“You’re sure you want to do this?”
I leaned against the edge of the table and let out a sigh. “I couldn’t be any more committed to a relationship, or to a woman, than I am to us, and to you.”
“When did you know I was the one?” she asked.
I was surprised it took her so long to ask. The response was an easy one. “The day you opened up to me about your parents. The day we kissed.”
She smiled and leaned over the center of the table. “Me too.”
I kissed her. “So, it’s settled?”
“One Meat Lovers, one Hawaiian Delight,” the waiter said. “Who gets which?”
“I don’t even want to see the one with pineapple on it,” I said.
“The Hawaiian one is mine.” Taryn said.
He placed the pizzas in front of us. The baked pineapple smelled good, and although I liked pineapple, the thought of having it on a pizza disgusted me.
“I feel like I need a barrier,” I said with a laugh.
She lifted a slice and gave it a look. “For?”
“Separating me from that disastrous mess.”
“You investigate murder scenes, and this bothers you?”
“The murder scenes I investigate are part of life. That? That’s something that’s been developed, probably as a joke, and someone decided to embrace it and offer it to the public. I suspect most people get it as a novelty, and never get it again.”
She took a bite and smiled. “He said it’s number three on the best-sellers list.”
“Fifty Shades of Grey was a best-selling book, too. That doesn’t mean it was any good.”
She lowered her slice and shot me a shitty glare. “Fifty Shades of Grey was a great book.”
“It was horrendous. I had to choke it down. I barely finished it.”
Her eyebrows raised. “You read it?”
“Like I said. I choked it down.” I lifted a slice from my tray and took a bite. “Now, this is pizza.”
“It’s all a matter of personal preference. Just like the book,” she said. “I loved it.”
“She was a great story teller, but a terrible author.”
“I think she did a good job at both. It was fan fiction first. You knew that, right?”
“It should have stayed fan fiction.”
She took another bite. “Again, that’s your opinion. The movie was bad, though.”
I looked up. “I haven’t seen it.”
“Don’t bother.”
She finished her slice and reached for another. “This pizza is insane.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She hoisted her slice as if giving a toast. “It’s so good.”
“You sound like the guy with the beard.”
She folded the slice along the center, lengthwise, and took a bite.
“You should eat the rest of it like that.”
“Like what?” she asked over a mouthful of food.
“Folded like that,” I said. “That way I don’t have to see what’s on it.”
She took another bite. “So, it’s the thought of it that bothers you, not the pineapple?”
“I like pineapple. Not on pizza.”
“But you’ve never tried it?”
“Never have. Never will.”
As I finished my slice, she set hers aside and reached for her phone. After a few minutes of pecking and scrolling, she looked up.
“Well, guess what?”
“What?”
“A Greek immigrant invented pineapple pizza in 1962. And, this article says pepperoni pizza didn’t become commonplace until the early 1970’s. So, pineapple pizza is older than pepperoni.” She tossed her phone into her purse. “Put that in your pizza pipe and smoke it.”
“Enough about pineapples. What did you decide about moving in?”
She took a bite of her pizza, unfolded it, and looked at it. “You’re committed to us?”
“Absolutely.”
She folded the slice and took nonchalant bite while she looked at me. “There’s no doubt in your mind that I’m the one for you?”
“None in my mind, no.”
I reached for a slice of pizza, and then paused. “Do you have doubt? That I’m the one for you?”
She poked her crust in her mouth and then shrugged. “A little.”
“I thought we were beyond this,” I said adamantly. “What causes you to raise doubt?”
She reached for a slice of pizza. After looking it over, she held it at arm’s length. “Take a bite.”
I leaned away from the table as if she were inviting me to take a bite of a turd. “No.”
“Prove your commitment.”
“By taking a bite of that?”
“I love it. You’ve never tried it. You think it’s ugly, that’s all. Prove your commitment to me, and to the relationship. Take a bite.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”
“I really like it. I want you to taste it. Relationships are about commitment, but they’re also about sacrifice, remember? You made me eat oysters, and I’m not so sure that wasn’t a test.”
I let out a sigh.
She shot me a glare. “Was it?”
I shrugged. “Kind of.”
“I knew it!” she exclaimed. “The coffee too?”
I nodded. “Maybe a little bit.”
She held the pizza over the center of the table and shook her hand. “I sprayed perfume on my tongue so I didn’t have to taste those nasty oysters. That shit made me sick. I pooped like a hundred times. That, March Watson, is commitment and sacrifice. Now, prove yours.”
“You sprayed perfume on your tongue?”
“It’s all I could come up with.” She laughed as she waved the pizza in my face. “Now, take a bite, mister.”
With reluctance, I leaned forward. After closing my eyes, I opened my mouth. She shoved the slice into my mouth until I gagged on the pointed tip.
“Bite it,” she demanded.
I bit off what was in my mouth, chewed it, and swallowed. Much to my surprise, the pizza was pretty damned good.
“Well?”
“It’s pretty good.”
