62. Megan
Chapter 62
Megan
Ollie calls out from my room when I unlock our front door two days later.
“Don’t come in here just yet.”
“Oh, my God. You know I hate surprises.” I dump my suitcase by the side table and flick on the lamp I bought all those months ago. Full credit to the man, he never did fix the big light after my rant about it, and every time I see this silly little impulse buy, it reminds me of him and makes me smile.
He has texted me multiple times a day since I left here on Sunday, and it's not helping me be normal about any of this. First, he wanted to give me updates on my room, then he told me he misses me, and last night he kept me up late with extremely explicit messages about what he wants to do to me when I'm home. I’ve barely stopped blushing the entire drive here.
“Just one minute, almost done.”
I can hear him flapping about with something. If it was Hattie, I’d just barge in and look, but I’ve waited days for him, I can wait a little longer.
“Ready!” he finally yells, and when I step into my room, my heart leaps into my throat.
All of my things are back in their rightful places. My books are in the bookcase, my clothes are in the wardrobe, and my vanity is stocked with all my beauty products. He’s replaced the ceiling light, and if you didn’t know this place was a disaster zone just two weeks ago, you’d never know.
Best of all, he's here, standing right there in the middle of it all and—
Oh my god, what is he doing?
“What is happening?” I squeak out as he drops to one knee and holds out his hand.
“Megan Porter, will you do me the honour of allowing me to be the first man to make you come on your brand new mattress?”
I force a laugh because what else am I supposed to do? Obviously he wouldn’t be really proposing to me, and obviously I am delusional for my brain to go there in the first place. But can I say no to this man? Never.
It’s not his fault I’m like this.
He drops his other knee, and with his hands on my hips, guides me backwards until I hit the end of the bed and fall back onto it. There’s no time to enjoy the spring of the mattress, or the new bedding and freshly laundered sheets.
“Hold this,” he says, lifting my skirt up, then twisting his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and dragging them down.
Ollie might be the first man to make me come, twice actually, on my new mattress, but the unspoken part is that he’s still leaving, and he definitely won’t be the last.