Kitabı oku: «With This Ring, I Thee Bed», sayfa 3
My groom followed my gaze, looked at Jacob and back to me again, the panic rising in Michael’s face. Jacob smiled at him—that goofy, devilish grin—and placed a reassuring hand on Michael’s shoulder. The crowd behind us laughed nervously, understanding the joke.
I laughed, too, hoping my giggles would help to conceal the true sadness of my tears.
A Lucky Wedding
Thomas S. Roche
Avery had asked for a few moments to gather her thoughts in the upstairs bedroom; Kris ushered them all out in a group—Mom, Vanessa, Kerri, Terri, Monette, Jane—and good riddance to them. Kris then mouthed, “Twenty minutes,” and winked and blew her a kiss before leaving herself.
God love Kris Keshanski, thought Avery. Now that’s a maid of honor.
Avery locked the door, took a deep breath. It was all so intoxicating—her being the center of attention, which she hated, and being dolled up and beautiful, which she loved. She had barely even looked at herself in the mirror; she had looked, of course, sure, but not looked. For one thing, she didn’t have her glasses on. Plus she’d been so distracted by all the bridesmaids and Mom and the hangers-on flittering about that she’d not had a chance to stand poised in the full-length, wood-framed standing mirror and get close enough to see, and say, “Damn, girl—you rock this.”
She did. Her dress was white and traditional, maybe too traditional—gathered close at the hips beneath the tight cinch of the corset, which also jacked her breasts up improbably like hot-air balloons, until she looked as if she had a rack to salute to high heaven. She’d never had cleavage before, but she had it today—God’s gift to lady surfboards, this lingerie.
The corset, in fact, was the one thing she had insisted on, but not just for the reason that it accented her moderate endowments. It also felt freaky good, being cinched into this thing, barely able to breathe, desperately wanting to swoon. Traditional or kinky? She’d never tell—let the guests think the white had been earned with long months of horny denial and chaste deprivation. It wasn’t.
Avery gathered the dress up in front. She did not want to wrinkle it, but, she thought to herself, with sufficient care the crinoline could be smoothed down and she’d get a chance to admire herself.
Lord! Was she actually wearing that? This outfit was filth, pure and simple, raw savage depravity in white satin and pretty pink lace. She looked like a whore, which was kind of a turn-on, this being her wedding and all. And when, brightly, her mind filled with thoughts of dear Michael removing the twelve-hundred-dollar dress to find an eight-hundred-dollar see-through white thong with lacy pink flowers and a white, embroidered-rose garter belt, not to mention the seamed white stockings that said “Spread me” in the language of lingerie—when she thought of that, Avery Jacobsen soon-to-be-Vance went wet to the knees, put her hand where she shouldn’t, and sighed.
It was true, then; she was a whore. Shameless, insistent … Good God, that feels good. She steadied herself against the mirror and rubbed faster, wondering if somehow she might get away with a quick one, spread wide on her back with the wedding dress gathered—no, no, fucking no, she’d just wrinkle it. She looked hungrily into her own eyes and rubbed herself gently—just a few more strokes, not a full wank or anything….
Oh my God, being shaved makes you sensitive, Avery thought as she struggled with whether she ought to come.
No, of course not, she decided: Tradition. Wasn’t that the tradition? Get all worked up before the wedding, sure, but wait to come until your new husband fucks you. If it’s not a tradition, it should be, right?
She’d been to plenty of weddings. Brides and grooms in the modern day seemed to change into jeans and T-shirts before hopping on Kawasakis or into rented Porsche convertibles for a honeymoon in Napa. Not so with Michael Vance’s new bride; she’d been told in no uncertain terms she would be spirited away in a Holsman 1907 High-Wheeler reproduction, built from scratch for this occasion—with her very own crackpot inventor at the joystick. She was two-thirds convinced that the thing wasn’t street legal, despite Michael’s assurance that it was. The fact that he’d promised to follow that drive from the Jacobsen home to the Vance Bed-and-Breakfast with a bride’s carry over the threshold if she was good—or a fireman’s lift if she was bad—made her molten inside. Thinking about that cave dweller’s threat-promise would have made her rub faster, if she hadn’t already moved on, in her thoughts, to the growl of his voice at her ear, the warm breath on her neck as he told her with vigor what he’d do to her once he had her inside.