We laughed about the oysters, the fact she’d never eaten Cod before that night, and the perfume she sprayed in her mouth. She shared the story about staying up all night with diarrhea, and of her hatred for coffee, although she now felt it was diminishing somewhat.
I admitted to knowing about the coffee, and admitted the Starbucks trip was an opportunity for her to either express herself or remain silent. It wasn’t a win or lose scenario, but more a simple means of me learning more about her personality.
I finished my pizza, and pointed to her last slice. “Are you done?”
“I am.” She clenched her stomach. “I’m stuffed.”
“What did you decide about living together?”
She grinned. “I’d love it. Let’s do it.”
“I proved myself to you, then?”
“A long time ago,” she said.
I gave her a look. “You’re a turd”
“Turd?” She gave me a sideways look. “You’re a fucking turd. You made me eat oysters and drink coffee.”
She was right, I had been a turd. In my quest to prove that a woman of her caliber couldn’t possibly exist, I’d offered her many opportunities to confirm or deny my beliefs. On every occasion, however, she convinced me further that she was exactly what she appeared to be.
“You’re right, I did,” I said. “And, I’m sorry.”
“Accepted.”
I finished what little iced tea remained and then pushed my chair away from the table. “Are you ready to go?”
She grabbed her purse. “Sure.”
I started to stand, paused, and then reached for her last slice of pizza.
“What are you going to do, throw it away?” she asked.
“No.” I folded it in two. “I’m going to eat it.”
Some of life’s sacrifices weren’t sacrifices
at all, I decided. They were opportunities we were afforded to enrich our lives. When Taryn moved in, I was going to make many more sacrifices, and I knew it.
I simply hoped that in the end they would enrich my life as much as pineapple pizza.
Chapter Two Hundred Seventy-One
Taryn
I opened my eyes and gazed up at the ceiling for a moment. Although we’d lived together for three weeks, I still felt uncomfortable in a home that he so easily called ours, but I felt was his.
I turned to the side, but knew the answer long before I saw that his side of the bed was empty. He was either running, in the shower, or in the spare room exercising. He was methodical in that respect, and in many others, too. After moving in with him, I’d learned a lot about him and his mannerisms, most of which I found rather interesting.
His workout routing was the same, every day. A shower, upper body exercises, a three-mile run, and then another shower. Breakfast at a place he called a dive came afterward, and then he began his work day.
He washed dishes after each meal, did laundry nightly, and never left anything in the washer or dryer for more than a few minutes. Bedding was washed on Fridays and Tuesdays. Monday was my day off and we went out to eat.
Sundays had become our day, and it was Sunday.
As I gazed blankly at the windowed wall, the bathroom door opened. I turned toward the sound, and was pleased to see him wearing a fitted white tee shirt and his stark white boxer briefs.
I suspect most women preferred their men to walk around naked, or half naked, anyway. I didn’t prefer that Marc walk around clothed, but when he chose to wear his boxer briefs and a tee shirt, I never complained.
“First shower, or second shower?” I asked.
He sauntered toward the edge of the bed. “Second.”
I doubted I’d ever become immune to gawking at his body, and stared at him admiringly as he took each step.
I raked my eyes up his tanned muscular legs, paused at his bulge for an instant, and finally met the gaze of his commanding gray eyes. “Good run?”
“Great.” He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “The weather is gorgeous.”
“The weather’s always gorgeous,” I said with a laugh.
I liked Sunday more than the others, and not solely because it was our day. On Sundays, he didn’t shave. Combined with the fact that he often didn’t shave on Saturdays, the forty-eight hours of beard growth – when it happened – made him look rugged and sexy in a totally different way.
This was one of those days.
“Are you going to sleep all day?” he asked.
I didn’t want to sleep all day. I wanted to have him crawl in bed and have his way with me. After his workout, however, he needed to eat.
“No. I’ll take a shower.”
“I’ll make breakfast.”
“Okay.”
With reluctance, I got out of the bed and took a shower. Upon walking into the bedroom when I was finished, I noticed the bed wasn’t made, and I took pause. He always made the bed the instant I got out of it.
“March?”
“Right here,” he said from behind the wad of covers.
“You scared me. I thought you were going to make breakfast.”
After brushing the covers to the side, he laid his cheek against his palm and looked me over. “I decided I wanted to roll around naked with you first.”
“Roll around?” I asked, my tone playfully sarcastic.
He searched every inch of me with his eyes. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“I’ll roll around with you,” I said. “But just for a minute. You need to eat.”
Making out with Marc was like making out beneath the bleachers at a football game as a teen. Whenever we kissed, I felt anxious, guilty, important, and wanted.
All at once.
He gripped the hem of his shirt and stretched it up to his neck, exposing his chiseled abs in the process. While I gawked at his muscular physique, he pulled it over his head with one hand and then tossed it aside.
“Hop up here,” he said.
I sauntered toward the edge of the bed. “Let’s make out.”
