Pulling the thin handle up on my small suitcase, I lock up my apartment and head downstairs.
I'm actually a little nervous about this trip. I've never gone away with anyone, let alone a guy I just met, especially not a drop dead gorgeous guy that makes my toes curl with just one look.
He kissed me once, and that kiss. . . Damn if that kiss didn't cross my mind at least five times a day. I can’t get it out of my head. Bolt was gentle with his mouth, kissing me like I was a delicate piece of glass.
I loved that kiss, and I hated that kiss.
That kiss broke me.
I’m no longer just a girl who loves whiskey, I’m a girl who loves whiskey and kissing Bolt Sheckler.
Watching the numbers go backwards, I count them down in my head.
Eleven
Ten
Nine
I'm getting closer and closer to the lobby of my building, and with each light that flickers on and off, my heart starts to race just a little faster. I'm about to spend an entire weekend with Bolt, just the two of us. A hint of excitement sparks in my belly, making me smile.
Leaning against the thick metal wall, I look down at my feet and think of his lips again, of how they tasted like pleasure, how they were warm and soft. My lips start to tingle with their own memory; the weight of his mouth, the heat of his skin, the way his tongue slipped easily between my lips and danced around mine.
The shadowed movements make my smile larger. It feels like the air in the elevator is getting thicker, making my skin hot and sweaty. My mind starts to wander, wondering if his cock was stiff while he kissed me.
He had to be hard, he had to want my pussy as much as I wanted his cock. There was too much passion and need in that kiss to have been just a kiss.
Temptation is clawing through my body, making me want more than just that kiss. I want him to touch me. I want him to take control of me. I want him to show me just how powerful he can be.
I'm tingling all over, and I can feel the wetness start to soak through my panties. It’s crazy what this man can do to me, and he doesn’t even know it. Fuck, he doesn’t even have to touch me, just the thought of him gets me excited.
Trailing my fingers down over my stomach, I gently start to rub my pussy. It's tender and swollen, and as I press against my clit, a wave of heat explodes through my belly. Moving my other hand over my chest, my nipples are hard. Softly pinching one nipple through my shirt, I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, making the sensation in my gut surge.
My muscles are shaking and my fingertips are massaging my clit faster and faster. All I can see in my head is Bolt with his lips on my skin, and his hands on my body. I want him to caress me. I want him to kiss my neck, to lick my throat, to suck my tits.
With faster, harder movements, I rub my pussy. My clit is throbbing, and I feel like I'm closing in on coming. Each breath I take is shorter and shallower as I bring myself closer to climaxing.
The elevator shakes as it hits the first floor, yanking me back from the edge. I stand stunned, dropping my arms to my sides as the metal doors start to part. I'm struck with much cooler air, knocking me back into reality, bringing me down off my cloud.
The bubbling orgasm that was about to clench my muscles is suddenly stripped away, leaving me empty and needy. The rush vanishes as I come face to face with the object of my dirty dream.
Bolt is waiting outside the doors, ready to take my bag the second they're open. With a glint I his eye, he smirks as he looks me over. “You alright?” he asks.
“Yeah, I'm fine, why?” Softly touching my throat, I swallow hard.
Can he tell what I was just doing? Do I smell like sex and a failed finish?
“You look like you were just running.” He lifts his finger to my forehead and wipes away a small bead of sweat.
Laughing awkwardly, I push his hand away and dry my forehead. “No, it was just really hot in the elevator. This elevator is glitchy like that, I don't know why.”
His eyes study me for a moment, and I'm terrified he's going to figure out what I was doing in the elevator. But his gaze moves down to the bag at my side instead.
With a quick nod, he asks, “That's all you brought?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I don't know, I've just never traveled with a woman before that didn't have three or four giant suitcases.”
“It's only the weekend,” I say as I crinkle my brows. “Have you traveled with a lot of women?” I ask, doing my best to hide the irritation in my voice. I know it shouldn't matter, because none of this is real—we aren't real—but the thought of him with someone else is rubbing me wrong.
“Does my mother count?” Chuckling, he reaches out and takes my bag. “She's a woman, so…One.”
Relief washes over me, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little surprised that this guy hasn't spent nights with super models in some foreign country, or long weekends skiing in Aspen.
“You've never traveled with anyone else?”
“Nah, I've basically avoided relationships all together. It's too much work, and I don't have time with the distillery to worry about other people's emotions or have to report to someone at home.”
“I can understand that. I'm sure it's a lot of work to run that place.”
“It is, but…” he says with a big smile as he lifts my suitcase by the handle. “This weekend isn't about work, it's about us. Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?” he asks, his lips curling to one side. “You sound worried, what are you worried about?”
“I'm not really worried, it's just…This is weird, isn't it? It's not normal, at least it doesn't feel normal, anyway.”
“I'm not someone who cares about what other people think, Starla.” Bolt starts walking to the front door of my building, keeping his face forward as he speaks. “If we all spent our days worrying about what's normal, no one would ever be happy. And think of all the shit we wouldn't have if people worried about what was normal. Do you think the person that invented the umbrella was considered normal? Or do you think some asshole told them they were crazy?”
