by Jamie Knight
Dad kissed me on the head and shook Seth’s hand. “I’m glad you two like it.”
“Yes,” my mom agreed. “We’re going to head home. It’s time for dinner.”
I walked them out to the car and said goodbye.
Walking back into the new place was like a dream. We had so much more space than we had before. It would take a while for us to save up to buy a couch and the other furniture we needed but that was okay. In a year or so, we would have this place looking great.
As I poured myself a glass of water, Seth came out of the bedroom with the phone to his ear. “Baby,” he said to get my attention, “Dean Williams wants a word with you.”
I looked at him shocked. I hadn’t talked to Dean Williams since I thanked him for his recommendation to Wanewright Junior College. Seth just shrugged and handed me the phone.
“Good Afternoon, Dean Williams,” I said into the phone. “What can I help you with?”
“Hi Tina,” the Dean’s voice came through the line happy and cheerful. “I’ve heard that your event planning business is going well, and I want to retain your services. You do weddings, right?”
My heart started beating a mile a minute. This really could be a big break for me. “Yes, Sir! I love planning weddings. I would be delighted to help you. But…” my voice caught a little. “Sir, aren’t you already married?”
The Dean laughed at my confusion. “Indeed, you’re right. I am. My best friend Brad has just, well, he asked the girl of his dreams to marry him. It’s supposed to be a big wedding and I think you will be the perfect planner.”
I thanked him and we worked out the details for the first panning meeting.
“Oh, and Tina,” the Dean said before we hung up. “Brad is pretty well off. Why don’t you raise your fee a bit?”
I was shocked at his suggestion, but Dean Williams was the dean of the business school, so he always had money on the brain.
“Yes, Sir,” I stammered. I thanked him again and hung up.
I turned to Seth who had heard most of the conversation. “We will be able to buy a couch soon!” I rushed into his arms. Everything was going perfect today.
Seth leaned down and kissed me on the lips. I ran my hands into his hair, pulled him down, and kissed him deeper. I traced his lips with my tongue and then he opened his mouth to let our tongues twist together.
My husband was still the sexiest man I knew. We had been married for a year, but I still wanted him.
Seth pulled back a bit. “Shall we try out the new bed?” His voice was a little breathless and deep.
I kissed him in response, grabbed his hand and ran for the bedroom. Once I hit the door, I dropped my husband’s hand, and took a leap on to the bed. I fell into its softness and bounced a bit. I giggled a bit.
Seth didn’t jump like I did. He stalked me with his eyes blazing with desire. As he approached the bed, he pulled off his t-shirt revealing his hard, defined abs. Seth was tall and lean. He had a beautiful body and just the sight of it made me wet. When his hands traveled to the button of his jeans, I found myself pulling off my own clothing. I wanted him and as soon as possible.
My jeans and shirt were gone in a flash, thrown into a pile on the floor. Only clad in my bra and panties, I leaned back onto the new mattress and gave Seth a deep lidded look. He looked up and down my curves. He loved how I was built, and I knew it. I flipped my long blonde hair over my shoulder and smiled at him.
Seth reached for my ankles. His strong hands locked over both, but then he stopped and looked at the bed frame.
“You know, I think this is just about the perfect height,” he said.
I looked at him for an explanation, but he didn’t give one. He just pulled me by the legs until my butt was right at the edge of the bed. I looked up at him in surprise and loved what I saw. My husband was standing over me. He was so big and dominate. Just the sight of him made my pussy ache.
Seth’s hands ran up my legs and his fingers found the hem of my panties. He pulled them down, revealing my pussy. Then he took off his boxers. Seth was well endowed. His thick, long cock was already hard. He took it in hand and stroked it a bit as he looked over my body.
With his other hand, he ran two fingers over my lower lips and then dipped them gently into my pussy. My breath caught.
He smiled. “Still wet for me, I see.”
“Always.”
He finger fucked me a bit, watching as I pushed my hips into his hand and squeezed his fingers with my pussy walls. Twisting a bit, he found my g spot and massaged it till I was moaning.
“Ready for me?” he asked.
I nodded, unable to find the words.
I had gone on birth control just after we got married, so condoms were no longer an issue. Both Seth and I wanted kids, but we also wanted to be able to afford them. A baby would have to wait till the time was right.
Now I could see what he meant about the bed being the right height. The mattress and I were at the perfect fucking height. Seth didn’t have to lean down or anything. He could stand and fuck me all night long.
And that’s what he planned to do. He ran his hard cock up and down my folds a bit, making sure I was wet and ready. Then he pushed in. The head of his cock spilt me open and his length glided into me. It filled me up and the gentle, slow way he entered me was divine.
“Mmmm,” he moaned. “I love being able to fuck you on my feet. It leaves my hands free for so much.”
To demonstrate, he leaned forward a bit and pulled my breasts from my bra. He massaged them, grabbing them and squeezing them hard. Then he pinched my nipples. I moaned. It felt so good to have him play with my breasts and fuck me at the same time. This position was truly perfect.