Vance Bed-and-Breakfast: in the family for four generations. Forest luxury. Redwood tubs. Steam showers. Four-poster beds.
Avery bit her lip, panting. Maybe just a quick toss. Just a quick one. Kris could smooth out the wrinkles, right?
Someone fiddled with the door.
Avery gasped. Her heart pounding, she removed her hand quickly from the one place it should really not have been on her wedding day at 11:00 a.m., then adjusted her thong and pulled down her dress.
“Leave me alone, I’m getting ready!”
Whoever it was still fiddled. She could see the knob turning; they hadn’t even knocked. Panicked, Avery checked herself in the mirror. Her dress looked okay. No signs of her recent adventures, other than the almost terrifying pinkness of her face and her cleavage, and the peaks of her nipples showing through the dress.
The door opened.
“Michael!” she cried. She seized a shoe from the nearby rack and threw it at him. He faced it down fearlessly as it struck the door next to him; she hadn’t really been aiming, and in any event, with her glasses off her groom was mostly a blur. Damn that lost contact! She threw another shoe, which clunked at his feet. “Don’t you know—”
“It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride—yes, yes, yes,” said Michael, slipping inside. He closed the door and locked it. “But my dear, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
“This is bad luck! It’s tradition. Get out! You’re dooming our marriage!”
Avery seized another shoe and threw it, half laughing, as Michael, grinning, closed in on her. He was a hell of an easy target, at six foot four with broad shoulders, but she didn’t really want to hit him—black eye on his wedding day? She’d never hear the end of that one. Nonetheless, Michael got the message—as he’d gotten it before he ever opened the door: This was transgression, raw transgression, the breaking of an ancient taboo to which Michael himself had repeatedly proclaimed his devotion.
It was, therefore, more filthy than anything they’d ever done. And after Avery and Michael’s eighteen months together, there was some serious competition for that slot.
Michael seized Avery Jacobsen and very nearly slammed her against the wall. The feel of his muscles against her made her go loopy. He stooped low to kiss her, and she pursed her lips and turned her head.
“It’s bad luck!”
“Is that right?”
“Yes!” Avery cried. “The worst kind of bad luck!”
“You don’t say,” murmured Michael, and put his hand into her hair, grabbing tight.
Avery gasped, looked up into his eyes, and watched as his full lips turned back in a sneering smile. Her own lips trembled with hunger. He pulled harder; her gasp became a whimper.
“There’ll be lots of this soon, Mrs. Vance,” he growled.
“Not yet, Mr. Vance. I could still change my mind. And some bright bird might object.”
“Let them try.” He grinned, shaking his fist as he looked into her eyes.
Michael kissed her.
She went limp in his grasp as his mouth savaged hers. She no longer resisted, exactly; her squirming struggles against his bulk were familiar and comforting, half weak and half fierce. It was really his hand in her hair that did it. In the weeks before the wedding she’d kept from soliciting his feedback; the comfort of their coupling came from the ease with which she assailed her femaleness, eschewing femininity whenever she thought it unnecessary. With her shorts and T-shirts, her little round glasses, her love of bicycling and her adoration of the works of Geoffrey Chaucer in the original Middle English—which she could recite from memory with a clarity utterly shocking to everyone except her and her professors—Avery was not a high-maintenance girl. She did not intend to be a high-maintenance bride.
Nonetheless, on the matter of her hair, she had craved Michael’s opinion. I think maybe up? she’d mused one day out loud.
No, Avery, down.
Really? Down? she had asked him. He’d answered with his hand in her hair, pulling cruelly as he kissed her with enough ardor to shock Chaucer’s merchant.
So it was that on this, her wedding day, she had surrendered to a sort of a tomboy-chic look, figuring traditionally prim bridal beauty could be forgone at her groom’s request. Now she knew why: the son of a bitch had planned to kiss her like this from the first, to sully their marriage day with the—holy Christ, he was pulling her corset down.
“You can’t do that,” she whimpered. “Everybody’s waiting. My parents … everybody.”
He silenced her with his mouth, hard upon her, his tongue against hers as first one, then the other, teacup tit popped out with nipple already hard, responding to his thumb with goose bumps that went shimmying down her spine and deep into her sex. He thumbed, stroked, kneaded, pinched; she went loose against him, and when his lips left hers there was a string of spit stretched for a moment between them, just as in her favorite-ever movie kissing scene. Fresh, filthy, wet, sloppy—just like their sex life, forever.
