Chapter 2
Dexter
Promising healthcare benefits instead of a lifetime of love does not make for an ideal marriage proposal.
But it was the timely proposal, nonetheless. Calculating the financial costs of Sabrina’s injuries, I offered the solution of marriage before it even occurred to her to ask for help.
When Sabrina’s parents called me with the news of her car crash, my vision tunneled and my heart stalled.
Hearing the worst news of my life took my legs out from under me.
I had collapsed against a wall and slid down on my ass like those inflatable tube figures outside of car dealerships when they’re unplugged.
The threat of losing my best friend hit me like my own crash.
It took a lot of convincing by me and her parents, but Sabrina eventually agreed to marry me.
So, here we are: best friends for decades, husband and wife for a couple of months, and platonic housemates for the last two weeks.
Living with her is both the easiest and the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
Easy because Sabrina Ramirez is extraordinary.
Within a couple of days, she’s created a virtual team hub connecting her, my agent, the head trainer, and the skills coach to ensure my schedule is readily updated.
We’ve organized my office together and unpacked all the moving boxes.
She even wrapped the presents we picked for my parents and sister, who have invited themselves over for Christmas.
At the moment, Sabrina is decorating the fireplace mantelpiece with a fresh pine garland. It smells like a forest in our living room.
Her dark hair is pulled into a half ponytail, swinging behind her when she turns.
The lights around us are bright, but her brown eyes catch them all.
When she smiles, I take a mental picture of our first Christmas together.
Having lived alone for most of my adult life, I’ve never bothered with holiday decorations.
That is, till my wife moved in.
My wife. I’m still getting used to the sound of that.
“Candles?” I ask when she nestles white columns between pinecones. I’m no arson expert, but flames beside foliage seems uncharacteristically careless.
Sabrina has to remove the candy cane in her mouth to answer. She’d been sucking it while decorating, her cheeks hollowing at the effort. She waves the sharp point of the cane, the aroma of sweet peppermint wafting between us. Her plush, reddened mouth glistens, snagging my attention.
The tantalizing image of me leaning over and sucking on her candied bottom lip hits me so hard, I have to turn away.
“They aren’t real,” she clarifies. “Here, press this.”
She’s holding out a tiny rectangular object in her palm. I press the power button. Like magic, the candles flicker to life.
“Ta-da!” she says with arms out, making her cropped top lift slightly. My eyes sting at the effort it takes not to stare at the sliver of exposed skin.
By the way, that’s what I mean by hard.
I’ve jerked off so much since she’s moved in, my right forearm is bigger than my left. Having Sabrina so close all the time while trying to stay within the boundaries of a marriage of convenience is torture.
Imagining all the things I want her lips to wrap around other than candy canes is my new hobby.
Checking out her ass as she walks across the room has reached perv-level obsession.
Making excuses to touch her without seeming too obvious about wanting to be close all the damn time has turned my balls an unhealthy shade of blue.
“Do you want this outside or here?” she asks, lifting a pine wreath. “Your family always had one over the mantel.”
She’s right. My mom always used to adorn the fireplace with holiday decorations.
I wonder how much our shared memories factor into Sabrina’s initiative to design this Christmas setting.
Does she feel obligated to re-create a version of holidays past? The thought of Sabrina feeling obligated to do anything makes me sick.
I hope she’s going through all this trouble for herself, too, and not just because my family is visiting. They are visitors, but she is my wife.
I want her to love it here. Sabrina’s efforts at transforming our house into a home—the practical things like organizing and decorating as well as the intangibles, like the way she angles the large chairs to face the gas fireplace or her music playing while we cook—cannot be only for me.
I want Sabrina to put her mark on everything around us. The way a wife would.
“I’m good with anything. What do you think?” I ask, lifting my chin in the direction of the mantel.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Smiling, she unfolds the medium-height step ladder for me to use because this woman does not start a project without being fully prepared.
I climb the ladder to position the wreath.
“Move it to the right a bit. Yup. And lower,” she instructs from a few paces away.
“Good?” I’m holding it up and leaning forward.
She doesn’t immediately answer.
“Are you going to decide where this goes or just stare at my ass?” I tease.
What a hypocrite. I’m the one who’s been stealing peeks at her gorgeous backside.
Does she know her tight black leggings are so old and worn, the fabric clearly reveals the outline of her thong?
I doubt it. Though I would be the last person to point it out. Who am I to tell a grown woman what to wear?
“You wish,” Sabrina says with a snort. “It’s perfect right there.”
She walks closer, holding out a hook that sticks to the wall. My body tilts sideways to grab the object, but she drops it. Sabrina bends down quickly, pulling herself up so her face lines up with my . . . front.
We go stock-still with her half-parted lips inches from my crotch. She’s no longer handing me the hook for the wreath.
In fact, she doesn’t seem to be thinking about the wreath at all.
Neither am I.
My deranged thoughts stray to grabbing her hair and watching her eyes water at the effort of opening her mouth for me. I wonder if the taste of peppermint would linger on my skin.
Down, boy. I interrupt the wayward thoughts and scold my cock for drawing all the blood from my brain.
Gray sweatpants are not conducive to subtlety. I might as well display my fantasies on a billboard for how obvious my lust is about to be. Scrambling down the ladder, I tilt my body away from her gaze like a horny teenager who’s never seen a beautiful woman before.
“Why don’t you do it?” I suggest.
Clearing her throat, Sabrina gathers herself and steps onto the platform. Since she’s shorter, she goes a step higher than I did. There’s a slight wobble to the ladder, prompting me to hold it stable.
Suddenly, the part of her leggings I had been glancing at all night is at eye level. I’m not sure if this moment is a top holiday memory or the beginning of my irreversible depravity. Because right now, I’m obsessed with the satisfying plumpness of her round ass when I bite into it.
Did I say when?
Wrong. There will be no ass biting, today or any day.
Objectively, anyone can see she’s an amazing woman: gorgeous, smart, funny, strong, caring, loyal. I could go on and on. She’s grateful for our marriage of convenience, although it’s obvious I got the better end of the deal.
But Sabrina is, first and foremost, my best friend who found herself in a vulnerable, complicated situation. Things aren’t simple when you have a history like ours and circumstances as traumatic as her accident.
We’re in an unconventional arrangement as it is. No need for things to get weirder by wondering what she’ll do when I reach over and clamp her hips with my greedy hands.
Did I say when? Nope. Wrong again.
Unfortunately, with every day that she’s my wife, the comfort of the past gives way to something like hope bordering on desperation.
This is our house, our fireplace, our pine garland.
If I had my way, the blanket on the couch would be spread in front of the fireplace so I could lay her down and . . .
Stop. Must tighten the leash on my physical attraction before I do something stupid. Like dip a candy cane in her pussy before I lick it.
Fuck, yeah.
I mean, down, boy.