Page 47 of Stealing His Cupcake
Laughing, Wyatt twirls us around until we nearly stumble off the porch. “You’re perfect, cupcake. Now sit down and eat your breakfast before it gets cold. We have some shopping to do.”
Chapter 35
Amy
Wyatt’sideaofshoppingis handing me a laptop and telling me to order anything I want. At first, he seems content just to sit close by and let me do it alone, but when he notices me browsing my usual discount and resale sites, he steps in. “New things, cupcake. High quality. Comfortable. You don’t have to wear pretty things for me, but I don’t want you to wear stuff that has been sewn by some poor kids in an illegal sweatshop and has the fabric composition similar to a plastic bag. Here.” He opens several browser windows, each displaying an online clothes store with eye-watering prices. “These are all fair trade. No child labor involved.”
I watch my husband with new appreciation. “I didn’t know you cared about those kinds of things.”
Expression darkening, Wyatt simply shrugs. “Kids should be left the fuck alone.”
“True.” Since he doesn’t seem to want to discuss it further, I squeeze his hand in silent support before turning my attention back to the screen, even if in my stomach, butterflies flutter their colorful wings. Wyatt may claim he’s a bad person not caring for morals, but that’s clearly another lie.
Eyes skimming over the wide selection of garments, I put a few into the basket. Just some basics—another dress, a “nice” set of underwear, a few tops, and shorts and leggings without holes in them. Looking at the absurd total, I reconsider the lingerie set. I don’t really need that. It would be nice to have something sexy, but it’s not a necessary expense. Just when I click the button to remove it from the shopping cart, Wyatt scowls deeply. “You’re taking that.” Stealing the laptop from me, he adds the lingerie back. “Maybe in the white, too. I bet that would look angelic. Oh, and this too. And that one.”
My eyes bulge when he keeps adding things. “Wyatt, I don’t need five lingerie sets, and I don’t even wear teddies! I don’t have a body for something like that.”
“Sweetheart, trust me. You will look ravishing in this. But you’re right. I imagine all that lace wouldn’t be comfortable for daily wear. You need some normal underwear too. Cotton or microfiber? I prefer microfiber but some people like cotton more. Let’s get you a few pieces of each. Hmm, what else?” He frowns at my purchases again. “Just one dress? Seriously, Amy?”
“Um. Uh?” I sputter, flabbergasted. “I already have one dress here.” Somewhere. “I can swap between them. I don’t need more. Where is my dress, by the way?”
Eyes glued to the screen, Wyatt waves a hand to the side. “I washed it. The label said no tumble drying, so I hung it outside. There’s a clothesline attached to that side of the house. What about this?”
Glancing at the screen, I snort. “Absolutely not. This cut looks horrible on my body type. I’d look like a sausage stuffed into a casing two sizes too small,” I explain, not even surprised that he did the laundry and even checked the labels to make sure nothing was damaged in the process.
“You’d look like a very sexy sausage,” Wyatt teases. “Okay, not this one, then. Pick something you’ll feel comfortable wearing. But more than one dress, Amy. That’s an order.”
Arousal tingles in my core at his commanding tone, but I still protest. “I don’t need—”
“No, you don’t need it,” Wyatt cuts me off. “But can you look me in the eye and honestly say you don’twantit?”
I can’t. Not really. Because who the hell doesn’t like buying things for themselves just because they feel like it? “I definitely don’t want the sausage dress.”
Wyatt chuckles, then leans over to steal a kiss. “Not the sausage dress, then. But pick others, please. Or anything else you like. Please, Amy. Let me make you happy.”
I just about swoon. “You already make me happy,” I whisper because it’s true. Our relationship might not be typical or even healthy, but I am happy. “But if you want it so much, I suppose I can tolerate owning more clothes.”
“Good girl,” Wyatt says, and the soft tingle of arousal turns blossoms into a flame. His voice is raspy as he whispers, “Your suffering will be well rewarded,” into my ear. As my pussy grows wet, I decide I really do need more underwear.
It’s early afternoon by the time we finish “shopping” and Wyatt takes me for a tour of the house. In one word, it’s perfect. I have tried to guess where Wyatt lives as we traveled over from Kansas City, but a beautiful country house didn’t figure in any of my fantasies. I had him pegged as the type who lives in a massive, impersonal penthouse, or in a sprawling mansion. The house is neither of those things.
Aside from the living area with the kitchen and the bedroom, there’s just one guest room with a small en-suite, and that’s it. The house is neither massive, nor sprawling, and it most certainly isn’t impersonal. A designer might have furnished and decorated the rooms because, as Wyatt said, he had no eye or patience for that, but his touch is visible everywhere I look. There are shelves with colorful rocks and oddly shaped roots and twigs. There are newspaper clippings with random headlines pinned to a corkboard. There are freaking balls of yarn hiding in the most improbableplaces. It’s not even cute. It’s waybeyondcute. I’m sure there’s a stronger word than “cute” but my brain can’t find it, especially as I stare at a collection of crocheted figurines. They’re so detailed I have no trouble recognizing which movie or TV show they come from. They’re also soft and squishy and I absolutely want to steal them and keep them forever.
The basement isn’t cluttered like Wyatt said when assuring he wouldn’t lock me up there, but there really isn’t much space. Tall shelves take up a big part of the room, filled with cans and jars, a lot of them homemade. Why doesn’t it even surprise me that Wyatt would can his own produce?
Torture devices occupy the rest of the room. Not literal ones, though what else is gym equipment if not a torture device? There are half a dozen of them, though I only recognize the stationary bike and that thing that moves under your feet as you walk. Or run. Ugh. Running.
As much as I hate gyms, I make a mental note to visit the next time Wyatt’s exercising. I bet watching him lift weights and punch the bag hanging in the corner will be quiteinspiring.
Later, Wyatt orders several pizzas, arranging them on the coffee table in front of a huge screen. The seating area is the pinnacle of comfort, with a couch and armchairs you just sink into, feeling like you’re sitting on a cloud. When Wyatt starts microwaving popcorn, I grin. “Are we watching a movie?” What a normal thing to do.
“We can do that later, but don’t you have your TV-show date with your friend this afternoon?”
“Oh!” Kayla. With everything that happened yesterday, I completely forgot about that. Kayla! Oh my god, what will I tell her? She’s my best friend and I hate lying to her but I can’t exactly say,“Yeah, I got kidnapped by the guy who was sent to kill Craig, and guess what? We got married yesterday and I’m really happy with him. And no, don’t call the police. Everything is totally fine!”
A popcorn kernel pops in the microwave, tearing me out of my thoughts. Concern darkens Wyatt’s expression. “You can’t tell heranything, Amy. Nothing about Craig and Turbo, ever, and nothing about me and us. Not yet.”
Not yet. “Does that mean that one day I can tell her about you? Not about what you do, of course,” I add quickly, “but about my amazing, sexy husband?”
