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“Hey, you, look at me.”
“That I’m yours. Completely. Unconditionally. Tragically. I will take your hate over anyone else’s love. Your anger over anyone else’s compassion. Your tears over anyone else’s smiles. A moment with you over anyone else’s forever. You’re the one.”
“You’re my one, Briar Rose,” he whispered into our kiss. “And my goddamn only.”
Please don’t get into a vegetative coma. I fucking hate making big decisions. I can barely make up my mind about what I want for breakfast.
Yeah, fucker, why don’t you tell her?
What the fuck, von Bismarck?
“We’re getting married?”
“Oh my god, Ollie!”
“You will have all the roses you want, sweetheart.”
“All the flowers in the Americas and Europe combined. The whole world will be short of roses when I’m done decorating our wedding. Divorce rates will go through the roof. Valentine’s Day will be canceled.”
A better man would feel guilty for what was happening right now. I did not deserve this woman’s adoration, let alone her smiles.
I patted her thigh awkwardly in response. My dick, which did not get the memo this was a crisis of gigantic proportions, immediately got hard.
“Ah. My first taste of bloodplay.”
Over the years, I’d tried every kink in the book to get my better half going. It took ten years to finally admit that my only kink, my only type, was Briar Rose Auer.
She laughed, the pink returning to her cheeks. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so…warm.
Her laughter. Her happiness. Her existence next to mine. They all defied the promise I’d made fifteen years ago.
“And you and me are perfectionists, Cuddlebug.”
“It’s fine. It was a simple $500k ring. I still have my mom’s one waiting for you in the safe.”
“They probably need to take vitamin D pills the size of Zach’s head.”
She is real, and she is magnificent.
Woof woof.
We were always one breath away from humping each other’s leg in public and used to kiss until our mouths were dry and stinky.
bhaha
“Mmhmm.” Oliver drummed his long, elegant fingers over the steering wheel, looking at everything and anything, just not me.
I fished out the contents of the glove compartment, including a glow-in-the-dark dino-dick, a BDSM chastity belt, and a spiky dildo. “What the hell are you doing to me when we’re in bed?”
“Nothing you don’t consent to, my little sex kitten.”
“My being stiff is usually a bonus for you, not a complaint.”
I jumped in my seat, slapping a hand to my heart. “HOLY SHIT.”
“Your tiny laptop can sing.” I pointed at the phone, covering my mouth with my whole palm. “Can it dance, too?”
“Can what dan…” he trailed off, staring at his phone between us.
“Oh, sweetheart. You don’t remember.” He reached to run a hand over my hair, sending goosebumps along my spine as he gently tucked a tendril of my bangs behind my ear. “It’s called an iPhone. A part of the smartphone family. It isn’t a laptop.”
“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Finally, he tipped his head back and started laughing like a maniac, slapping his forehead. “You little shit.”
“You don’t get it. I thought you died that night. Or worse.”
You’re still the you that matters. You’re still sweet, and smart, and compassionate. You don’t need your memories to be the same girl that loved Oliver von Bismarck something fierce.
“You need to rest.” He patted my thigh, and a jolt of desire zipped through me.
He clicked my seat belt off, rounded the car, and opened the door for me. I accepted his hand, wobbling as the last dregs of winter winds slapped me.
“Welcome home, Cuddlebug.”
But it didn’t feel like home at all.
I’d contacted her landlord, paid for the remainder of her lease, and informed him she was moving in with me. He didn’t ask too many questions, which made me want to strangle him.
Before I’d left for the hospital last night, I’d stuffed my walk-in closet with her clothes, shoes, and toiletries, taking painstaking care to ensure her shit was messily strewn across the bathroom and closet for that authentic touch.
“Molded right for your ass cheeks.”
I blocked her path with my body. And I had a lot of fucking body. “That place is off limits.”
Sweetheart, your house is a glorified porta potty with a curtain of beads partitioning your toilet and kitchen.
“I said I have a dark side, not an awesome side. Pay attention.”
“I’m, um, a…” Serial killer? Art thief? The grim reaper? “…hoarder.”
“It’s madness over there. I’m talking mountains of reuseable bags, empty Costco cardboards, newspapers from the sixties, my used toilet paper collection…”
“What can I say? The heart wants what it wants.” And in my case, apparently it wanted bacteria. “Look, you can’t see my shit.”
“Why do you assume I did something?”
“My therapist says it’s better if you don’t see it. I don’t want you to say something mean about it.”
I was going to hell. And to punish me, they’d bring my family along with me. I’d probably have to watch my beloved parents burning at the stake of my sins 24/7.
