“I’m still so fucking hard for you,” he tells me, and I reach for his length, feeling the soft ridges of his cock, amazed by the weight and thickness of it. It makes me wet all over again, just holding his manhood.
“Oh god, Garrick, I’m so hot for you again,” I moan, unable to stop my pussy from aching for him.
I pump his length, getting him harder than he was before, and he kisses me, grinding against my body.
I press his cock inside of me, and his hands cradle my face.
Oh, yeah. That is what I need. What I want.
We fuck, we come. All night.
Together. Forever.
This is right.
Our bodies orgasm, and any doubts I may have had slip my mind.
They are replaced by exhaustion, as my body lies cradled in his arms.
When I wake, bright sun shines through a small window across from the bed. I sit up and see that no one is beside me.
No one, meaning my husband.
Husband. The word is still so foreign on my lips. I look at myself—wrapped in a sheet, naked—instantly remembering the way he took my body last night. So fully and completely.
After we made love many times, I fell asleep. My eyes closed as the exhaustion of the day swept over me.
I moved to a new country after saying goodbye to everyone I love, boarded a plane and arrived in Alpinweiss, and met my husband—well, actually I married him first. Then we fought, made up, and made love.
And now, sitting up in bed, I look around this one-room cabin and realize it’s actually icy cold. A shiver runs over me. Last night, it was dark when I woke up from a fainting spell.
I woke in a room filled with candlelight and a fire blazing in a wood stove. I wasn’t able to make out the details of the room around me, mostly because I was blinded by the way Garrick looked at me—like he wanted me, needed me.
The same way I looked at him.
I stand, wrapping the sheet around me, and walk toward the wood-burning stove. There’s a log in it, but it’s fading fast. The neon-orange embers glow against the ashy gray.
Sighing, and not at all interested in setting my new husband’s house on fire, I step away from the wood stove and assess the situation. “Garrick?” I call out. “Are you here?”
I turn in a circle, getting a grip on my surroundings. A queen-sized bed, an end table with a stack of books. Hurricane lamps, two windows. A kitchen without a stove ... though this wood-burning stove is here. A water pump mounted above a white enamel basin. A table with two chairs; in the center, a bowl of apples. There are two chests of drawers.
There’s little else. A braided rug on the floor, with two rocking chairs. A few rifles hang on the wall, and an axe hangs below them.
This place is really rustic. Really rugged. Being here alone, I feel exposed—naked and alone. My suitcase waits by the front door, and when I walk to get it I notice a small door leading to the bathroom. Thank God. For a moment I had this terrifying thought that there wasn’t actually an indoor bathroom.
By which I mean, there are limits … and then there are limits.
I toss my suitcase on the bed and root around for my toiletries. I need to brush my teeth before Garrick shows up. Grabbing my bag, I step inside the bathroom and shut the door, locking it behind me.
I pee, sitting on the icy toilet seat, looking around this man’s bathroom. And it’s exactly that. I don’t think it’s ever had a woman’s touch, let alone ever had a woman sit on this seat.
At the sink, I realize there’s no warm water handle on the faucet. And the cold water does nothing to warm me up.
I reach into the tiny shower stall and turn on the water, confused when only cold water pours out of the showerhead, also.
I suppress a full on melt down and decide now is not the time to act like a four year old. I’m a grown-ass woman and can handle a little cold water, right?
Besides, I don’t have a choice.
I need to bathe. Because besides being coated in my own come, and Garrick’s come, I’m also gross from yesterday’s travel.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I gingerly step under the showerhead, bracing myself for the chilly water. Holy hell, it’s cold. So, so, cold.
I shriek. Because fuck my life.
“Oh my God,” I yell, dancing on my tippy-toes as the water falls over my hair and my shoulders and my skin. “Torture. This is torture.” Reaching for the faucet, I turn it off as fast as I can.
On the other side of the door I hear Garrick.
“What the hell, woman? Stop your hollering.”
I roll my eyes, looking around for a towel. “Where do you put your towels?”
“Unlock the door and I’ll show you.” His voice is full of humor, but right now I’m not laughing.
Reaching out of the shower, I click open the door but jump back inside the stall, holding the shower curtain over my naked body. Over my naked, goosebump-covered body.