“I don't know, crazy probably.” Giggling, I follow him out the door.
“Exactly. People actually threw trash at the first man to use one.” Stopping short, he turns and faces me, reaching his arm out to hold my wrist. “We're all a little crazy, Starla, it's what we do with it that will leave a legacy behind us. So, let's go be crazy, screw what's normal, let's create our own umbrella.” Bolt takes my hand and leads me to the town car waiting out front of my building.
I let him guide me as my mind starts to dive into his words. I like what he said, it feels real, it feels like he knows what he’s talking about. Life is full of risk, but you'd never know what it means to live if you don't do something wild, something crazy, something dangerous once in a while.
How else can you appreciate what you have or what you lost?
The driver meets us at the back and opens the trunk, taking my bag from Bolt and putting it inside. Opening my door, Bolt guides me inside by placing his hand on the small of my back.
Slipping into the car, I rest my hands in my lap and look out the window. His large body jostles the car as he climbs in next to me. Without hesitation, he takes my hand in his and lifts it to his mouth, kissing the back of my palm.
Inhaling a sharp breath, I sit in shock, confused and surprised all at once. I didn't expect it. I know we're supposed to be acting, I know we're supposed to pretend like we're two lovesick puppies.
Except what I feel when he does that isn't pretend.
The feel of his lips on my skin causes a rush of tingles to shoot through my body, making me wetter than before. My stomach clenches and the hair on my arms stand straight up. My heart is pounding, jumping around inside my chest like a crazed bird.
It's taking everything in my power to maintain control and not melt in his hands in the back of this cab. So I smile at him, my lips thin and tight.
Bolt pulls my
hand away from his mouth and runs the pad of his thumb across my knuckles. “Louisville International,” he says to the driver. “We're getting married this weekend.” Giving me a wink, our hidden agenda is written all over his face.
The airport, we're flying somewhere?
I've never been on an airplane, shit, I've only left the state once, and that was with my school when I was sixteen.
I want to ask him where he's taking me, but the driver is watching me in the mirror, and I feel like that would be strange to do. If I'm supposed to become his wife, to anyone looking in from the outside, I should know where we're going to get married.
The driver's eyes shift between us in the mirror. “Congratulations. Is it a destination wedding?”
“We're eloping,” Bolt answers for us, and his smile thickens as he glances down at me. “We just can't wait anymore.”
“Well that's wonderful. Marriage is a great thing if you're willing to put the work in. It's not always easy, but take it from someone who's been married for over twenty years, it's worth all of it.”
Bolt squeezes my hand, pulling it into his lap. “I believe it. I hope we can say the same thing twenty years from now.”
He lies so easily, not once did it seem like he had to think about what he was saying. The story rolled so smoothly off his tongue, like water off a leaf.
The driver turns his attention back to the road. “You two look like you'll make it. I can see the love between you.”
“That's because I love her with everything I have.” There isn’t a shred of doubt or hesitation in his voice.
Bolt is believable, he's confident—he's so confident, I almost believe him myself.
What the hell am I getting myself into?
6
Bolt
We held hands all the way to the airport. I kissed her wrist, the back of her palm, each finger and knuckle.
It felt right, and I wanted every detail to be perfect, I wanted every recollection of us together to be remembered as two people in love.
Because that's what we are. . . To everyone else looking in. We are two people who have fallen so madly in love that we ran off to get married despite what people would think.
Paying the driver, I take her bag and attach it to mine. “Are you excited?” I ask her as she peers up at a plane taking off from the runway.
The engine roars so loudly, I can't hear her answer. “What?”
“Where are we going?” she asks, curling her arms around her ribs, and sinking into herself.
“Have you ever been to the Cape before?”
“I've never been on a plane before,” she says as her eyes follow a giant jet that's flying over us.
“Seriously? Never?”
“Nope.” Her eyes stay on the sky, watching the plane as it flies off through a cluster of clouds and disappears.
“Well, let's go pop your cherry then.” Chuckling, I wink and grab her hand.
Starla is close to my side and I can hear her breathing. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, her skin is pale and clammy. I half expect her to take off in the other direction, abandoning the whole getaway all together.
“Is it scary?” she finally asks, her eyes searching for an honest answer.
“No, you'll be fine.” Lifting her hand to my lips, I give it a kiss. “I promise.”
That kiss wasn't for show, it wasn't for other people to see, that kiss was just for her. I don't want her to be afraid, and I don't ever want her to be afraid when she's with me. No matter where we go or what we do, Starla will always be safe as long as I'm around.
Her fingers tighten around mine, and mixed within her grip, I feel that she knows; she knows she can trust me. She knows that despite what brought us here, I wouldn't put her in harm’s way. She knows that I'm an honest man.
Are you really honest? Shaking off the self-induced reflection of character, I walk forward.
We move through the airport, checking our bags and finding our terminal. I can tell she's still super nervous, because she keeps rubbing her hands on her thighs and she doesn't have much to say.
