My face heats up as I remember my moans and screams of pleasure. This, from someone who had insisted on a non-physical relationship. My gaze lingers on the bed for a few seconds before I leave the room.
I change into comfortable clothes and go back downstairs to make coffee. As the coffee machine does its thing, it hits me that I don’t have Declan’s number. Neither do I know where in Santa Monica he lives.
It can’t be that big, I tell myself. Then a light bulb goes off in my head. Declan mentioned the name of his pizza joint. Did you say Pizza? I carry my coffee to the living room and settle down on the couch with my laptop.
I type the name of the pizza place, and bingo, it comes up.
***
“Yes, please,” I say as Declan does this thing he does on my nipple with his tongue. I arch my back and feed him the other nipple. I let out a small cry as he rubs one taut peak and sucks on the other.
Declan has taught me that there’s a direct line from my nipples to my pussy and now, a terrible ache grows between my legs.
“More,” I tell him and push his shoulders down.
He slides down and growls when he sees how wet I am.
“I love how wet you are for me,” he says. His words are like a tap that’s been twisted, and more liquids gush from my pussy.
He splays his big hands on my pussy and spreads it open. His hot breath fans it before his tongue flicks my clit. I scream at the contact and raise my hips to urge more of his tongue on me.
He growls like an animal as he eats my pussy.
“Please,” I whimper over and over again when the pleasure becomes excruciating. I’m so close to the edge of orgasm. Tears prickle the edges of my eyes. My breath comes out fast as I feel the beginnings of the orgasm.
A noise shatters my bubble, and when I snap my eyes open, it’s to find myself alone in bed with my hand rubbing furiously at my clit. Disappointment crushes me as I reach over to the bedside table to turn off the alarm.
I shut my eyes, wanting to live out my fantasies a bit longer, but habits are stronger than fantasies. There’s no curtain in my bedroom window to filter out the harshness of the early morning sun, and it burns my eyes. Remnants of my fantasies remain, and my body tingles as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
“Where is my husband?” I say out aloud. I’m beginning to get used to the idea of being married, even if I have no clue where Declan is.
I make plans as I get up and get ready for the day. I’m an early riser, and by seven, I’m leaving the house to go to work. My mornings are usually busy responding to client inquiries through email and phone calls.
A thought sneaks into my mind, and I wonder what Declan is doing at this very moment. I know that he’s not an early riser as he hadn’t even stirred when I got up from bed yesterday.
I shouldn’t be excited that I’ll see him that afternoon. I should be mad. But I miss him, and that in itself is insane. I don’t understand how I can miss someone who is, in essence, a stranger. Someone whose existence I wasn’t even aware of days ago.
I reach my office, and as per my custom, I fish my keys out and pop into the bridal boutique. I can tell that my manager is already there from the open drapes. I inhale the scent of new fabric as I cross the store to the office at the back. The door is open, and Maggie is stooped over the computer, probably making orders from our suppliers.
Whenever I worry that I might be a workaholic, I think of Maggie, and that worry disappears. She loves her job and is the first to come to work. The fact that she’s an empty nester and a widow makes it easier, I suppose.
For me being single means that I can come to work as early as I want and leave as late as I want. I wonder how marriage, even a fake one, will change my life. The thought makes me frown. I love my life just the way it is.
“Morning you,” I tell her. “If it weren’t for your clothes, I’d think you spent the night here.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “I wish. I love this place.”
She talks about work and the new collections from various designers. We specialize in wedding attire and accessories, and as much as I love the boutique, my heart is upstairs. Planning weddings and other social functions.
I love the silence upstairs before anyone comes in. I make myself a coffee and carry it to my office. I attack the emails that have gathered overnight first. There’s a venue to confirm a booking, a final walkthrough date to confirm for a wedding this coming Saturday, and emails from brides and grooms and families.
The morning flies by, which is a good thing as I don’t get time to fret about Declan. At one, I leave the office for the day and head to Santa Monica. I let down the sunroof and enjoy the warmth of the sun on the drive down.
As I get nearer, the air becomes salty, and I smell the ocean. My heart thuds madly as I drive into Santa Monica and follow directions to the parking space. I feel as if I’m going on a first date, which is silly for various reasons. One, I have no feelings for Declan, and two,
