilet and disappearing into the jet’s holding tank.

  “That was quite a show.”

  I turn around and glare.

  He snickers, anger long gone.

  “You’ve taken the whole ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ thing a little too far, Shannon.” His eyes travel to the toilet, brow wrinkling with worry.

  “Don’t laugh.” I resist the urge to lick the drops sliding down my nose, over my top lip.

  He bites his lips, eyebrows up suddenly, mirth evident in those green eyes the color of Irish hillsides.

  “You look like a Smurf.”

  “This is all your fault,” I say through gritted teeth, reaching for his arm. I use his cuff to wipe my mouth.

  “My fault?”

  “You’re ignoring me! We’re supposed to be focused on each other and having Mile High Club married sex, and your phone’s Bluetooth mic is getting more of your mouth action than I am.”

  His eyes are clouded with work. There’s this look Declan gets when he’s in the business zone, flow and optimization top in his mind. He simultaneously becomes more him and less present. The combination is a tricky one.

  Snapping him out of it is even trickier. The delicate balance between respecting his effort and achievement and getting him to find time for me isn’t easy.

  I rub up against him and press my lips against his.

  He pulls back. “I have no desire to be a Smurf, too.”

  I stroke him over his wool pants. “Bet there’s something on you that’s blue, too.”

  He groans.

  And we’re off.

  Chapter 2

  The jet’s bathroom has a tiny shower. For someone who’s just spent over an hour on the phone, completely engrossed in the finer details of buying an eight-figure company, Declan undresses with remarkable speed.

  Not so much grace, though.

  Turbulence makes him falter as he’s sliding one leg out of his boxer briefs, tipping into me as I’m down to bra and panties, the shower on, steam filling the tiny room.

  As Declan crashes into me, all limbs, my arm slips between the toilet seat and the bowl, my hand immersed again in blue toilet water.

  I’m stuck for a few seconds, until the plane levels out.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick,” the pilot says over the speakers. “Small pocket of difficulty there.”

  Declan is on his side, pinning me against the toilet, while my arm does an imitation of a boiled egg with a Paas kit the day before Easter.

  “Look at you,” he says, free hand stroking my cheek. He doesn’t move. I’m trapped. Work Declan dissipates, his eyes turning soft and intense, his breathing quickening.

  “You find this romantic?” I point at my toilet arm. “I’m turning into Smurfette, one appendage at a time.”

  “I always thought Smurfette was kind of cute. And we’re recreating the first time we met, Toilet Girl.”

  “Give me your cell phone and I’ll make it authentic.” Let’s just ignore the creepy cartoon fetish thing, shall we? I splash my hand in the bowl, making it flop like a fish. “You do not get to make fun of Edward Cullen while finding this sexy.”

  He laughs, more of Fun Declan replacing Borg Declan. Hope springs eternal in my chest.

  Or maybe that’s blue chemical water burning my ribs.

  “Can we get in the shower? I’d prefer not to look like someone who plays drums at the Charles Playhouse.”

  “If this whole co-owning a coffee empire doesn’t work out, you can always work for Blue Man Group,” he jokes, standing slowly, reaching out a hand to help me up.

  I quickly extract my toilet hand and slap it in his.

  He cringes, but doesn’t let go.

  True love, ladies and gentleman. That’s true love, right there.

  Wriggling out of the rest of my clothes, I beat him to the shower, the hot spray delightful, pale blue water swirling down the tiny drain. The shower is a three-quarters circle built into the wall, down a narrow hallway off the bedroom. We’re surrounded by glass and chrome, the setting decadent and nothing like flying economy on a commercial jet airplane.

  Scratch that.

  There’s one thing in common.

  As Declan climbs into the narrow space, I get poked in the back.

  Except this isn’t a child’s sharp-toed shoe kicking me.

  “Mmmmm,” he says, nuzzling my neck. “You need to be soaped up.”

  “I need more than that.”

  “Let’s start here.” He kisses my wet shoulder, his hand traveling down my ribs to my hip, over the bone and between my legs, where he finds a slickness that’s been waiting for him since long before we got into the shower.

  When he touches me, I become more than myself. This is what I’ve craved for days—weeks, even—the craziness of our wedding fading as his palms glide along my torso, his fingers tracing my navel, his lips grazing my neck. One hand lifts my hair as he kisses me until I shiver, the other parting my legs slightly with a commanding touch that makes me groan.

  “Yes,” I gasp, leaning into his touch. “Oh, yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, water dripping from his wet hair onto my ear, the trickle of shower spray intensifying sensation. His body behind me is a wall, a blanket, a second skin he shares with me, his thighs pressing into the curve of my ass, the hot steam entering my lungs, pushing my shoulders down, making me twist and melt.

