Better to have a good time with him and not dwell on the sad parts, she thought. Live in the moment, that’s what she’d always told herself. Live in the moment, but be prepared for the worst. She’d never expected her worst case scenario to be a hot naked man sprawled on the sofa, waiting for her, and insisting on using protection. It was so very ironic.
Brandon reached up and tugged on her shoulder, bringing her back down into his lap so he could kiss her.
“What happened to keeping your hands behind your head?”
“I suck at the honor system,” he told her, his mouth against hers.
He held her there, kissing her until she relaxed against him and he stroked her body back to life, back into flames until she needed him desperately. He held her hips and entered her, moving in her with a steady rhythm that didn’t give her much time to breathe. He was going harder than she expected and it was flattering and oh so good. He filled her, rocked her until all she could do was cling to his shoulders. She held on, clinging shamelessly, reveling in the way his strong arms wrapped around her back, anchoring her to him. The inexorable movement, the waves of pleasure crashing over her...they seemed to mingle together until she could not tell which arms and hands and legs were hers and which were his. Enmeshed as they were, shuddering and crying out.
Marj leaned her head on his shoulder, taking air in great gulps because she’d felt dizzy, had spiraled so far out in her ecstasy that she’d feared she would actually pass out. He stroked her back and held her, still on his lap, until her breathing eased, her pounding heart slowed to a more reasonable pace.
Disentangling herself, a bit embarrassed, Marj retreated to the bathroom of the suite. Her reflection was a caution—cheeks red, dark makeup under her feverish eyes, lips swollen and bruised. Her hair was a tangled mess that would require half a bottle of detangler and a flatiron to tame. She smiled at herself in the mirror without meaning to. She scrubbed her face and tried to drag a comb through her hair, gave up and wished for a hair tie.
Unfortunately, complimentary hair ties were not in the free toiletries tray. There was an eyelash curler, still in its cellophane wrapper, which seemed weird but she tried it. It made her eyes look more open and her lashes look longer. She wished she had a pocket to stuff it in, before remembering that she didn’t need to steal toiletries. She was married to a rich guy now.
“First order of business,” she said when she emerged from the bathroom, “is to lay down some ground rules.”
“Such as?”
“I’m keeping my job but giving up my apartment. I love my apartment but it looks too suspicious to hang on to it once we’re married. So I’ll let it go, but I have to keep busy and my job will help me do that. I’ve always taken care of myself.”
“I can see this is going to be a problem,” he sighed.
“Don’t tell me I signed on to be a housewife.”
“Listen, you’re welcome to work three jobs if it makes you happy, but be aware that I have public appearances and work trips all the time and you’ll be needed for most of those. There’s a lot of grooming and shopping and crap you have to do to keep up with the social engagements. I’m mainly concerned with the part where you insist on taking care of yourself. I’m your husband, and I’m paying the bills. By tomorrow afternoon you’ll have a credit card.”
“What am I supposed to do with that? By formalwear?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Like an airplane?”
“We have an airplane, and the company has a larger one as well. So you already have air travel at your disposal should the whim strike you to shop for emeralds in the Virgin Islands or the like. I was thinking more of anything you felt was wanting in the home we’ll share, wardrobe, personal effects. That sort of thing.”
“Boxed set of zombie DVD’s?”
“If it makes you happy. I’m not putting restrictions on you. I’m not going to comb through the credit card statement and question you. My accountant will pay it without raising an eyebrow.”
“No restrictions whatsoever?”
“If you start building an arsenal of assault rifles and grenade launchers, yes, it’ll be flagged and I’ll ask you about it.”
“Define arsenal. Like more than ten guns? More than twenty?” she laughed.
“I’m not comfortable setting a number on that. I’d prefer zero grenade launchers personally.”
“I’m kidding, Cates. Relax. I’m much more likely to splurge on a decent spray tan.”
“And cover up those freckles? I like those freckles,” he grinned.