“They’ve waited twenty-six years for this day,” Michael said. “Let them wait fifteen minutes while I fuck their girl senseless.”
“You may not,” Avery declared, half convinced, half unconvinced, “fuck me senseless.”
“Of course not,” said Michael, and in moments she was pulled back in his arms and splayed out on the bed, with a yelp. “You’re already senseless.”
“I’m serious,” she panted deliriously. “You can’t. They’re all waiting. I won’t let you do this.”
“Then why are your legs spread?”
“Umm …”
Michael grinned savagely. “So you’re a little whore for your wedding day, are you?” His hands went inside her slim, filmy lace thong, and in moments his fingers slid down her freshly shaved slit, finding her wet as a fountain and her clit throbbing hard. Newly shorn, her sex was exquisitely sensitive; getting dressed, she’d already begun to regret this planned wedding-night surprise, thinking she’d never make it through the day without touching herself. Now she gave it to him hungrily, feeling him explore her newly smooth sex, the smile on his face and the hard cock in his pants telling her everything she needed to know.
She grasped desperately at Michael’s arms, first the one that still held her hair, then the one that was working inside her—holy shit, that felt good!
Avery spread her legs farther and rocked back and forth as Michael began to finger-fuck her. Desperately hungry, she clawed at the front of his tuxedo, cursing buttons and clasps as she fucked herself onto him. He gave her two fingers; when he brought his thumb into the mix, working her clit while her hips worked, her eyes rolled back and she all but tore his tuxedo pants open.
Michael’s hard cock popped free; she went lunging for it, and his hand tightened in her hair.
“Say please.”
“Pretty please,” Avery responded, with not a hint of a smile on her face. This was serious business. “Pretty please, Mr. Vance. Pretty please, may I suck your big cock, sir?”
“My God, you’re a filthy …” His epithet stalled in his mouth, because he’d loosened his grip on her hair and she’d lunged smoothly forward, her red-painted lips gliding down his full shaft before he even knew what was happening. With his left hand now free, Michael reached down to caress Avery’s nipples; she squirmed and rocked on his fingers as she slurped, both hands circling the base and caressing his balls.
There was a loud knock at the door.
Avery’s wet mouth came free. “Go away!” she called. “I’m still getting ready!”
“We can’t find—” It was her father’s voice.
Her mother hissed furiously, almost inaudible, “Don’t tell her that!”
“But we can’t find the groom,” said her father, his stage whisper as inexpert as only a sixty-year-old man having kittens can produce. “Where’s Michael?”
“He’ll be here!” cried Mom. “Let’s leave her alone!”
Long before that last statement, Avery’s mouth had returned to her paramour’s cock, gliding quickly up and down as she looked up at his brightening eyes. He worked a third finger into her, the tightness of her sex making him need to press harder to keep his thumb firm on her clit. She could not suppress the deep, throaty moan that made her lips tremble around Michael’s cock.
“Careful. They’re all waiting. They’re downstairs in the garden. They can hear every moan.”
Avery shivered all over, mounting quickly toward orgasm. She pumped onto his hand, thinking desperately, They can. They can hear when I moan. They can hear it. Oh, God …
Then she came, her hips going crazy as she shook all over, her moans stifled by Michael’s cock deep in her mouth—so deep she would have choked if, expert that she was, she hadn’t taken a breath before climaxing.
As the last of her orgasm pulsed through her body, Avery slipped her wet mouth off Michael’s big shaft and, stroking it with her hand, looked up at him. “Fuck me, Mr. Vance?”
“Spread wider,” he told her, and she did, relinquishing her grip on his cock and reaching down to steady her thighs as she held them wide open for him. Michael positioned himself, guiding his rod to her sex, plucking the slim, white lace thong out of the way, and looked deep into her eyes as he nuzzled his cock head up and down in her slit.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” She could not stop saying it; her cunt was so sensitive from the explosive orgasm she’d just had that the gentle touch of his cock head against her opening was enough to make her shudder all over.
Michael grinned. He did not intend to stay gentle for long.
Avery’s back arched; she lunged to embrace him as he penetrated her, but Michael’s hand rested in the center of her chest, holding her at bay while he entered her fully. Her mouth opened wide and she shuddered in soundless moans, unable to find the breath to cry out as he fucked her. He held her, one hand on her chest, the other languidly grasping one knee, helping hold her open, exposing her sex as his hips began to work.
