by Penny Reid
“I would consider suntan lotion a type of clothing.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“It covers your skin, you put it on, it shields you from the sun. It’s clothing.”
“It’s not made of material, and you can’t take it off.”
He shrugged. “Semantics.”
Another example:
“What do you want to do after dinner?”
“We could play poker.”
“Yes! I have cards. We could use seashells for chips.”
“Or…we could play strip poker.”
“Quinn, you have one article of clothing on. I have two.”
“So?”
“So, it would either be one or two hands at the maximum.”
He blinked and frowned at me. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
And another example:
“Did you know we can go clamming?”
He grinned like he was impersonating the devil. “The only kind of clams I’m interested in are the bearded ones.”
And now he was groaning, sounding tortured, tired, and spent. My giggle turned into a full-fledged cackling laugh, and I took pity on him, withdrawing my hand from his pelvic region and bringing it back to his chest. He grabbed it and flattened my palm against his heart.
“I love your laugh.” He sighed the words, as though he were speaking to himself. His eyes drifted shut, and I felt him relax.
I smiled against his arm and gave his bicep a kiss. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
“No, stay with me…” His words were sleepy.
I propped my elbow on the bed and rested my head in my free hand. I watched him drift off to sleep. He’d tanned during the last four days, whereas I’d freckled. I was constantly applying sunscreen, but still I’d freckled. At least I hadn’t burned.
I waited until I was sure he was completely asleep, then slipped my hand from his. With a light peck on his lips, I left the bed and crossed to the small bag in the corner that held my plethora of string bikinis and dressed.
I would go for a walk. In fact, I’d gone for a walk every day since we’d arrived, enjoying the small respites of alone time. For the first time in my life, I may have preferred being with someone—Quinn—more than I preferred solitude, but I still craved the moments to myself, the quiet time for contemplation.
I tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door behind me after I made sure the fan was on high, because I knew he liked taking naps with the fan on high. To me, it felt like a windstorm, but this was something new I’d learned about him on our honeymoon.
We’d never taken naps together prior to our honeymoon.
After slathering myself in SPF 50 sunscreen, I grabbed several two-gallon ziplock plastic bags and a towel from the second bathroom. I departed for my walk, all the while happily thinking dirty thoughts about the naked man back at the cottage.
I made two complete loops of the island before returning. My plastic bags now full and heavy, I placed them in the freezer, then reached in the fridge for a bottle of water.
I’d come to a conclusion on my walk: we were just going to have to slow down the Kama Sutra reenactment. We had another three days and, really, no rush. I picked my way through the living room, gulping the cold water. I reached into my task bag and pulled out a binder I’d packed just in case we found ourselves with some conversation and/or discussion time.
I was just straightening when I felt Quinn’s hands slide from my bottom to my ribs, making me stiffen, then instantly turn to jello.
“Where have you been, Kitten?” Quinn’s low, close whisper against my ear gave me goosebumps and sent an enchanting shiver down my spine. Instinctively, I leaned backward and against him, offering him my neck.
“Oh…here and there,” I said. My hand not holding the binder covered his where it caressed the slope of my waist.
“What’s in the binder?” His voice was still raspy from sleep, but his hands and body were definitely awake; apparently, he’d recuperated from orgasm fatigue. I tucked this away as a data point for future exploitation.
Naps plus Quinn equaled carnal rejuvenation.
I leaned my head back against his shoulder; one of his brilliant hands slipped into the flimsy cup of my string bikini and massaged my breast. His touch was greedy, possessive, almost domineering. I loved how he touched me.
“Vaginas,” I sighed.
His hands stilled. Actually, he stilled. He was frozen for several long seconds.
“What did you say?”
“Vaginas. It’s a binder full of vaginas.”
Quinn’s hard torso stiffened, and his fingers flexed where they held me. “What are you talking about?” He sounded completely bewildered.
I swallowed my lust and cleared my throat, remembering my earlier decision to slow down our reenactments. I propped the binder in one hand, then opened it to a random page.
“See. Vaginas. All kinds.”
Quinn choked on nothing. He yanked his hands away.
I turned my head and leaned back, attempting to obtain a good view of his profile and reaction to the pictures. He looked horrified.
“Obviously they’re all over eighteen, of course,” I said quickly, trying to anticipate the source of his horror. I assumed it was because he worried about the exploitation of women. “The salon that loaned me the binder was very adamant that the pictures were all taken with explicit consent and everyone is over eighteen.”
His eyes cut to mine. He didn’t look pacified. “Janie…why do you have a binder of vaginas?”
“For discussion.” I turned and stood next to him, thumbing through the various grooming designs and vagazzlings. “I got the idea when the ladies and I were at the spa in Las Vegas. Someone mentioned vagazzling, so I looked it up, and—even though I think it’s rather silly and maybe unsanitary—I wondered what you thought. So I called that fancy salon downtown, the one on Michigan? Well, they have a binder of different waxing patterns I could get, grooming styles, the whole nine yards…”
I glanced up and found Quinn still staring at me; he didn’t look upset or concerned anymore. But he did appear to be oscillating between amused incredulousness and dazed speechlessness. Not sure what to do, I gave him a hopeful smile.