Seth glided his cock in and out of me, then increased his speed until he was pounding me hard. I wound my legs around his waist and pulled him into me deeper. His long cock brushed up against my cervix, causing us both to shutter with pleasure.
My stomach tightened and my pussy clenched under the friction of Seth’s cock. He was fucking me as hard as he could, and I loved it.
“Yes, baby,” I moaned.
I put my arms over my head and grabbed handfuls of the sheets. I arched my back to change the angle of his dick slightly. It slammed into the walls of my pussy; feeling perfect as he filled me up. My pussy gripped him tighter and tighter as my excitement grew.
“Oh God,” I moaned.
“You going to come for me, baby?” my husband asked.
“God, yes! I’m so close!”
He pinched my nipples harder, just like I liked, and it sent me over the edge. The tension in my stomach and pussy twisted and then released. Tingles shot up threw me and I saw stars.
Seth grunted. His cock was clenched hard in my pulsing pussy. I milked him—my pussy begging him for his seed and Seth delivered. He came, hard. His dick thrust hard and spurt after spurt of cum hit my pussy walls. He coated me good and the warm feeling made me come again. My whole body shook and quivered.
When Seth could move again, he slid out of me gently and climbed onto the bed next to me. I put my head on his shoulder after kissing him lightly on the cheek.
“I love you.”
“I love you too,” he muttered, and I could tell he was close to falling asleep.
It had been a big day, but I was excited, and I couldn’t sleep yet. I lay in my husband’s arms and dreamt about our future. We might be poor right now, but big things were happening. We were going to make it. We used to fight each other, now we were just fighting for our future. And in that fight, we made a pretty great team.
THE END
I Hate You, Remember Me
An Enemies to Lovers Amnesia Romance
Hate You series book 2
Copyright © 2019
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Devon
“We know your life has changed drastically and
you don’t even know who you are,” the doctors and nurses have told me. “But just hang in there.”
Well, that’s easy for them to say.
It’s a whole other matter to have to be the one trying to put the pieces of my life back together when I don’t even remember the pieces in the first place.
“Things will start coming back to you slowly,” they’ve also “reassured” me. “We think your memory will be restored eventually, or at least parts of it will be.”
Gee, thanks for that fucking hope there, guys, I want to tell them. To have “at least parts” of my memory “eventually” restored.
I try not to show them how frustrated I am. I want to be grateful that I’m even alive, and for their help in making sure that that is possible. But it’s very hard to remain in good spirits when my memory was taken from me, even if my life wasn’t.
My ID says my name is Devon Dennington. The face in the picture is the same as the one I look at in the mirror. But I don’t even know this person. I’m a stranger to myself.
The building I’m in has a familiar feel. I’ve seen rooms like this one before — on television. Yes, that’s what that flat screen on the wall is called. And I know that the place I’m in is called a hospital, because they’ve been telling me that, too.
I was told it is good to be able to name things. I couldn’t, during the first few moments after I woke up. I wasn’t even able to provide a name for myself.
But some things came quickly and recognizing what a television set is and the concept behind it was a good step forward. Or so the experts tell me.
They gave me my wallet and my phone to help me remember. “Wallet” and “Phone”: two more words to signify items. More re-connections via neurons and synapses. I would probably go crazy if I wasn’t able to hold onto such things.
Each old word is now imprinted anew, and then it means something. It makes me more a part of this world.
It’s not that I don’t know what words mean. And it isn’t like I need to relearn how to do things like brush my teeth or chew my food.
But everything does seem new again in some ways. And there are times when I get an odd sense of Deja Vu.
I have slept a lot these past few days and woke up several times from bizarre dreams, only to find myself back in an environment I barely understand. It is strange, knowing you’re a person, but not being sure exactly who that person is.
You could go mental trying to crunch in your head just how that works: how you can walk, talk and breathe without really comprehending who you are or how you got to where you are.
And now, in this world, in what feels like a waking dream, I am in a hospital room putting on my clothes. Apparently, I wear athletic style outfits when I’m not working. Under Armour seems to be my favorite brand. Although from what I’ve read, their popularity is on the decline. Does that mean I am somehow out of touch?
They told me it is also good to not only identify things, but familiar brand names as well. All of these associations help the healing process.
They advised me to pay attention to what I do daily. It might jog some of my memories; it was almost as if they were saying that brushing your teeth might unlock the secrets of the universe.
They gave me a notebook to write things in: my thoughts, feelings, notes on what I’m learning. This morning I scribbled: I just want things to feel normal.
But what does normal even feel like? I’m not sure.
I’m told I had an accident while cliff diving off the coast. According to friends of mine that they interviewed, I frequently do such things.
Apparently, I have quite the adventurous lifestyle. Bungee jumping, skydiving, jet skiing –– I even saw an electronic receipt in the bank app on my phone, when I was looking through it for some clues as to how I had gotten injured, or who I even was, for a Zero-G experience.
I don’t remember any of what happened, though. Floating in midair for thirty seconds? Seems like that’s something that would stick in your mind.