“I’m going to come again,” she said softly, her voice all but ravished by pleasure. Michael withdrew his hand from her chest and put it on her clit, fingers splayed where her pubic hair had been. His thumb worked her clit in small circles, teasing gently at first and then harder, harder, rubbing fiercely as he pumped his cock into her, seizing her eyes with his own, looking deep into her as she trembled all over and came hard—and then Michael let go, fucking deep inside her and coming while she breathed a deep sigh and accepted him.
“Ready for marriage?” he asked as he withdrew.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Still got plans for that four-poster bed?”
Michael grinned and zipped up. He helped Avery to her feet and the two began working furiously to right her corset and her dress. It was not quite perfection, but after a touch-up of her lipstick, she looked rather like a bride who’d been crying.
“Just stick to the story,” said Michael. “You’re crying from happiness—not because you’ve been deep-throating cock.” “You’re a savage,” said Avery.
Michael cinched up her corset, bent her over and smoothed down her dress.
At the door, Daddy pounded desperately, in hysterics. “Av, we can’t find Michael! He’s nowhere to be found! Have you seen him?”
Michael winked, said, “Think eighties teen comedy,” and his lean, six-foot-four frame went smoothly out the window. She heard him climbing the drainpipe and scrambling onto the roof. She thought, Well, that’s it, I’ll be marrying a corpse.
But there was no crash or thump, no great cry of a groom with a broken back—just the thunder of footsteps on the roof, and the climb down the far side; for fuck’s sake, that man sure had feet.
If anyone missed the thumping sound of Michael leaping off the rear deck onto the gazebo, they were clueless—but then, this was her family.
When she opened the door to embrace her hysterical father, Avery really was crying—with a great explanation.
“I don’t have anything borrowed!” she cried.
“Jesus Christ!” cursed her father, and she clutched him tightly, then winked at her mom—who, from the suspicious look on her face, knew exactly what she’d been doing in there.
Outside, she heard cheers and people crying out Michael’s name. “Oh, thank God,” said her father. “He’s shown up.”
“Look at that,” said her mother. “He hadn’t sped away in that goddamned jalopy of his, after all.”
“Yeah, he was busy,” said Avery, taking pleasure in her shamelessness; it still eluded her father, but Mom rolled her eyes—a mother knows.
Outside, Pachelbel’s “Canon” was playing; tradition, right?
Avery kissed her father on the cheek. “Come on, Dad. Walk me down the aisle.”
“With pleasure,” he said, relaxing with a sigh.
She wiggled, straightening her dress. She felt suddenly lucky. She decided she had the best, the very best, kind of good luck.
Something Old, Something New
Sophia Valenti
I sighed softly as I lowered myself onto Justin’s cock, relishing the familiar yet thrilling sensation. My eyes nearly fluttered closed as I savored that initial moment of penetration. I struggled to keep my gaze locked on him, and I was rewarded by the sexy look of longing etched on his handsome face. Although I could tell he was nearly consumed by lust, he didn’t dare think of rushing me. He simply rested his hands on my hips, his fingers occasionally clutching my flesh, but otherwise holding himself still as I enveloped him with agonizing slowness. The anticipation was sweet and the wait maddening, but it only served to make us hotter.
Justin and I had been so busy orchestrating our wedding during the past few months—and, more recently, being gracious hosts to our out-of-town guests—that we’d barely had time to breathe, much less have sex. But finally, it was all over and we were alone—completely, totally and blissfully alone. I didn’t need flowers, limousines or a frilly dress to be happy. All I needed was his hot shaft plunging inside me. I wanted to lose myself in the pleasure that only he could give me.
When I felt my bottom hit his plush sac, I let out a happy little gasp and ground down against him, rhythmically shimmying my hips. Each sharp spark of friction against my clit was like a match strike, the sudden influx of heat inflaming my lust and inching me closer to orgasm. I bucked and moaned, stroking the dark hair sprinkled across his muscular chest. I was torn between wanting the moment to last forever, and being desperate for release. I could see the same lust smoldering in my husband’s gray eyes. I was hopelessly lost in ecstasy, but as always, he knew what to do and how to take us over the edge.
