Stay(39)

“I’ve never been married before. It’s… unexpected.”

“Oh.” I look away at the couples lying on the ground holding hands, kissing. “We’re not really married.”

“We are legally married. I don’t expect to do it again.”

Glancing up, at his handsome profile, I try to understand. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “After a while such things seem superfluous. I’m set in my ways. I don’t like change, and I don’t have the patience to get used to a new human in my life.”

“Now you have two.”

“I’m used to you two.”

We’ve walked across the park to the Upper East Side, now we’re headed slightly south to his neighborhood near the East River. We’ve been walking slowly, but it’s not terribly late. Stephen stops at a tiny liquor store on the way to his place.

I wait as he buys a bottle of champagne. A few streets over, he stops in a pastry store and buys a small, round cake with white frosting.

“What are you doing?” I laugh, holding the cake as we approach his townhome.

“We just got married. We should have cake and champagne.”

I follow him inside, and we go to the bar. He takes everything from me, arranging the cake on a crystal stand then taking down two crystal flutes. I wait as he pops the cork, scrunching my shoulders at the festive noise.

“Here.” He holds his glass out to me. “To the unexpected.”

“The unexpected.” I clink and we both sip.

“Nice wine.” I take another, longer sip while he pulls out a knife to cut the small, round cake.

He carefully places two pieces on plates. A ribbon of pink strawberry lines the center, and he holds out a plate to me.

I take it, but he stops me eating. “Don’t we feed each other the first bite?”

“You really want to do this?”

“I told you I’m never doing it again.”

Slanting my eyes, I shake my head at him. “Okay.”

We both pick up our pieces of cake and slowly move them toward each other’s mouths. Our eyes lock, and I see a glint of mischief in his. “Don’t you da—”

I don’t even finish my sentence before he’s smeared frosting all over my upper lip.

“Motherfucker…” I smear the piece I’m holding on his cheek and chin as he turns his head laughing.

It’s a full-throated, loud laugh. It’s something I’ve never, ever heard, and it makes me laugh more. I hop up onto the bar, sitting so we’re eye to eye.

“Come here.” He steps between my legs, and I take the clean washcloth off the counter, dampening it in the small bar sink.

Slowly, I wipe the white frosting off his chin, then his cheek. His eyes are burning when I meet his gaze. He takes the cloth from me and holds it under the water, rinsing it before wringing it out and cleaning my face.

“You looked very beautiful today.” His voice is quiet, intimate. “I like these daisies in your hair.”

I reach up to pull one out, holding it between us. “They’re kind of simple flowers.”

“They remind me of you.”

“In what way?”

Our eyes meet again, and the heat is building.

“They’re beautiful. Sweet but strong.”

“I’m not sweet.” My voice is a whisper.

“You are.” He traces his thumb along my cheek. “You’re also strong. I’m lucky to have you as my first and only wife.”

Emotion flares in my chest at his words. “Stephen… I told you I’m not sleeping in your bed.”

“Who said anything about sleeping?”

Leaning forward he kisses me, and it’s that good kind of kiss, the devouring kind. I exhale a whimper, and his hands are beside me on the bar, sliding up my thighs, clutching my ass, pulling my core closer to his body. I hold onto his face, chasing his kisses, not even trying to resist.

He growls, moving his mouth to my neck and pulling at the soft skin there. “You’re delicious. I want to taste you again. I want you coming all over my face while you scream my name.”

“Stephen…” It’s a hot gasp, because God, I want that, too.

Pulling back, our eyes meet. His are dark with desire. “Come with me.”

I slip off the bar, and he leads us quickly to the stairs, climbing three flights to the top floor, to his bedroom. I’ve never been up here, and I’m fascinated.

It’s all dark wood, rich and old. The wood floors are covered with thick, silky Persian rugs in blood red patterns. His bedroom is oak-paneled wainscoting with beige plaster walls leading up to beige coffered ceilings. It’s elegant and gorgeous.

I don’t have time fixate on it. He turns me, sliding his fingers into the back of my hair, searching for the bobby pins that hold the braid along my scalp. I reach back to help him, freeing the braid then slowly unweaving it as he traces his lips down the back of my neck.

“Stephen,” I whisper as currents of heat race up my legs, through my belly.

“Yes,” he hisses as my hair falls in waves around my shoulders. “So beautiful.”

I’m looking down when I feel his fingers sliding the zipper on the back of my dress. It falls in a silky puddle at my feet, leaving me in my beige lace bra and half-slip. I look up and over my shoulder at him. His gaze is hungry, possessive as he leans down and kisses me. His hands cover my flat stomach before rising, slipping under my bra to cup and knead my breasts.