My knees buckle as the first officer says, Your wife has been in a car accident, Miss Rivers.
No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
The second officer reaches out for my arm, as if to steady me. His grip is unnaturally tight. I’m afraid we’re going to have to escort you to the hospital.
I’m afraid you’re actually not going to be doing that.
And at the end of the hallway, God incarnated, is the stupid love of my life. Stupid, and disturbingly sexy, as she incapacitates both of the officers in less than five swift movements.
When both men are crumpled, black uniforms tousled around their bodies, Veah steps over them.
I bite my lip. In my hand, I am still holding the cassette for Taken. Maybe we should postpone the movie, because I really want to fuck you right now.
And then I notice she is holding somethingsomething that is not dangerous weaponry.
Veah grins as she raises a paper bag with cinnamon-sugared steam rising from its edges. I promise, I only had to kill a couple of people for this.
Inside the bag, there are five warm, sticky cinnamon buns.
You’re my other half, I say, sighing as I take out the first bun.
I hope you’re talking to me, Veah teases. That cinnamon bun didn’t have to beat city traffic and a few Yakuza to get here.
I take my first bite. I’m in love. Whatever you say.
I can’t believe I’m second place to a cinnamon bun, Veah groans, closing the door behind her and setting down her keys.
Get used to it.
Well, if you love that cinnamon bun so much, you can just use these two tickets I got to Hawaii and go on a honeymoon with it instead.
In the bliss of a sugar-coated daydream, it takes about twenty seconds to register.
Hawaii ?
Yes, Hawaii, but if you don’t want to go with me . . .
I finish the cinnamon bun. The warm, syrupy flavour melts on my tongue. Well, maybe I love you, too.
Only a maybe ? Veah produces the two tickets from inside of her jacket. I figure, you know, now that we’re going to be on the run for a little bit . . . why not enjoy it ? And considering we’re newlyweds
I throw my arms around her, and she kisses me.
You taste like cinnamon, she whispers against my mouth, gently biting my lower lip. I let out a soft, breathless moan, suddenly craving her.
You better make love to me right now.
Then you better admit you love me more than those cinnamon buns.
Jealous ?
Hardly, Veah whispers, her storm-and-slate eyes darkening. But I’d like to hear it anyway.
Jealousy is a hot look on you, I argue, as her arms tighten possessively over me. I am on my tip-toes now, leaning up towards her lush, cherry-hinted mouth.
Every look is hot on me, Veah replies with a smirk.
She’s not wrong.
Fine, I concede. I love you more than cinnamon buns. A pause. Sometimes.
Veah raises an eyebrow, her storm-grey stare electric in its intensity.
Fine, I confess. Most of the time.
I’ll take it, she says. Her hands slip over my waist, and she lifts me onto the edge of the counter. No takebacks.
So Hawaii, huh ? My heartbeat skyrockets as she pulls off my top and leaves a trail of soft kisses down to my navel. I . . . Am finding it hard to breathe.
I thought you might like it. White sands, pretty blue sea . . . I can’t wait to fuck you on the beach.
The thought makes me dig my fingers into her shoulders. Needy. Desperate.
Not if I fuck you first, I challenge.
Oh ? Her stare is lit with the heat of a sky on fire. We’ll see about that.
I suddenly can not stand the fact that we still have our clothes on.
And Veah seems to agree, because the next thing I know, my bra is on the floor and my dress is hiked up around my waist. Her mouth brushes, teasing and featherlight, across my abdomen . . . lower . . .
When she reaches the apex of my thighs, my fingers slide into her soft hair. I moan, Heaven.
One finger stretches inside of me. Then two. My hips writhe against the countertop, and I say her name like a prayer on the lips of a sinner. Desperate and dark and worshipping.
The sight of her tattooed fingers deepening inside of me is enough to make my back arch. Pleasure twisting within me.