Justin lifted me off him and positioned me on my hands and knees on the bed, so quickly that he made me laugh out loud. But that exclamation of mirth turned into a loud groan as he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me back against him, shoving himself inside me with one smooth motion. I glanced over my shoulder and smiled, knowing that I was in his very sexy and capable hands.
As I turned away from him, a flash of white caught my eye. It was the extravagantly priced French silk negligee that my maid of honor had insisted on giving me as a wedding gift. There it was, neatly draped over a nearby chair: a luxurious, full-length gown with a beaded bodice and delicate lace trim. I’d never even put it on. I had been considering slipping it over my head when Justin had stepped out of the bathroom, fresh from the shower. The sight of me standing there naked had been enough for him, and he’d immediately swept me off my feet and dropped me in the middle of the mattress.
Justin kept up his steady pace, pumping into me and occasionally leaning down to scatter kisses on my freckled shoulders. I tossed my head back and bucked my body against his, wanting him to thrust into me harder and faster. The slapping noise of flesh meeting flesh was hypnotic, sending me deeper into an erotic trance. Justin reached underneath me and cupped my breasts in his warm hands. His fingers danced over my nipples, making them achingly erect. He teased the tiny nubs, squeezing them between his fingers and thumbs until I gasped. The little bursts of pleasure-pain caused a rush of wetness to flood my pussy, and I began to corkscrew my hips as I continued to rock back toward him.
I may have begun our encounter with the desire to go slow, but that thought had completely flown from my head. I could hear Justin’s erratic breathing, and I knew that he was also rapidly approaching his limit. I closed my eyes and concentrated on what I was feeling: the blissful sensation of fullness that was now coupled with his fingers strumming my clit. I was so slippery wet—and thrashing about so intensely—that I wondered if he’d be able to keep up his delicious actions. But I had nothing to worry about, because after only a few minutes of his determined circles against my puffy button, I felt weeks’ worth of sexual tension disappear in a fabulous explosion of pleasure. I locked my thighs tightly together, trapping his hand and making an even tighter tunnel for his thrusting cock. Justin was clearly on the edge and didn’t let me distract him from his goal. As I shivered beneath him, he bucked into me one last time. I felt his shaft pulsing inside me as he let out one final groan and then collapsed against my back.
Gradually, my senses returned as we lay entwined on the bed. I glanced out of the window of our little cabin and saw the inky blackness of the night punctuated by the glittering stars we were never able to see at home in the city, even from our apartment building’s rooftop. The ship we were on was gliding through the Gulf of Alaska as we cruised our way toward fields of ice-blue glaciers. Most of our friends thought we were crazy, wanting to honeymoon amid snow-capped mountains, but Justin and I were never much for beaches, so we’d politely declined everyone’s well-intentioned recommendations of resorts in Jamaica and Cancun and forged our own way.
Justin lay back with me in his arms, trying to catch his breath as I lost myself in my thoughts. Sex with him had been amazing from the day we met, but I did occasionally have nagging little worries. Would we still feel the same way—have the same desire for each other—one year from now? How about ten or twenty? I’d heard married friends complain about disappearing sparks and mind-numbing routine creeping into their beds. I didn’t want that to happen to us, but I wasn’t yet convinced of the possibility of lifelong passion. I wanted to believe that it wasn’t a pipe dream. I knew there were happily married couples out there, and I hoped that Justin and I would be one of them.
Once we’d rested, we were both eager to rejoin the world. Well, the world as it was at that moment. Since we’d boarded the ship, we’d been hidden away in our tiny cabin. It was late and well past the official dinner hour, but we were ready to put on some clothes and explore what would pass as nightlife aboard our floating hotel. We weren’t expecting much, to be honest, because we’d been warned by our travel agent that the vacationers who favored that particular tour were often considerably older than us. We’d confirmed that fact during our check-in, when we’d noticed that most of the people surrounding us were elderly couples and there wasn’t a single child in sight.
I collected my tousled auburn curls, slipped on a dress and heels and headed out the door with a casually attired Justin, who led me through a maze of decks and hallways toward one of the ship’s lounges. As we approached the doorway, I could hear the smooth notes of an old standard that sounded as if it was being performed by a live band.
