Chapter 17
Just when I think I can’t take the excitement any longer, he slides wet fingers between my legs and plays with my pussy.
“What?” I cry.
“One more time,” he whispers.
But it isn’t just once more. By the time we’re done romping all over the deck, sexing on the chair where I straddle him, on the steps where he turns me backward and consumes me as I’ve never been eaten before, the sun is setting, bugs are biting, and I can barely walk.
I check my phone. “Dude, we’ve been going for almost five hours.”
He grins. “Is that a record?”
“Are you trying to get me pregnant?”
“Duh!” he says. “Obviously.”
I swat his arm. “So irresponsible.”
“You said you wanted a baby. Maybe then you’ll move in.”
“You think?”
“I hope.”
“Aren’t we doing things out of order?”
“We can get married tomorrow,” he says, dead serious. “But I want a big, fancy wedding. And we still have to meet your daughter, Lucy.”
“Thanksgiving,” I grin excitedly. “I can’t believe that’s happening.”
“I want to meet your mom and those girlfriends of yours. And buy you a one-of-a-kind dress.”
“You’ve got this all planned out, don’t you? I’m the one who’s supposed to want all the fanfare.”
The truth is, I used to want all that. But I’d marry Keston on this beach without any fancy stuff.
“We’re doing everything right,” he says. “Besides, you’re not getting pregnant yet. I know your cycle. And you’re still on the pill.”
“You know it all, huh?”
“When it comes to you, yes. As much as I can.”
“You’re weird.”
“Thanks, I love you too.”
Later, after we’ve both showered, he unpacks a whole BBQ chicken he’d brought home, which he’d almost forgotten in our quest to out-sex each other.
As we eat on the deck, fairy lights twinkling to match the starry sky, the tropical breeze lifting my hair off my shoulders, I tell him what I’m most concerned about.
“Baby, what would I do on St. Nicholas? If . . . when I live here?”
He wipes his fingers on a paper towel. “What do you mean? You told me your secret is to give up the lawyer life.”
“That’s my fantasy. I can’t actually do it.”
“Why not? I’ll take care of you. While you figure out what you want to do, other than be my wife, have my kids, and love me forever.”
I roll my eyes.
“I’ll take two out of three. As long as ‘love me forever’ is one of them.”
“Thanks. How can I say no to that?” I smile at him, licking the BBQ sauce off his fingers.
But why is life so easy for some people? They can shrug their shoulders and say, “Why not?” I’m not like that. I’m a planner.
“I’ve always been an independent woman. I earn my own money, be self-sufficient, and have financial security. That’s hard to give up with no solid plan in mind.”
“You want to make money, is that it? To buy stuff? Do stuff?” The way he says it makes me sound shallow.
Am I shallow? I suppose if you have to ask yourself that question, you probably are.
I nod miserably. “Yeah. Not that all this isn’t amazing.” I sweep my arm out to embrace the dark beach. “This is truly gorgeous.”
“But . . . it’s not enough for you to want to live here.” His glum tone of voice shakes me. I’m so used to his happy-go-lucky, upbeat persona. Damn, I am a monster.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe if I had something to do. Like how I helped Mrs. Harris at the museum by organizing the artifacts. Something to feel useful.”
Hustling to gather my plate and napkins, he says, “Follow me.”
“Where’re we going?”
“First, we’re washing the dishes.” He tosses a cloth my way. “You can dry.”
I beg him to tell me what’s on his mind, but he whistles a tune and scrubs the plates clean.
“Is it a surprise?”
He ignores me. “What else do you need to live happily on St. Nicholas? Let’s get it all out now. I want a happy wifey.”
I swat his butt with my dish towel. “I’m not going to be the little wifey who stays at home, you know.”
“A man can dream.” He leans over and kisses my forehead. “Wifey. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
I smirk. It does. But I’m not admitting that to him.
“Hit it,” he says as he rinses salad bowls and hands them to me. “Tell me everything you need. Besides me.”
I shake my head. “I love your beach house, Kes. But I’m worried it’s too small for us to live in together. We’d be on top of each other all the time.”
He nods, gazing at the utensils he’s wiping clean.
“I’d like to contribute to our finances.”
He shuts off the water. Turns to me as I dry the last fork.
“Come here.”
I follow him down the tiny hall past the bedroom and bathroom to a door that looks like it’s for a closet.
“What’s this?”
He plucks a key from above the door frame.
“My den.”
“You have a whole other room you’ve been keeping a secret?”
He stops turning the key and looks at me. “We could easily have more rooms. I’m working on it.”
“You are?”
“What do you think I was talking to Tabitha about this morning?”
I screw up my nose. “I don’t know. What?”
He was talking to Tabitha this morning!?
“She’s the head of the Department of Property and Procurement. She has lots of connections with contractors all over the island.”
“Oh,” I say softly. “You’re going to expand?”
“Yes, my dear. I can build more than tiki huts on the beach. I’ve already signed up for extra shifts at work to make the money to pay for it. And I am going to win that golf tournament at Christmas.”
His tall body blocks the hall light. In the shadows, I feel small for not believing in him more.
“Okay,” I say. “That’s exciting. I want to help. Not with the golf. Financially, I mean. If I’m going to live here.”
“If?” He sucks his teeth. “You’re living here. And please stop saying ‘finances.’ No one here uses that word. Unless they work at the National Bank of St. Nicholas.”
I frown. “What do you say instead?”
“We keep it simple. We say ‘money.’ And for the record, I don’t need your money. I will take care of you while you figure out what you want to do that makes you happy. Not what makes you money.”
“You don’t have to be rude about it.”
He smacks my butt. Hard.
“Ouch!”
“That was rude. Now, move your ass.”
“I swear you’re gonna . . . .” I don’t finish because the door swings open. Keston flicks a switch.
I can’t believe my eyes.