“It’s definitely the best thing I’ve ever felt . . . well, besides having you inside me.”
He chuckles. “Keep saying shit like that and we’ll never leave this apartment.”
“We can’t have that.” My hands run up his back. “We have some food testing to attend today. Flowers and dance lessons are tomorrow. And then cake testing on Friday.”
“You’re so efficient.” He squeezes me tight and then helps me off the counter. “Can you wear that red dress I like so much? The one where I can see your cleavage?”
I roll my eyes. “You are such a horndog.”
“Is it too much to ask for my fiancée to wear what I want?”
“Only if you wear what I want.”
He chuckles and dries off with his towel. “If that were the case, I’d probably be wearing some clown outfit just because you think it’s funny.”
“It’s scary how accurate that is.”
He shakes his head and wraps his towel around his waist. “I know you, babe.” He winks and walks into the bedroom, leaving my heart stuttering and wanting more.
“Did you try the crab cakes?” Rath asks, mouth full, reaching for the teriyaki chicken. “Really fucking good, and dipped in that sauce, aah, babe, you have to try it.” He shoves some chicken in his mouth and then goes for another crab cake.
I’m not quite sure what I’m witnessing right now. I’ve never seen a human unhinge their jaw like Rath has, shove as much food in his mouth as possible, and be able to talk clearly while chewing. I know this is part of us getting to know each other better, but this is a whole new Rath Westin. I haven’t seen this unsophisticated side and honestly, even though it’s frightening, I love it. I love it so much.
“I’m not a big fan of crab cakes, but you enjoy them.” I pat his thigh.
“You sure? Because these are unlike anything I’ve had.”
Leaning closer, I say, “I thought you liked this place, that you’ve been here before.”
“I have.” He shoves a chunk of chicken in his mouth and chews while talking. “Never had the crab cakes though.”
“Mr. Westin,” the chef says, coming up to me, “is the food to your satisfaction?”
“Oh yeah.” A piece of chicken flies out of his mouth—the talented mouth that was on my pussy just this morning. “Great. Really great.”
I can’t help it. I snort into my napkin, unable to hold back anymore. He’s positively revolting to sit next to. A man in a three-thousand-dollar suit held to the highest decorum is devouring a tasting platter as if it’s his first meal back from a three-year trek across the Sahara.
So vile. So unlike him. So funny.
“Are you enjoying it as well, Miss Cox?” the chef asks, trying to tear his eyes off Rath.
“Oh, it was quite—”
Burp
Rath covers his mouth and chuckles as I startle and glance at my bridegroom. “Oh shit, sorry. Excuse me.”
Oh my God. I’m pretty sure his lips just shook like Homer Simpson while he burped. I saw it from the corner of my eyes, but I’m almost positive that’s what waved in my peripheral vision. Seriously, what happened to Mr. Westin? The guy sitting next to me right now is frat-boy Rath with zero manners and is counting up beer money in his spare time.
Turning back to the chef with a smile, I say, “It was quite lovely. Thank you. The chicken was superb with the mango chutney. I’ve never had anything like it.”
He bows his head and then says, “From the way Mr. Westin was eating the crab cakes, I’m going to guess those are winners as well.”
With sauce in the corners of his mouth, he holds up the last crab cake and says, “The best I’ve ever had in my life. You sold me on them.”
“Uhhhhhhh,” Rath groans, the sound of his voice vibrating off the porcelain walls of the toilet. “We are not . . .” He sits up, dry-heaves, and then rests his head against the toilet seat. On a deep breath, he continues, “Ordering the crab cakes.”
I run a cool rag over the back of his neck and rub his shoulders gently.
“You think it was the crab cakes?”
He nods. And turns his head to the side so he can look at me but still keep his mouth in the dump zone. “Had to be. You’re not puking.”
“I’m going to if you keep making those retched sounds while you throw up.”
His brow knits together. “What do you want me to do? Sing you a song while puke is coming out of my mouth?”
“Yes.” I nod and pat his neck. “If I could request “High Hopes” by Panic! At the Disco, that would be wonderful.”
“Unbelievable,” he says right before turning his head back in the toilet and going for what seems like round eleven.
After another half hour of him becoming great friends with the toilet, I help him to the bed where I gently tuck him in, place a trashcan next to him, and put lots of fluids on the nightstand. When I go to leave, he weakly says, “Where are you going?”
“I was going to let you rest.”
He holds out his hand. “Just lie here with me, please.”
It’s impossible for me to say no to him when he sounds that weak and pathetic.
I slip under the covers and sit up against the headboard while he rests his head on my lap. I gently stroke his hair and temple as he clings to me.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve become quite familiar with this man. Not emotionally familiar, because dragging personal information out of him seems next to impossible, but the touching . . . that’s what’s incredibly familiar. I don’t even think about it at this point. It comes naturally to me to kiss him, hold his hand, or strip naked when he demands it. And our working environment? It hasn’t even skipped a beat. He still gives me a list—now with one naughty thing at the bottom that I always love seeing—we still get work done, and we have no problem staying late to actually work, not fuck on his desk. We’ve been able to separate the two relationships—work and personal—which has been a huge weight off my shoulders. Was I worried that we wouldn’t be able to do it? Yes and no. I know I can stay focused and finish tasks when required. And Rath’s a driven, intelligent, and incredibly successful businessman. His success isn’t a fluke. He earned it. But since we introduced sex into our relationship, we have both been insatiable. He’s a god between—and outside of—the sheets. So, lack of self-control was a concern. But we’ve made it work. When he initially suggested the idea of getting married for my grandma, I said yes out of desperation. But as time has ticked by, I’ve become more conscious of how much more I want to learn about Rath Westin. He showed me many sides the other night at Grandma’s, and I liked every part I saw. The vomiting tonight . . . not so much.
“Thank you,” he says softly, “for taking care of me.”
I drag my thumb over his soft skin. “Of course. I can’t have my bridegroom puking by himself.”
He chuckles and squeezes me tighter. “I think it’s fair to say, the crab cakes are going to be a no-go.”
“I’ll make the call tomorrow. Maybe they’ll give us a discount because they gave you food poisoning.”