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My monster wants me. He craves me and desires me and needs me in a way I had no idea actually existed outside of books. The last six days don’t feel like real life. Maybe I actually am dreaming, or maybe I’m in a coma; my mind still active while my body sleeps. Maybe this is all just a hallucination. A fever dream, and soon I’ll wake up in my uncomfortable bed in my boring Las Vegas apartment, soaked in sweat with a temperature and no one to take care of me.
That thought makes tears fill my eyes. I don’t want this to be a dream. I want this life. This crazy, unexpected life with this man who says he loves me.
Uncurling one arm from beneath me, I blindly reach for him, and moments later his fingers curl around mine, holding me in this reality I never anticipated but now desperately want to be real.
An hour later, Oz brings in our bags of groceries, refusing once again to let me help. The ice cream we bought is liquid, but most everything else survived the hours we left it in the truck.
His eyes track my movements as I try to help unpack, having to open every cabinet to find where things go.
“Are you up for guests for dinner?” he asks, capturing me around the waist with his huge arm and dragging me into his chest.
“Who?” I ask, pushing up onto my tiptoes so I can kiss him.
“Just Danny and maybe Knight,” he suggests.
“It was Danny I met the night I got to town, wasn’t it?” I ask.
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s probably my closest friend here, and he’s going to be pissed when he hears that Knight and Anders were witnesses at our wedding and not him.”
“Why didn’t you ask him?” I question.
“I love the guy, but he’s got a big mouth and zero filter. I didn’t want him telling everyone we were getting married before you knew,” he says, trying and failing to hide the smile that’s spreading its way across his lips.
His arms tighten, and he lifts me off the floor, kissing me before I can argue with him. I don’t try to resist the pull to melt into him. His arms are too addictive, his huge body too comforting to fight.
His tongue leads the kiss and, I happily follow, relaxing into his dominance in a way I never could have anticipated.
“Fuck that plan, I’m not ready to share you yet,” Oz growls against my throat, his hot breath making my pulse race. “We’ll have lunch with them tomorrow or something, after I’ve gotten my fill of you.”
“Okay,” I agree, much preferring the idea of spending the rest of the day binging on my husband than having to explain to more people that we’re not actually brother and sister. In the back of my mind, I know that sooner or later we’ll have to explain our relationship to our parents, but I hadn’t planned to see them until Christmas at the earliest, so we have time to decide exactly what we’ll tell them.
It takes much longer than it should for us to put all of the groceries away, mainly because we can’t keep our hands off each other long enough to get anything done. By the time everything is put away in the cabinets, my clean panties are soaked, and my body is begging for the release he’s been teasing me with.
“Fuck, Mrs. Malik, you’re addictive,” he pants, tugging the hem of my shirt up so he can lick a path up my tits, biting and scraping his teeth teasingly over my skin.
“I need—” I start, just as there’s a knock at the door.
“The fuck?” Oz snarls, roughly pulling my shirt down, his eyes clearly accessing how ravaged I look before he steps away. “Why don’t you go clean up a bit, Little One? If anyone but me sees you looking all fucking needy, I’m liable to kill them.”
My lips start to pull up into a smirk until I look up into his really fucking serious eyes. A ricochet of delicious fear pulses through me, and I nod, biting my lip as I slip past him and head for the stairs.
“Good girl,” he praises, slapping my ass as I pass.
I can hear the sound of his voice downstairs as I step into his bathroom and see my reflection in the mirror. I look fucking depraved, like a frozen image on a filthy porn clip. My eyes are wide and desperate, my lips are full and pink and swollen like I’ve spent the last thirty minutes sucking his huge cock, not simply kissing. My pink hair is tousled, messy from his hands and my shirt and pants are askew from his obsession with touching me.
I look needy and desperate, and I feel it too. When he told me to come clean up, for a moment I wondered if he just didn’t want to introduce me to whoever was knocking on his door, but now I’m glad that my first impression for whoever is downstairs isn’t me looking like I’m gagging for Oz’s cock.
Lifting my hairbrush from the counter, I drag it through my hair, brushing out the tangles. Running the faucet, I let the water rush over the insides of my wrists, then splash my face, cooling my overheated libido and forcing myself to calm down. Straightening my clothes, I step back and take in my whole reflection again.
After our naked session, Oz hadn’t wanted me to shower, and instead he’d handed me a black cropped boxy hoodie and one of my pairs of sweatpants. It’s not exactly my most sophisticated outfit, but it’s comfy and warm for the cool fall weather here in Montana.
The cropped hoodie isn’t revealing, but it shows a couple of inches of skin that a few years ago I’d have been too self-conscious to show. After I met Octy, she helped me figure out my style, which is comfortable and just a few steps away from conservative. Mom has always shown a little too much skin, in my opinion—not exactly slutty, but more than I ever wanted my mom to display. After she met Bruce, she toned it down a little and became more Suzy Homemaker than Jessica Rabbit, but the years of her flashing tits and ass to please whatever boyfriend she was seeing that week definitely stuck with me.
Octy, being the amazing friend that she is, told me I was too hot to dress like a grandma and too innocent to dress like a slut. Then she took me shopping. Now my meager closet consists of a small wardrobe of a handful of dresses, some jeans with rips in them, and quite a few pairs of sweatpants that I pair with tops that show off my flat stomach.
I’m sure if she’d lived in Vegas for longer, I’d own more clothes, but shopping without her wasn’t anywhere near as fun.
There’s nothing about what I’m wearing that’s provocative, but with the look in my eyes, I feel almost indecent. Once I’ve splashed more water on my face, I tiptoe out of the bedroom and wonder if I should stay up here or brave going downstairs. I can hear voices, so whoever it was must either have come in or they’re still talking on the doorstep.