  “Sorry for what?” I curl my abs inward, pressing my backside up, and his erection nudges into the cleft of my ass, the feeling delicious.

  “For forgetting how good this is, Shannon. Sometimes I go too deep into Work Mind and disconnect.”

  Flexing up, I seek friction, his hand st
aying with me, the wide pad of his thumb on my sweet spot, my body seeking rhythm. After trying so hard to vie for attention and having it all at once, this feels surreal.

  This feels right.

  Somehow, it manages to be both.

  Which is exactly why I can spend a lifetime loving this man. So many layers. So many contradictions. So many assumptions drawn that never come to be true. Mysteries abound inside each of us, and we’ve committed to a lifetime of solving them.

  I hope it’s enough.

  And if not?

  We’ll have to meet in the next lifetime to pick up where this one left off.

  My breasts tingle as heat pours up from between my legs, his hand firm and focused, his breathing turning to an excited rasp that won’t stop, the vibration of his low, husky sound turning me primal. I widen my legs and reach back for him, but he shifts slightly, out of reach.

  “No. You first,” he demands. “I made you wait.”

  “I—” Words begin to fail me. I’m reduced to the sound of my own breath, the rush of my body toward his, the effort to hold back shed second by second, my spirit greedy for his attention. “I love your form of penance.”

  He shuts me up with an earlobe bite that makes me clench as he slips one, then two, fingers inside just as I fall to pieces in his arms, bucking and jerking, grasping the shower bar for an anchor, his touch unabated as he makes me come over and over, his promise fulfilled.

  I came first.

  But I won’t come last.

  Spinning to face him, I kiss him, our mouths meeting without sound, the caress of his tongue between my lips a sweeping sensation that makes me wrap my arms around him. We’re supposed to be enraptured with each other, our honeymoon a time for memorizing fine details, the burrowing spiral into the marrow of each other’s bones a prerequisite for endurance.

  When you find love like this, the trick isn’t in how easy it can be in the now.

  It’s in knowing how hard it’s going to be someday.

  And that the now makes that someday worth it.

  My skin rises to his nearness as we walk, wet and loose, falling onto the made bed, not caring about our soaked hair dampening the sheets, the rivulets of water sucking into the cotton like our bodies soaking in each other’s essence. He’s long and hard against me, biceps bulging as he holds himself over me, face dark with desire, eyes flinty and determined, the look disarming but for the need behind it.

  He is a fortress, his thighs rippling with lines of muscle I don’t have, one knee pressing between my knees, his mouth dipping to my breast.

  I thread my fingers in his wet hair then run my slippery palms down his shoulders and back, stopping at the narrowing of his waist, his head popping up to find mine, mouths and tongues tangling like seaweed in the tide. He is in me so fast, my gasp unnecessary, the sigh that follows full of gratitude and joy.

  This is who we are now, coupled in body and spirit.

  Trembling, I take him in deeper, hips widening, legs wrapping around him with a welcoming embrace that invites him to find eternity with me in thrust and motion, in moan and promise.

  “I love you,” he whispers, as if I need to hear it, as if his body doesn’t say the words a thousand times with each stroke. He takes his time, stopping at one point, looking down at me with so much love that all the heat in my blood rushes to my heart, pressing against his chest, trying to become one.

  “I love you, too,” I answer, clenching as if pulling him inside more will somehow make the love between us stronger. How much of me can he touch? Is there a limit? When we move together, naked and vulnerable, craving and insatiable, can we move one more increment, one more standard deviation, one final drive toward a new connection that much more permanent than the last?

  Or is the impermanence what drives us to new heights? Does he resume his thrusts while looking at me, so tender and consumed, because he’s so aware of our fragile transience?

  Bodies last only so long.

  Hearts, too.

  Love, though—love can be found carved in rock, hammered in stone, forged in steel.

  And passed down child to child, generation to generation, bone to bone.

  As I ride my hands up the long, thick muscles of his arms, settling on his ribs, curling down to his ass, he becomes fire, body burning for me, his movements fierce and knowing, gaze on me and me alone.

  I do not look away.

  I cannot.

  Declan gives me no choice, and as we come together, crying out each other’s names, sounds of joy and release mingling with the rasp and shift of skin and timelessness, he gives me what I’ve wanted all day.

  Him.

  Yes, we had each other this morning, but that feels like a lifetime ago.

