Plus One Love: The Wedding Party Series

9. Micah

I dragmy fingers over the soft skin of her arm from shoulder to wrist as she sleeps. What we shared, the binding of our souls, I can’t give that up. I don’t want to give it up even though I know I should. Being in her arms, having her touch me or me touch her, it’s the best I’ve felt. For the first time, I feel calm, complete. There’s still a drive to do well, but my focus, the reason for being, has switched. I don’t want to do well to make more money instead I want to do well to please her. Every up coming business decision is running through my head through the lens of how she would view.

Staying with her, tying her to me would be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done. All the other things I’ve done—marrying my first wife, the cheating, the business deals, the purchases—they were all done with the acknowledgement of the other party. Everyone knew the score and got their own benefit. So while selfish for me, it wasn’t all on me. Not like it would be if I don’t walk away. Yes, she’d have some material benefits, but they’re not what she wants. They’re not what she would choose.

She shifts as she begins to wake up. I pull my hand back, wanting to start the separation now before I chicken out. And before she opens her eyes, I slide out of the bed, heading towards the shower. With each step, I remind myself that love’s not selfish. It’s patient and kind. Those are the traits I need to embody.

“Micah?” She sits up in bed, allowing the sheet to drop and pool in her lap. I suck in a deep dreary as her gorgeous breasts, covered in my marks, are revealed. I stop, unable to move towards the shower when everything inside me wants to run back to her. Not selfish, I remind myself.

I close my eyes in an extended blink. “Take some time to relax, Amy-girl. I’ll grab the first shower so you can take your time getting ready.”

The words, asking to share the shower, are on the tip of her tongue. Or maybe that’s just my wishful thinking since she’s the one who brought up Vegas, but either way, I forestall them by rushing into the bathroom and closing the door.

The water pours down from the rainfall head as visions of her being in here with me torment me. And unlike my previous showers, this time I know exactly how her pussy feels around my fingers and on my cock. It takes only seconds for my cock to be hard and ready. A few strokes is all I need, but I resist, taking the time to shampoo my hair and then scrub my body. Why should I get a release, a gratification when I’m being a wuss, making a decision without talking to her? But what else can I do? My need to take care of her extends to making sure she gets what she wants in life, and being with me would hinder that.

I resist the call of my cock until the end of my shower. A half dozen strokes, of sliding my tight fist over my dick, allowing my thumb to brush over my head is all it takes. I erupt, spraying all over the wall. And instead of my normal elation, all I feel is guilt. We’ve got a few more hours before we have to leave and I could have spent them between her legs, sliding between her lips, if I wasn’t so worried about my eventual heartbreak.

The sound of my phone ringing has me exiting the bathroom in a rush with only a towel around my waist. I ignore the harsh intake of breath coming from Amy as I grab my phone. The ringtone telling me that it’s one of the few people that have my personal number.

“Hello?” At the sound of Elise’s voice I stiffen. She talks, asking about Amy, but not giving me a chance to reply. A usual move on her part and I recognize the selfishness of her actions. It’s how I was only a couple of days ago.

But it’s the rest of her conversation that has me on edge as I mentally do the math, trying to make the needed adjustment to my plans work.

“Okay. I’ll be there”—I glance at my watch—“in nine hours. See you then.”

I hang up the phone and turn to Amy’s questioning look. “That was Elise. She needs me in Europe”

Her face falls before she wipes out any trace of emotion from it. “Well, okay. If you’re going to be there in nine hours then I can find my own way back to Philadelphia.” She taps her chin. “Or maybe, if it’s not too much of an imposition, you could drop me off in Florida where I can grab a flight home since I can’t grab a commercial flight from here.”

Hearing the resigned tone in her voice as she discusses going home, not even attempting to beg me to spend extra time, snaps my resolve. “What? No. I want you to come with me.”

It’s the truth, but not all of it. I want to spend more time with her, even if it hurts, and I can rationalize it by bringing her to her employer. But at the same time, I can’t deny some of my initial thoughts ran along the lines of relief, knowing there’d be an ocean between us, making it more difficult to rush to her side when I inevitably give in to my need for her.

Questions continue to toss around in my mind. Is it more selfish to pursue her or to not give her the opportunity to choose? Is it more selfish to keep her with me or to leave her to protect my own heart? What exactly does it mean to not be selfish in love?

I’m not really sure.

She chews on her lower lip and it’s tough to keep my mind on the conversation instead of wanting to pull her lip out with my teeth and then soothing it with my mouth. “Um, I’m not sure. Elise…”

It’s the heartbreak sound in her voice that makes up my mind. I’m being stupid, trying to protect her from something she might not need protection from while hurting her now. That’s selfish. That’s not love. It’s not respect. If she’s willing to brave the storm that will occur if she becomes my wife—yes, wife because if she’s willing to be with me, I’m not giving her a chance to get away from me easily—then I’m willing to stand at her side, supporting her.

“Forget Elise. Forget Vegas.” She gasps and stares at me with her mouth hanging open. I step into her space, lifting my hand to cradle her cheek as I stare intently into her eyes. “I don’t want to ignore what happened last night. I don’t want to forget it. And I’m tired of pretending that you don’t mean the world to me. You’re beautiful inside and out, intelligent, and everything I want in a wife. I know I’m older than you and come with lots of baggage. If you’re with me, people will try to treat you as a trophy wife instead of recognizing your brilliance. But if you’re willing to risk it all for me, then I’ll make you the happiest person ever.”

“D-do you mean it?” Her eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

“I do. I’ve meant it since the moment I met up, standing at the top of the stairs into my plane and it was cemented when I kissed you to ward off Brittany, but our talks, your business insights, your graciousness, they are the real draws. I’m sorry I let you age be a wedge between us. It was never you, but rather I worried about all you’d being giving up to be with me.”

“Silly man.” She chuckles and the sound releases the squeeze on my heart. “Your age never bothered me. You’ve never made me feel young, like a child. And you are the person who counts. So, yes, I’ll come with you to Europe. I’ll help you with whatever you need.” She turns her head a little, placing a kiss on the palm of my hand before turning back to stare at me with a hard gaze. “But if you think you’re getting away with mentioning my attributes as something you desire in a wife as a proposal, you’re not. I expect a real one in the future.”

I grin as I lean down, hovering over her mouth. “Noted.”

And then I seal our deal with a kiss.

Thank you for reading. Want more? Check out the other stories in The Wedding Party.