The doctor told me that case studies of amnesia are usually associated with damage to the medial temporal lobe. It can take days, weeks, months – years, even, to recover your memories. Sometimes, though rarely, I’m assured, the memories never come back.
All the technical medical talk is Greek to me, and that is exactly where the word “amnesia” derives from, the Greek language. And the type that I have is the retrograde variety, where I can’t recall memories from before the accident.
Everything still feels a bit fuzzy. I need to be able to focus so that I can piece my life back together, but I just can’t seem to do so. It’s all very frustrating. I have to show patience. Because if my mind won’t cooperate, what else can I do?
The nurses tell me that I’ve stayed here long enough, and I’m well enough to continue recovering at home. I think this means that they don’t know what else to do for me, and that I should quit taking up a bed that someone who needs it more could start occupying.
They also tell me that someone named Charles Williams is coming to pick me up. But who is that? And where am I going?
I don’t even know where “home” is. It’s all very discombobulating. Ever since I woke up, every move I make is monitored, recorded, analyzed, processed. I am given instructions, poked by needles and prodded by hands.
I’m sick of people showing me things and telling me what to do. I want whatever life I had back. If only I knew what that life was.
I just have a small bag with me when the orderly arrives to escort me out. He wheels me down to the lobby in a chair. It feels awkward.
Despite the bandage on my head and some cuts and bruises elsewhere on my body, I am physically fine. The wheelchair must be for insurance reasons. But I have to say, I feel like a jerk, letting someone push me around when I’m perfectly capable of walking.
At the nurse’s desk, they ask me to sign some paperwork. I put down the name they told me I have – that Devon Dennington one. But it feels unfamiliar as I move the pen on paper to scribble as I’m told.
Is this my actual handwriting or a facsimile? All of this is freaking me out a little bit.
“Your friend is here to take you home,” one of the nurses says.
She points over to a man with sandy-blond hair who is wearing tan slacks and a white button-up shirt. He definitely works out and has a confident air to him. I can tell he gets his shoes polished, since the fluorescent lights from above reflect off of them.
I thank the nurse and walk towards him.
“Hey there, Devon,” he says.
My name still sounds odd to me, when I hear it spoken aloud.
“Hi. You’re Charles?” I ask.
I say his name in an unfamiliar way. As if he’s an Uber driver who just arrived to pick me up at the airport.
“Yeah, buddy. It’s me,” he answers.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am, but it’s just not registering.”
“It will.”
He gives me a look that is a mix of sympathy and reassurance.
“They tell me we’ve been friends for years?” I ask.
I have many more questions, but I know I won’t get them all at once.
“Ever since elementary school,” he confirms. “We practically grew up on the same street.”
“As far back as being little kids?” I ask, rather astonished.
I wish he would just give me a piece of paper with all the bullet points of my life on it. Instead, he is delineating the information slowly.
“Yep, we used to build forts together. Ran around all summer, from sun up to sun down. We even had a treehouse. We were practically inseparable.”
“Wow.” I’m somewhat taken aback by this vision of our youth. It sounds lovely, if only I could fucking remember it. “Okay. Well, I believe you. Wait, we had a treehouse?”
“It was pretty sweet,” he starts to explain.
He pulls his glasses from his face and thoughtfully chews on the ear piece. It seems like a common ge
sture of his; one that I feel I should remember, but I don’t, just like the rest of what he’s telling me about him and us.
“You climbed a ladder up and entered from a cut-out hole in the bottom,” he continues. “We even had a top-level look-out post. No way would they let kids build something like that today. Eventually, lightning hit the tree though, and we had to tear it down.”
“That’s a fucking shame,” I lament.
“Sure is.”
Charles produces his phone, swipes to bring a photo up on the screen, and shows it to me. It’s a tall oak tree in a backyard. It must be over a hundred years old.
From the base, a wooden ladder is nailed into the trunk and runs up to a sturdily constructed treehouse made out of plywood 2 x 4s. And up in the look-out post the two of us, who were just young boys back then, are waving down.
“I had my mom find pictures of us hanging out as kids and she scanned them in. Supposed to help with…” He pauses for a moment. “Well, you know. It’s to help you restore your memory and get back on track.”
“Well, hopefully I’ll be able to remember everything one day,” I mumble.
This Charles guy, who seems like a cool dude and is my best friend, after all, even if it doesn’t feel that way because I can’t remember him one bit, looks a bit sad for a moment. His eyebrows crinkle together as he sighs.
This has to be hard on him, seeing me this way. If we’ve been friends forever, and he’s the one who showed up to pick me up from the hospital, then surely, we have a powerful bond.
“It will all come back to you,” he reassures me, putting a gentle hand on my shoulder.
As we head to the door so that we can leave and go to… well, who knows where… I can only hope that he’s right.
Chapter Two
Devon
The nurse at the desk waves Charles over.
“Just a sec, Devon,” he says.
Again, my name. I’ll have to keep repeating it to myself, so it eventually sticks: “Devon.”
