Dear Life(2)

“Eck.” I cringe. “Why do men like having their balls in mouths?”

He shrugs. “Feels fucking good, that’s why. Do we have a deal?”

Eyeing him carefully, I pause and then hold my hand out ready to make a bet. This will be no problem at all. I have to walk probably no more than five feet with Eric on my back. Easy! “Deal,” I say with full conviction and confidence in my carrying abilities.

Shaking my hand, he moves his head back and forth in disbelief. “All right, Twigs, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Stop stalling and start stretching your tongue, it’s time to warm up.” I brace myself, creating a solid foundation with my feet firmly planted on the floor, open the door so I can see the end goal, and hold my arms out so I can catch his legs.

In. The. Bag.

“All right, here we go.”

His large hands grip my slight shoulders and I brace myself. Solid foundation, that’s all I need, so I bend my knees, feeling sturdy, and prepare for his weight.

His two-hundred-plus pound weight.

His two-hundred-plus pound weight and giant man body . . .

Oh shit.

The minute he climbs up on my back, there is no hope. I have no foundation, I have no balance, and what I thought were going to be sturdy trunks beneath me are rightfully so-called twigs that quiver with the extra weight.

Instead of inching forward like I planned, I stand there in my mermaid wedding dress, my husband on my back—wearing my veil—and the pressure of his weight pushing me closer and closer to the ground until my knees buckle beneath me sending me forward, through the entrance of the door, and straight on my face, burning our new carpet against my cheek. Eric’s weight is crushing me as he laughs hysterically, his deep voice echoing through our barely moved-in apartment.

“I told you, Twigs,” he says in between laughter. “Damn, I’ve been wanting a good blow job lately, glad I made that bet.”

The need to hide within the tulle of my dress is strong, but the practical side of me is still at work. Reasoning eclipses me as I turn my head to look up at him, the carpet rubbing against my face.

“What do you mean?” I ask, taking in my surroundings. “You lost.”

Rolling off me, he observes my pathetic attempt at carrying him. I’m sprawled out like a homicide victim on concrete while he attempts to refute my statement. “Um, pretty sure I won, sweetheart. You couldn’t even hold me up for a second.”

“The bet was to carry you into the apartment. Are we or are we not in the apartment right now?”

Realization hits him and he says, “Oh, hell no. You’re not winning this on a technicality, Twigs. You didn’t carry me. You fell.”

“Fell with you on my back which technically is carrying you . . . sooo, get that tongue ready.”

“No fucking way.” He laughs, kicking the door shut and straddling my body. His intense brown eyes stare down at me, all laughter escaping both of us. “How about this? Since it’s our wedding night, we fuck in every which way until we can no longer move and call it even?”

My heart rate picks up a notch. “Does that include you going down?”

“Giving you my best tongue is in no way a hardship, beautiful wife of mine. Either way, I win here. As do you. Now, let’s get you out of this dress. I’ve been dying to see what you have hidden underneath for me.”

I’ve been waiting for this moment, right here. Where my husband—my husband—is looking into my eyes, the only woman he would ever want and need in his life, completely content and so far in love that I know what we have will last forever. As a couple, we are unbreakable.

Our love is protected by everlasting armor. I’m aware we married absurdly young, but there is something to say about falling in love with your soulmate. Nothing will penetrate what we’ve created which makes me one hell of a lucky girl.

JACE

Two months ago . . .



“Dude, don’t move or I will blow up your face.”

“Listen, I didn’t do anything. Put down the gun, turn around, and walk away.”

“Give me a reason as to why I shouldn’t pop one between your eyes right now.”

Sighing, I rest my forearms on my legs, my controller in my hands, and turn to my teammate. “Dude, we’re on the same fucking team. What’s the point of blowing me up if we’re on the same team?”

“Because I can,” he answers right before he blasts my player in the head, turning my screen red.

“You’re such a dick.” Sitting back on the cool leather of my couch, I take a sip from my beer and scowl at my best friend, Ethan, who apparently thinks it’s the funniest damn thing to shoot me.

Being drafted right out of high school for the same team and growing up together in the minor leagues, we’ve become very close. Two years ago, he was called up to fill in for Kyle Sanders, the Denver Miners catcher who was put on the DL for a torn meniscus. Kyle didn’t end up coming back, setting Ethan up as a starter. I followed him up last year, starting as shortstop. My rookie season was something I never expected. It was a fucking whirlwind of attention, press, and success. Smashing the longest hitting streak by a rookie with fifty-five games, I immediately rose to the top of the lineup and to the top of the list of consideration for Rookie of the Year.