I'm trying to make conversation and keep her mind off getting in the air for the first time, but she's not really into it. Her answers are flat, with one or two words. She won't look at me, her eyes are fixed on the big windows that look out into the airfield.
A man's voice crackles through the speaker, giving directions for how to board. Starla listens intensely, twisting her head so her ear is facing the speaker. Keeping her eyes on the ground, she's nodding lightly as if she's taking note of every word he says.
“You ready?” I ask, standing up and taking out our tickets.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I think you're going to love this. I really do.”
Starla forces a smile as she stands, letting out a long breath. “I hope you're right.”
Our row gets called, so I pass her a ticket. “Okay, that's us.”
The walk down the jet bridge never made me nervous before, but right now, all I can feel is this intense burning in my chest. I'm worried she's going to hate the plane. I'm terrified that we're going to hit turbulence and she's going to freak out.
I'm afraid she'll call me a liar and never trust me again if she hates the flight.
Who cares what she thinks? It doesn't matter. What she says or thinks about you doesn't matter at all. You only need her help for a little bit.
Finding our seats, I point to the big leather window seat at my side. “This is us, why don't you have the window.”
“Here?” She says it so innocently as her fingers touch the soft material.
All I do is smile.
She's not used to this level of sophistication, to having expensive things, to being able to experience what the world really has to offer.
There are two kinds of people in this world: those who want, and those who need.
I’m a want man. I want things, so I take them. Nothing is out of my reach, anything and everything is right there for me to take for myself. I have no limits.
Those that need are the ones who work long, disgusting hours, who sweat and give everything just to have that used car, to rent that tiny apartment, to go on vacation one state over. Those people are never happy, always willing to do more, because they need better things.
And then there’s Starla.
A girl who’s happy wearing secondhand clothes from the thrift store. I can see the threads on her sneakers splitting away from the sole, and that she has two different shoelaces to tie them up with. She doesn’t eat expensive food, she’s perfectly happy grabbing a burger from a fast food joint.
Her bag says Coach on the label, but the zipper is plastic and the design is crooked. It’s a knockoff. She has low end makeup in her bag, and a cell phone they haven’t made in years. Starla wouldn't get something new just because it’s available. She buys cheap, she uses cheap, and she doesn’t give two shits about what other people think.
She’s a girl who thinks it’s okay to have mediocre things in a world where she should stand out. As long as I’m around, Starla is going to feel special, she’s going to finally have a taste of the good life.
“Go on,” I say, nudging her into the seat.
The pilot comes on and tells us the length of our flight and how high we’ll be flying. Starla is already buckling herself in and pulling it as tight as it will go. The plane begins to move slowly, and Starla's eyes jerk to mine.
“Is this it? Why are we going so slow?”
“No, he's getting into position, just wait.”
Biting her bottom lip, she snaps her head back to the window. The engine roars to life, rumbling so loudly it vibrates my bones. My ears begin to pop as the plane starts to pick up speed, and I can feel the weight of the plane shift as it starts to lift.
The nose of the plane is off the ground and Starla's hand instantly reaches over and snags mine. The warmth of her hand sweeps through my fingers, moving up my arm like fire across dry brush. And there
is nothing I can to stop it. I can’t control the feeling or how fast it moves, I can’t even control where it goes.
But I can feel it everywhere.
“Oh my God,” she says, pushing her face closer to the small oval window as pools turn into small puddles and cars start to look like ants. “Wow, look at that, that's so cool.”
Higher and higher the plane screams through the sky, pushing through thick white clouds and coming out on the other side. Starla's eyes are open wide, her smile a glow on her face.
Adjusting her grip, her fingers tangle around mine as she sits taller in the seat, trying to look below the plane.
“It's beautiful, Bolt. I've never seen anything like it.”
“It is.” My eyes are on her, not the window, not the sun in the sky, just her.
Starla is a vixen, my wicked little vixen. And all I can think about is all the things I want to do to her. My eyes run over her chest as the excitement fills her lungs. Her hips roll in the seat as she moves, and my eyes immediately jerk to the diamond between her thighs.
“So,” she says, snuggling into her seat, “this is how you rich people do it, huh?”
“Do what?” I ask, taking the hot towel the stewardess holds out to me to wipe my hands clean before they bring us lunch.
Starla giggles, and points at me. “That, this,” she says, waving an open hand around us. “It just seems unnecessary.”
“Living well, that's unnecessary?”
“No, living for the things that don't matter, that's unnecessary.” Pulling her knees up, she sinks deeper into the plush leather chair. “I never saw the point in some of this stuff.”
Shrugging a shoulder, I drop the towel on the small table. “Let me ask you this: if you could have all the money in the world, do you think you'd still live the way you do now?”
“Yeah, I think so.” There's no hesitation, she didn't even take the time to think about the question at all. She already knew her answer.
“Really? You wouldn't want to spoil yourself, not even a little?”
“I'm not saying that I wouldn't do that a little. But I wouldn't go crazy either, there's no need for it.”
The Convenient Wife Page 5