  “Oh,” I whisper, tears pooling in my eyes. My inner thighs tremble, the spasms short and brief, electric and involuntary. Declan’s full weight is on me, his mouth buried in my hair, his hot breath warming my jawline, the slack cover of his body a gift.

  Being with him involves so much of society, from business colleagues to people who work for him to family and friends. I don’t get this very often—naked Declan.

  And I don’t mean his state of undress.

  He smells like woodsmoke and citrus, sweat and musk, and his hand, which is curled next to my nose, emanates a distinct odor I know all too well. When we merge like this, a tangle of legs and hands, of scents and licks, I find myself lost in a dreamlike place. As I slowly caress his back with my left hand, my rings brush against his spine.

  He shivers.

  “Am I hurting you?” He begins to peel off.

  I grab his ass, enjoying the feel of his solidity in my hand.

  “No.”

  He laughs. “That’s one way to make me stay.”

  “You need a reason?”

  He nips my neck, then sucks, hard, sending a zing between my legs. I’m already throbbing, my blood pounding through me, the pace slowing as release ends, but this little bite reignites me.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McCormick.”

  “You’re thanking me?”

  “For marrying me.”

  “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

  “I know I don’t. But I am.” He moves, his cheek resting on my nipple, head on my chest now as he runs his fingers around my belly button.

  “Then I thank you back.”

  I feel his smile against my nipple, his knee moving up, his body relaxed and fluid, like a cat. The tickle of leg hair feels delicious, a sensation I shouldn’t love but do. It’s the mark of intimacy, of opposites, of acknowledging the foreign while reveling in it. The endless fascination I have with his body, heart, mind and soul feels almost criminal.

  How am I allowed to get away with marrying him?

  “Better?” His question sounds like a self-satisfied pat on the back.

  “Much.”

  “Hungry?”

  I yawn.

  “Sleepy?” he says with a laugh. Rolling over, our bodies separating fully as we reposition, we settle with Dec on his back, my ear over his chest, snuggled in.

  His stomach roars under my ear.

  “You’re hungry.”

  “Yes.”

  “Want me to ring Adele?”

  “Who’s Adele?”

  I clear my throat. “The flight attendant.”

  “Oh. Is she new?”

  “She’s been here since I started dating you.” More than two years ago, I don’t add.

  “Oh.”

  “You need to work on this.”

  “Why?”

  “Dec!”

  He laughs.”I’ll call for some food.”

  Resignation fills me. “Wait until we’re clothed.”

  “Why? I don’t care if she sees me naked.” His stomach growls again.

  “She might.”

  “Why should I care what she thinks?”

  “I care.”

  “That’s different.” He stands and shrugs into a white bathrobe with the Anterde
c logo on it. “I love it when you get possessive and jealous.” He holds up his hands like they’re claws. “Meow.”

  “You’re invoking my cat?”

  He laughs, brushing the front of his robe. “Better?”

  I sit up on my knees and pull him by the neck of the bathrobe, our kiss hot and wet. “Yes. I am now.”

  He looks down. A part of him looks back up. It’s one of my favorite parts.

  His stomach growls yet again.

  I lean back on the bed, still naked, and pose in the most inviting way possible.

  Declan RSVPs with vigor.

  Chapter 3

  I must have fallen asleep at some point after Round Two, because I wake up to an empty bed, a mouth that tastes like sweet paste, and—did I mention the empty bed?

  Given that we’re in a private jet with no escape unless Declan’s chosen a parachute and is pulling a DB Cooper impression, he can’t be far.

  But why would he leave the bed at all? I’m ready for Round Three.

  I look in the bathroom. Nope.

  And then I hear it. The background murmur of Declan on the phone.

  Scratch Round Three.

  Searching the room, I find no sign of his suit. My clothes are gone, but a dry cleaner’s bag hangs on a hook on the wall. Having lived with Declan for a number of years, I can guess what happened. He contacted Adele, let her know about the blue dye fiasco, and somewhere on board, a genie whipped up a set of bespoke clothing for me.

  Or Grace made sure we have backup clothes on the flight.

  Either option is possible.

  I stretch, enjoying the sore muscles in my knees and between my legs, letting my abs slowly relax as blood warms them. The high thread-count sheets make me feel sexy, sensual, and as my bare feet touch thick carpet, I take stock.

  Married to a great lover? Check.

  Married to a smart man? Check.

  Married to a good-hearted soul? Check.

  Married to a guy with money to burn? Ch—

  Ah. Wait.

  Until a few days ago, yeah. And not that I ever cared about all this luxury, but it’s slowly sinking in that Declan resigned from Anterdec. No more VP of marketing salary. No more stock options. No more fringe benefits.

  I didn’t resign, though.