“I thought we could pick out some designs.”
His mouth opened and closed; his eyebrows were doing an odd dance on his forehead. He was completely discomposed.
Finally, he blurted, “I think I need a drink.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah…” He watched me for a moment, his eyes narrowed and assessing, then shook his head as though to clear it. “Yeah. I just need a drink. Do you want a margarita?”
I shrugged. “Sure. Sounds good. But then you’ll come back, and we’ll finish going through the binder?”
Quinn grimaced and pulled his hands through his hair. He turned away. “I’ll be back with margaritas. I hope you like them frozen and strong.”
I nodded absentmindedly as I flipped through the pages of the binder. “Sure, sure. Strong and frozen.”
I’d never been waxed before; it was supposed to be quite painful, especially the first time, but I definitely wanted to give it a try. Waxing was superior to shaving as it was a form of semi-permanent hair removal. Most hair would take four to six weeks to grow back after waxing, which was just fine with me. Four to six weeks would give us plenty of time to enjoy whatever design we chose as well as choose the next.
I absentmindedly sat in one of the living room chairs as I studied an intricate waxing pattern that left the remaining hair in a design that looked suspiciously like a cutout of the Eiffel Tower.
“What the—?” Quinn’s voice thundered from the kitchen.
His What the was followed by string of loud and creative expletives. I sat straight in my chair, then turned to look over my shoulder. I couldn’t see him from my position, so I leaned to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the kitchen.
“Quinn?” I waited for a
beat, then asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Janie!” his voice boomed, “Why are there giant frozen frogs in the freezer?”
Oh. Damn.
I stiffened, winced, and sucked in a breath.
After a moment of startled shock, I jumped to my feet, the binder of vag-scaping abandoned, and I jogged into the kitchen.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” I called before I’d made it all the way to the freezer. “I’m sorry. I meant to bury those before you found them.”
Quinn was standing at the door to the fridge—it was open—and he held a giant ziplock bag in his hand. In the ziplock bag was a very large, very dead frozen toad. As well, around his feet were several more bags of murdered toads.
And I’d murdered them.
He held the eternally-sleeping carcass between us, his mouth moving soundlessly; his eyes were jumping from me, to the frog, to the freezer, to his feet, then back to me. His typically cool façade was annihilated, replaced with severe and dismayed disbelief.
Finally, he managed, “I don’t understand. Why are you freezing frogs?”
I grabbed the murdered frog—more precisely, a toad—from his grip and tossed it back in the freezer with the others. He watched me do this, his eyes wide and troubled.
“I can explain.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, then held my hands up between us. “I’m actually doing a good thing.”
“A good thing,” he repeated.
“Yes. These, all of those, are cane toads. They’re an invasive species.”
He blinked at me.
Good news: Quinn looked less horrified.
Bad news: Quinn looked more displeased.
“So,” I rushed to explain, “I’ve been making traps for them around the island. Then I bag them and put them in the freezer.”
Good news: Quinn looked less displeased.
Bad news: Quinn looked more irritated.
“Why are you putting them in our freezer?”
“Because it’s the most humane way to kill a toad! I know, I know—I don’t feel great about murdering them either—but they’re really bad for the ecosystem. And they secrete poison, so they’re really like giant, ugly, serial-killing toads.”
Good news: Quinn looked less irritated.
Possibly more good news: Quinn looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“Janie…” Quinn shook his head, then closed his eyes. His long fingers pressed against his forehead, and I heard the beginnings of his rumbly laughter.
I managed a half-smile and watched him warily. I hoped the laughter meant that he was no longer dismayed, horrified, displeased, or irritated. He took a step toward me but tripped slightly on one of the bagged toads.
I reached forward and grabbed his forearms. “Watch out, there are giant, ugly, serial-killing toads on the floor.”
Quinn charged forward, through the tripping toad landmines, and reached for me. I squeaked involuntarily as his hands gripped my thighs, wrapped my legs around his torso, and marched us back to the bedroom, biting, and licking, and kissing my shoulder and neck.
“Wait! What about the vaginas?”
“I got married so I wouldn’t have to look at anyone’s vagina but yours for the rest of my life.”
He threw me on the bed, then gripped the two strings at my hips, pulling them and releasing my swimsuit bottoms.
“B-but…” I stuttered.
Quinn peeled back the scrap of fabric, pushed my knees apart and up to my shoulders as he knelt between my thighs. He brought his mouth to my center.
“Wait.” My words were breathless. “Don’t you want to help me pick a design?”
“No.” He licked me with a flat, soft tongue; then he said, “Surprise me. I love your surprises.”
I bucked, panting, watching the top of his head as he loved my undecorated and unadorned vagina with his mouth. “But—wait—we’ve done this position already.”
“Shhh, Kitten. I’m hungry for you…” Quinn gripped my hips and bottom with his large hands, staying any potential shift or modification to my position.
