Page 229 of Overcast

I raise Reagan’s books in my hand. “But your sister wants me to look through—”

“Quit screwing with me, Stormi. There is no way in hell you were still going to sleep in that room. I’ve had to spend the last two nights plus the fifteen we were apart waking up to an empty bed while you’re in another.” I keep his stare before he frowns down at me. “Shit...you’re serious.”

I force down my lips that want to lift upward. “Important decisions, you promised to talk to me about these things.”

“I did,” he mutters. “You’re serious about sleeping separately until we’re married?”

No.

I nod. “Yes.”

He releases a heavy sigh. “Alright.” He scoops the magazines out of my grasp and takes my hand. “Let’s go, baby.”

He then begins guiding me down the hall, passing his bedroom. “Where are we going?”

Marty isn’t supposed to be going up and down the stairs—my rules, not Lucien’s—for fear that his bad leg is going to give out and he’s going to tumble down them. He’s already a crazy person, I don’t need him to hit his head and make it worse.

“Courthouse,” he deadpans.

I gently jerk back on his arm, halting him to a stop. “Marty, I’m teasing. It’s fine.” Marty peers over his shoulder before turning to face me, his face unamused and hungry. “I hope you didn’t move all my stuff by yourself.”

“I did,” he growls. “And you’re sucking my dick for that, sweetheart, fast and rough.”

I roll my eyes. “Come on, I’ll show you those—” I sigh. “—booklets Reagan gave me.”

“I don’t give a shit about flowers when I have my fiance dressed in one of those easy access dresses that I like.”

“Marty,” I fake-whine. “She’s excited.”

“So am I,” he retorts, backing me up into the direction of his bedroom. His expression is one that he doesn’t want me to argue with him anymore.

Rounding my body, he lets me walk inside first.

The inside is masculine, which I don’t mind because it’s Marty. The walls are painted a dark blue, and nothing else dawns them. He has what looks to be framed awards and a family picture on his nightstand.

His hard chest finds my back, and he wraps an arm around my waist, leaning in to smell my hair. Also, to get into his kill shot position of where his mouth claims my neck, and he drives me crazy with his lips and tongue.

“We can repaint,” he mutters in my hair. “We can move the furniture around.” He kisses the shell of my ear. “We can do whatever you want.” His tongue follows, leaving a wet trail. “As long as you’re here with me every night, Stormi, I don’t give a fuck if you want everything in here hot pink.”

“I don’t want to change a thing,” I reply.

“Change one thing to make me feel better.”

I smile. “Fine, I’ll change the sheets or something.” His mouth finds the column of my neck. “And maybe those ugly curtains.”

They’re navy with generic designs in the shape of a diamond—from the eighties.

Marty chuckles, humming against my spine. “Sounds good.”

I turn in his arms, wrapping mine around his neck. “Now, what was that about rough and hard?”

His eyes harden. “Don’t tease me, sweetheart. You won’t touch me below the chest ever since I got shot.”

“Because you shouldn’t have moved,” I berate weakly.

“We’ve been through this. You weren’t going to die on my watch.”

“You don’t wear a watch and—” I graze his thigh and gradually ascend upward. “–I’d do it again just to keep you alive.”

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