We crossed the threshold to find a cozy lounge lined with red velvet banquettes and dotted with small round tables. There were a handful of sweet-looking older couples slow-dancing to the band’s interpretation of an Ella Fitzgerald classic. Justin smiled and squeezed my hand as he led me out onto the dance floor. As I swayed in his arms, my eyes kept wandering to a handsome-looking man and woman who seemed to be greatly enjoying each other’s company. They appeared to be much younger than the other people who were twirling around us, but they still had a good twenty-five years on me and Justin.
The man was tall and tan, and his dark hair was fading to gray at his temples. Every time he laughed, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and he’d occasionally lean forward to kiss his companion on the top of her silver-streaked head. His dance partner was a trim lady who was smartly attired in a stylish black dress that I envied, her bare legs looking as fit as those of a woman half her age. Her hair was styled in a chin-length bob that accentuated her high cheekbones and beautifully framed her face. They effortlessly danced across the floor, looking breathtaking and elegant, and seeming to have eyes only for each other. But it wasn’t just their good looks that caught my attention. There was something about the way they interacted with each other that seemed so alive and affectionate: the way he’d stroke her cheek, the way she’d melt into his embrace. I actually wondered if they were newlyweds themselves. Don’t get me wrong, the other couples also seemed like they were having a swell time, but I didn’t sense the same sort of electricity sparking between them.
Justin pulled me closer, and we danced out the rest of the song before stopping for cocktails. As he handed me my drink, he noticed that I seemed distracted, and questioned me about it. I discreetly pointed out the arresting pair, who were still gliding across the floor. The man’s baritone laugh mingled with her lighthearted chuckle, creating a sweet melody that merged seamlessly with the music.
“They just seem so happy,” I said in an awestruck whisper, as I followed their every move.
“That’ll be us in thirty years,” Justin said, kissing me softly on the cheek. My eyes met his and I smiled. I was feeling more confident by the second that he was absolutely right.
Justin and I spent the next day enjoying all that the ship had to offer, and that evening eagerly dressed for dinner. After weeks of eating fast food on the run and dealing with seating-chart crises, it was luxurious fun to don formal attire and head off to the ship’s dining room. It was as if we were going out on a dinner date for the first time in months.
We were to share our table with only one other couple, who had not yet arrived as we took our seats. I wondered which pleasant set of grandparents we’d be spending our evening meals with. At the same time, I saw the attractive pair from the lounge enter the dining room and stride toward us. My mouth literally dropped open in surprise, but I managed to regain my composure before they’d reached the table.
Rafael and Suze greeted us warmly and introduced themselves before taking their seats across from us. We announced that we were on our honeymoon, which made them both smile as they told us they were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. So much for them being newlyweds—although they could have fooled me! As we chatted throughout our meal, the depth of their affection for each other was even more obvious in such a close, intimate setting. I could sense their connection, and without either of them ever saying anything remotely sexual to each other, I just knew that sparks still flew between them. During our conversation that evening, Suze assured me that there weren’t any deep, dark secrets to being a happy couple, aside from remembering to have fun and enjoy each other’s company. It was as if the heavens had made our paths cross to allay all of my unspoken fears about married life.
For the rest of our weeklong trip, I looked forward to our dinner conversations. I found the two of them absolutely charming, and I eagerly listened to their stories. The entire trip was everything I could have wished for: plenty of alone time with Justin, the opportunity to meet new, interesting people, and awe-inspiring views of Alaska’s sweeping vistas. However, Justin and I stumbled upon the most amazing sight of our vacation on the last night of our trip.
As much as I’d enjoyed our honeymoon, I was really looking forward to going home and beginning our life together as husband and wife. I was too excited to sleep that night, and I was sitting up and gazing out our window at the full moon. Justin wasn’t having much success falling asleep, either, and since it had been unseasonably warm the past few days, he suggested we take a walk outside on the deck.
I slipped on a spaghetti-strap dress and a cropped cardigan, while Justin stayed in his drawstring pants and T-shirt. His black hair was cutely mussed, and I ruffled it with my hand as I passed him to fetch my sandals. He simply laughed and grabbed the key card for our room before we quietly made our way outside, being careful not to disturb our slumbering neighbors.
The night breeze was soothing—cool but not cold—and perfumed with the scent of the salty sea. Justin wrapped his arm around my waist as we strolled along the deck. Aside from the crashing of the waves against the sides of the ship, there wasn’t another sound to be heard—until we approached a nook near the ship’s bow. We soon realized we weren’t the only night owls on board.