Now that he was wearing nothing but his tight boxer briefs, I knew making out – and walking away – was going to be difficult. Nonetheless, I hopped in bed beside him.
“I want to make out with your pussy,” he said.
“What’s that consist of?”
He kissed me. As our lips parted, he pressed his hands against my shoulders. “Lay down, and I’ll show you.”
I had an idea, but I preferred to act as if I didn’t. Marc knew how to suck a clit and he liked to remind me of it. I fell onto my back and spread my legs slightly in anticipation of what I hoped was the next step.
He positioned himself between my thighs and rested the heels of his palms against my hips. My mind raced, but my body remained motionless beneath him.
He lifted his head. “Don’t come,” he whispered.
Wait. What?
“Wha–”
“Don’t. Come.”
“Okay,” I murmured.
He sucked my nub between his lips and flicked it with the tip of his precise tongue. I arched my back and swallowed my excitement, hoping the pleasure I suppressed would give him reason to continue endlessly.
I fought against the carnal urge to reach climax as he tongue-fucked me for what seemed like an eternity. The process continued until my muscles ached and I wanted to beg him to allow me to release against his mouth.
Yet. Short of my labored breathing and muffled moans, I stayed silent.
He inserted a finger.
I sucked a breath between my teeth.
He added another.
I craned my neck to get a look. For an instant, our eyes met. In response, he curled the tips of his fingers against my g-spot, paralyzing me for an instant.
He lowered his head between my legs and wedged my swollen clit between his tongue and teeth.
I flattened my hands against the bed and clenched the comforter in my fists. I had no idea how long he intended to torture me. If it was much longer, I feared I’d simply die beneath him.
Not a bad way to go, I decided.
The sucking and licking continued. I managed to lay still and quake as if I were having a seizure, but somehow managed to refrain from reaching climax. For half an hour, he brought me to the brink, and then paused. When my breathing once again became shallow, his tongue would begin to flick against my sensitive nub. The experience of heightened climactic pleasure was one I’d never forget, nor did I want to.
At one point, he began to finger fuck me feverishly while he ate my pussy like it was his last meal.
It soon proved to be all too much.
My breathing became choppy.
He moaned against my sensitive flesh as he continued to devour me from the inside out. A tingling rang through me from my toes to the tips of my fingers, taking with it my ability to refrain.
I called out his name, warning him my restraint was lost.
His moaning continued.
I released the bedding from my clutch. My hands soon found his head. I dragged my fingers through his hair and then pressed my palms against his scalp. With his head held taut in my hands, I thrust my hips against his face, knowing any second it was all going to end.
“March…” I cried, unable to say anything more.
The tingling became more pronounced. Unlike anything I’d ever experienced, it rushed through me like a fever. Each breath that followed hissed through my clenched teeth. I released his head and fisted the bedding.
My muscles tensed, and then released. As the orgasm escaped me, my entire body trembled as if I were being shocked.
Like a bolt of lightning, it shot through me, taking with it my ability to think, reason, and refrain.
Instead of decreasing in intensity, it carried me with it to a crowning moment where all reality escaped me, only to be replaced by an erotic bliss unlike anything I k
new to exist.
I collapsed onto the snow-white bedding. A much less capable person than my former self, I stared blankly in amazement as he lifted his head from between my legs. Although I wanted to, I didn’t speak. At that moment, I couldn’t.
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
Our eyes met.
I lifted my hand and waved with my fingers.
He did the same. The corner of his mouth curled up. “Ready for breakfast?”
“In a…in a minute. My legs feel funny.”
I recovered for a moment, saying nothing, but feeling everything. March was what I’d believed men were incapable of being, and so much more. Pleased that he’d found me, and elated that he desired me enough to keep me, I hoped what we had would never fade.
He leaned over me, bringing with him the scent of my pleasure. A kiss followed. Tasting myself on his tongue caused me to return the kiss madly. In seconds, we were wrapped in each other’s arms and embraced in a soul-stirring kiss.
His chest pressed to mine as he guided himself between my legs. As he penetrated me, he broke the embrace of our kiss. He lifted his weight from me, and pressed his flattened palms against the bed at my sides.
I gazed into his eyes. They provided reassurance of everything I wanted to know, but feared asking; leaving me no need to question his devotion or his feelings.
Slowly and methodically, he rowed his hips fore and aft. Each in stroke teased my overly sensitive clit, causing me to cringe with anticipation.
The only parts of our bodies that touched were being used to provide sexual pleasure. The absence of distractions allowed my focus to become pinpointed on nothing but the feeling of having him please me.
Through his eyes, I could see that he was doing the same.
Silently, we made love. In a deliberate yet predictable pace, he slid in and out of my wet folds, bringing me closer to climax with each stroke. Our eyes remained locked the entire time, and through them we said all that needed to be said.
There were no announcements, no scratching or clawing, and no dirty talk. Only two people who were exactly where they belonged, doing exactly what it was they yearned to do.
Pleasing each other.
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