One more pass of his tongue was all that was required for my unconditional surrender. With a deep sigh, I closed my eyes and gave myself over to him, just as I’d done countless times before.
Paradise wasn’t an island in the Caribbean; it wasn’t a place. It was being with the person you love and working through the illustrated guide to the Kama Sutra, even if you repeat positions from time to time.
I loved it.
I loved him.
And I planned to stay in this paradise forever.
Extra Scene: Neanderthal and Human Seek Baby PART 1 (canon)
Author’s Note: These scenes take place just before the action of Fiona and Greg’s book, Happily Ever Ninja, and were originally included in my May 2015 newsletter.
~JANIE~
I LOST IT in the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet, my mouth hanging open in wordless shock, my eyes wide in wordless wonder (and also shock), I stared at the dipstick of plastic clutched between my index finger and thumb.
It displayed two pink lines. Two pink lines meant that human chorionic gonadotropin was present in my urine. And the presence of human chorionic gonadotropin meant that an embryo had implanted itself in my uterus.
A person was in my uterus… right this minute.
My hand holding the dipstick lowered to my bare thigh and I stared at the wall of the bathroom stall, thinking back to my last conversation with Quinn. Three days ago, before he left for his business trip to Los Angeles, we’d argued because he’d put the colander in the wrong cabinet.
I didn’t understand why it was so difficult for him to put the colander in the correct cabinet. Every time he emptied the dishwasher, it was like a scavenger hunt for the week that followed. Meanwhile, I had spaghetti noodles going limp and squishy because he couldn’t put the blasted colander in the correct cabinet.
Usually I’d shrug it off, or gently remind him of the colander’s proper placement. Not this time.
After a frantic five-minute search for the colander, I lost my mind, dumped the ruined spaghetti in the trash, and started to cry. Quinn found me on the kitchen floor, sobbing. The ensuing conversation included a lot of screaming and accusations of purposeful pasta-sabotage (on my part) and a lot of stone-faced glares (on his part).
He left for the airport forty-five minutes later, and we hadn’t spoken since. I’d been avoiding him. I sent his calls to voicemail and hadn’t responded to his text messages.
I was still furious about his (seemingly willful) inability to put the colander back where it belonged. As well, I’d made a list of research articles on efficient kitchen design, organization, and synergy. Prior to right this moment, I’d planned to assemble a PowerPoint presentation for his return wherein I would prove that the best place for the colander was the cabinet to the right of the oven.
But now…
My attention flickered to the positive pregnancy test. For the first time in three days, I wondered if my initial volcanic (then lingering) anger had been a tad irrational. Perhaps it had been fueled by hormonal forces rather than my injured righteousness and strong feelings about intelligent kitchen-tool placement.
Two pink lines. A person in my uterus, our person, one we made together. And Quinn off in Los Angeles with the last words between us being heated and harsh.
The dipstick began to blur. I blinked, and fat, hot tears rolled down my cheeks. But before I gave myself over to what I suspected would be more irrational emoting, I decided to pull it together. I mentally searched my brain closet for my big girl pants and demanded that I form a plan of action.
This wasn’t the end of the world. Quinn would return the day after tomorrow and I would explain about prenatal hormones. He would hopefully see that I had no choice but to throw slotted spoons at his head.
Then we would move forward, together, all three of us.
All three of us…
“Thor.”
&n
bsp; “So…?”
Stephen was following me. In fact, he’d been waiting for me outside the women’s room when I emerged, his eyebrows arched over his gray eyes in meaningful suspension. He’d been the one to procure the pregnancy tests just after lunch, after I’d been unable to keep down a bowl of chicken soup and crackers, blaming the nausea on a persistent stomach flu for the sixth time in a week.
In retrospect, mentally tallying the events and data points from the last two weeks, I must’ve been in a state of severe delusion and/or denial.
Morning nausea?–Check.
Irrational temper?–Check.
Afternoon nausea?–Check.
Late menstrual cycle?–Check.
Evening nausea?–Check.
Crying at fabric softener commercials?–Check.
Midnight nausea?–Double check.
When I didn’t answer him, Stephen fell into step next to me and wrapped his well-manicured fingers around my upper arm. He pulled me into his office, shut the door, faced me, and placed his hands on my shoulders.
“Janie, this white man wants to know what’s going on inside your uterus.”
I felt my face crumple as I shook my head.
“You’re not?”
I shook my head faster.
“You are?”
I expelled a sob, covering my face with my hands. I was a mess. Why was I a mess? Why was I crying about this?
“Are…” I heard his hesitation, likely born out of confusion more than anything else, before he asked, “Tell it to me straight, am I the father?”
My head whipped up at this ridiculous statement. “Stephen! How could you possibly be the father of this baby?”
“I couldn’t, of course. But you’re standing there like a hot mess covered in Tabasco, saying nothing.” He tsked, giving me a sidelong glance as his hands fell away. He crossed his arms over his chest and sniffed. “So I take it you are with child, just as I suspected. But what I don’t understand is why you’re crying about it.”
I shook my head again. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“This wasn’t planned?”
