Page 71 of Honeymoon Phase
But no matter how many orgasms I have, I can’t scratch the itch. The ache. I can’t find the spot that gives me the release I need to feel like I can breathe normally again.
If only I could stop replaying that kiss. Where the hell has that Luke Fletcher been hiding all these years? All this time he could kiss like that and just... didn’t?
I suppose he did. He kissed other girls. Girls that were not me. Girls whose faces I want to fucking claw at just the notion of him giving them what he just gave me. Looking at them the way he looked at me. Fuck those fucking bitches.
But this is nonsensical. I can’t be jealous of Luke’s past. I can’t lay claim to Luke any further than I already have. I’ve already asked him to marry me and give up a year of his life for Chrissake.
Now I’m considering the idea of letting him kiss me anywhere he wants.
My thighs squeeze together as an image of Luke’s face between my legs plays for the twentieth time in the past eight hours. I roll my hips into my mattress, thrusting my aching clitinto the bed as I imagine my fingers slicing through Luke’s shaggy locks, squeezing at the roots. Riding his face bareback like he’s my own personal stallion.
Jesus fucking Christ, I’m doomed.
And sleep? Forget about it. I’m used to rarely sleeping but last night was bad even for me. I maybe dozed for an hour?
I would have got up to make bread to do something more productive than overuse my broken-ass vibrator, but I was too terrified of running into Luke. How am I going to look him in the eye after knowing I defiled myself all night long picturing him. My friend.
My best friend.
But he’s also my husband, which is what I told myself over and over again when I came. And came. And came. There are worse things to do than masturbate to your husband, right?
Only, I shouldn’t keep thinking of Luke as my husband. He’s my roommate. You can’t take advantage of your roommate just because he makes you extremely horny, right? Not to mention he’s already giving me so much by guaranteeing my future with the lumberyard.
I have to get control of myself.
I groan into my pillow as my bladder screams for relief. I’m embarrassed to admit that I considered peeing in my trash can just to avoid him. But that’s ridiculous. And disgusting. I have to be an adult about this.
I stare at myself in the mirror, swiping half-heartedly at my smeared makeup. “Go pee, Addison. You can handle yourself in front of Luke. Just march out there and if you see him, act like nothing happened. Because obviously if Luke had feelings for you, like real feelings, he would have told you years ago. That’s why he stopped the kiss last night. He doesn’t like you like that.
“Not to mention you don’t like him like that either! You aren’t a relationship girlie. You aren’t a marriage or babies girlie.You are a lumberyard-owning badass who knows her emotional limits and you’re not about to ruin the relationship you have with your best friend just to get your fucking rocks off on his cute little mustache.”
Steeling myself, I take a deep breath in and swing my door open, ready to seize the day. When I step out to a quiet cabin, I can’t help but look around, wondering where he is.
Still sleeping maybe. He is a normal human who sleeps normal hours. Of course he’s asleep. It’s not even seven in the morning on a Sunday. He’s getting some well-earned rest.
So, I pad across the hardwood floor, my heart racing until I close myself into my bathroom and drop down onto the toilet to take care of business. I rake a hand through my hair and exhale heavily. “One week of marriage down, only fifty-one more to go.”
How many new vibrators I’m going to need to get through that many weeks is TBD.
Chapter 23
Fact or Fiction?
Babies are good husband blockers.
Addison
“Here, can you hold her for a second?” Trista asks, thrusting Stevie into my arms while I sit at Wyatt and Trista’s dining room table on Thanksgiving Day. “Jo... can you come check the turkey with me? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“On my way!” Jo says, rushing into the kitchen from the living room where she was watching football with her sons.
“I can check the turkey,” I call out, holding the baby awkwardly in my hands, but I’m completely ignored.
It’s been three weeks of living on Fletcher Mountain, and this is the first time I’ve held Stevie. I’ve been doing the kind of nose-to-the-grind work-mode thing the past couple of weeks and haven’t really seen the ladies much since our dress fitting night out. Admittedly, I’ve been avoiding them and my husband because things just sort of started to feel way too real, way too fast.
But now I’m plunked right in the middle of a Fletcher family holiday and since my dad is still in Florida, I didn’t really have any good excuse to avoid everyone.
I shoot a pleading look over to Dakota, who’s sitting across from me at the table. “Do I look weird? I’m not sure I’m great with babies.”
