Page 1 of Husband of the Year
CHAPTER ONE
“Adorable.”
One word.
No matter how many times Olan has said it during our nearly two years together, hearing it from his beautiful lips never loses its magic. It’s incredible how a single word can bring such a profound sense of peace to my soul. It applies temporary brakes on the overthinking, anxiety-riddled train barreling through my brain. It calms the nerves that rattle through my veins like an unattended city fire hydrant on a hot summer day. With one word, Olan Stone grounds me.
I close my eyes and say a quick prayer that he calls me adorable for all eternity. When we’re old and gray in rockers on our front porch, I want to hear that simple word from his beautiful lips. It doesn’t hurt when he utters it in a deluxe room of a resort on a tropical island far away from the responsibilities and stresses of adulting. Or that his index finger traces my bottom lip as his deep brown eyes lovingly scan my face. Or that his not-too-small, not-too-big, but perfectly sized Goldi-cock thrusts deep inside my ass. My head pushes back, sinking into the pillow as he fills me up.
Taking a short five-day vacation during the school’s February breakto Isla Mujeres, a small island off the coast of Cancún, was Olan’s idea. I would never dream of flying off to sun-filled sandy beaches to escape the harsh Maine winter and all of life’s adult obligations. And leaving his daughter and my cat for more than a day or two always leaves me feeling uneasy. The variables of what could go wrong seem to multiply each day we’re away—it’s like anxiety math threw a party and invited all the worst-case scenarios.
“You need a respite,” Olan informed me two days before we left. “And not the sit-at-home and worry about everything kind. I’m taking you away.”
Learning that the island’s name means “Island of Women” left me perplexed. When I asked Olan why he chose it, he gave me a sheepish smile, a hint of that tooth gap that makes my insides simmer, and said, “Trust me.”
And I did. And I do.
Because my homeostasis lives in the land of worry, instead of relishing my gorgeous fiancé whisking me away for a romantic getaway, I immediately spiraled. Here’s the thing about seemingly getting your life in order: there’s always something new to obsess about. Win the lottery? Taxes. Scams. Drifters. My therapist, Erika, was like my anxiety GPS, masterfully guiding me through the potholes of life. Then she retired and left me feeling like I’d just been handed an old-school paper map with no “You are here” dot. I still haven’t found a replacement.
Olan’s ex-wife, Isabella, assured me both Illona and Gonzo would be fine. Since she moved to Portland nearly a year ago, our relationship has gradually evolved into a friendship. She lives downtown in a beautiful, impeccably decorated loft, but with all of us heading over to the mainland for work and school and Illona’s every other weekends with her, we’ve fallen into a lovely rhythm of co-parenting together. Being friends with the ex-wife isn’t something most people recommend or understand, but we all simply want the best for Illona—and as littlefamily drama as possible in our day-to-day lives. It’s one thing I don’t fret about.
Because Gonzo doesn’t travel well, on the rare occasions Olan and I take a trip, Isabella stays at our house on Peaks Island. Jill was mortified the first time it happened. “His ex-wife. In your space. Without you there? What if she finds…things?” Being a plane ride away, the peace of mind of having Illona’s mother with her and Gonzo overrides any fear of her discovering… things.
But wait. Did I put the… things in the back of the dresser and cover them with clothes? Is the lube adequately hidden in the drawer of the bedside table? Did I remember to push it toward the back and place wholesome self-help books in front of it? What would Isabella think if she found it? Surely she knows we have sex. And need lube. Lots of lube.
“Babe, you okay?” Olan asks.
With my legs securely wrapped around his waist, Olan’s heavy, warm breath lingers in my ear. Marvin Gaye croons “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)” from the portable speaker Olan brought so he could continue teaching me the ins and outs of Motown essentials. I remember it was produced by Holland and Dozier, who are the team behind some of Motown’s biggest hits. There’s a James Taylor version that makes Olan’s face squish up like he’s just eaten the world’s most sour lemon. I also know it’s no accident one of his favorite artists (and quickly becoming one of mine) is named Marvin. His “Motown Lessons” have become something fun to distract me from the stresses of planning our wedding—and life in general. Whether or not intentional, they have a way of pulling me out of my incessant thoughts.
“If you’re marrying me, this is critical knowledge,” he said after my first lesson.
And I’m an excellent student. There’s often dancing. Singing. And sometimes sex. I love those lessons best of all.
The island’s warm, humid air is a dramatic switch from the chilly,snowy Maine winter. The air conditioner on the wall in our room runs constantly but isn’t quite able to keep the tropical dampness at bay. Or maybe it’s Olan’s sweaty body on top of mine. My fingers trace the small of his back, and he’s definitely wet. There’s a ripeness to him when he’s worked up that somehow turns me on even more. As he lets go and immerses himself in the passion of sex, I am privileged to witness a side of him that is reserved only for me.
Our days on the island have been spent walking the beaches, swimming, eating, and taking naps—naps that always include sex. Olan calls them “play naps,” and every time he says it, a tiny ember in my belly rekindles. We cuddle, kiss, and grope, which escalates to lovemaking and concludes with more cuddling, kissing, and, eventually, sleep. It’s been heavenly.
“Yeah, I’m good. No, better than good. Amazing.” I reach lower, grab Olan’s firm ass, and draw him closer. His cock plunges deeper like he’s trying to find hidden treasure, rearranging me from the inside out. “Will you kiss me? Please?”
“Marvin Block, you never have to wonder about that.”
His lips brush mine, the faintest hint of his cherry ChapStick sweetening the kiss, and I attempt to center myself in the moment. Thoughts of children, ex-wives, cats, the hustle and bustle of school, and the freezing temperatures are all banished from my mind. Away with you, monkey brain! My eyes lock on to the ceiling fan, and I stare, watching the blades blur as Olan nibbles on my lower lip.
“Babe?” He’s completely still—the only movement his dick throbbing inside me.
“Thank you for this.” I kiss him, doing my best to convey my deep gratitude. Yes, for the trip, but mostly for him.
“You needed a distraction from… well, everything. And it’s going to be even more hectic once we return. We have to get moving on planning the…”
My hand covers his mouth, his luscious lips vibrating on my fingers. Talking about the wedding will simply send my anxiety into overdrive.
“Not now. Not yet. One more day of…” My fingers find Olan’s butt and squeeze the firm muscle.
“Yes, sir. My adorable fiancé.”
He smiles, and that’s it. His sweet lips part, revealing that sexy tooth gap, and his words flip a switch in my brain. I’m present. In the hotel room, the light, warm weather comforter neatly folded and placed on a sitting chair, getting railed by the most beautiful man in existence.
My head dips back, and Olan’s tongue finds my neck, licking and sucking, and I don’t even care if he leaves a mark. He brought me here for this. For a reprieve. Between the rest of the school year and our impending nuptials, it’s going to be… a lot. This is our last escape before the chaos descends. But now, I focus on him. His breath. His heartbeat. His weight on me. His honeyed lips attempt to taste every bit of my skin. His dick darts in and out of me. The moans and gasps he’s making signal his pure delight.
