Home > My Only Wish (Love Is Love #4)

My Only Wish (Love Is Love #4)
Author: Leigh Lennon

 

PROLOGUE

 

 

SHAW

 

He was fun. Yeah, Lonnie was fun. I wouldn’t mind another night or even another round before Lane sends him on his way. My hands hold on to the small sink in our bathroom. In my stance, my jaw is both physically and visibly tight. My reflection isn’t the one I had when I placed a kiss on Lonnie’s lips and told him I’d be right back.

In the past several months, I’ve wanted more, a hell of a lot more than Lane and I had agreed to when we decided to invite other men into our bed. Lonnie is the kind of man I could see long term, and a couple more times wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Lane is against more than one night. He claims three in a long-term relationship is complicated and impossible. I’d say he’s speaking from past experience, but it’s not like he’s ever been able to justify it. As a matter of fact, when I push him, he’s like a drought in the Midwest during a hot summer—he dries up and has nothing to share.

It’s time, though, that I’m honest. I reach for an aqua stone I keep in the medicine cabinet, representing the throat chakra, balancing me where I can speak the truth and clearly communicate my desires. Our relationship has been built on it from the beginning, sans the past I believe he’s keeping from me. And I’m not hurt he can’t share it yet, but it would only allow me to understand him better.

I scrub my face with a washcloth and turn toward our bedroom, resolve in my heart to talk to him after Lonnie leaves. Oh, and insist on one more time with him. The kid, no more than twenty-eight, has lips like a Hoover vacuum and knows when to apply a lot of suction or when to ease up a little.

I swing the bathroom door open with the imagery I’ve just concocted in my mind, and with a smirk on my face, I look around our bedroom. “Is Lonnie gone?”

The typical resting bitch face that makes Lane sexier than the norm quirks into a large grin. For my man, he’s all about the pre-show. He thinks it ramps me up for an encore of sex. And where sex has always been out of this world with Lane, I’ve missed something lately. Not between Lane and me. I love the man fiercely, but for some reason I want another to love. And if I tell him this, will he think I don’t love or desire him anymore?

“Yeah, sexy, he’s gone. I mean, affection isn’t why we bring them home. It’s to fulfill a need we both have.”

I’m still naked, except for my lacy undies, and he continues to stare at me as though I’m his next meal. It turns me on. It turns me the hell on, but he’s never asked me what I want after a fuck with a third in our bed.

My own lips turn downward. I’m not one to pout when I don’t get my way. I’ve seen men do it, and it works on some of them, while on others it’s utterly ridiculous, but it’s not my thing. However, right now it’s pout or start a fight. And though fighting words are about to form on my lips, I’m not sure it’s the way to bring up this conversation.

“Sexy, what’s wrong? Talk to me.” He turns my cheek to his and runs kisses up my jawbone.

I jump backward on the bed, sitting criss-cross applesauce. I dispel a deep breath, and I guess it’s now or never to share my own desires.

“Don’t you ever get tired of this? The occasional hookup. Nothing more.”

There’s a flash of anger in his hazel eyes. Whoa, put on the brakes, is what my brain is screaming, but Lane is rather sensitive. I can be, too, with my taller stature. I’m a man who is a little more feminine, he accepts me for who I am, and honestly, I can’t ask for anything else in my life partner and Lane is my life, despite the little tantrum he’s keeping bottled up inside of him.

We’re at odds with one another over our future. This will be just another thing we disagree on, but it goes further. I don’t believe in the power of a legal document binding us together for life. It’s a choice and I feel it’s simply formalities, and as a couple we show commitment better when there is a want to stay together and not a need. He wants me to wear his ring, along with a wedding and the coupling of us together, but I’m a little less traditional in my desires, and it shows with what I’m asking of him.

His actions, in the way he brings his fingers to his lips and taps his foot, are one of a man surprised as he begins, “Sexy, you love a third person in our bed occasionally. I love watching another man fuck you. You know how much of a voyeur I am. And you love watching me watch you. Are you telling me inviting someone for the night is something you don’t want to do anymore?”

I avert eye contact but have to answer him nonetheless. “Not exactly. I just…”

He crawls over to me in the middle of our king-sized bed. “What is it, sexy? You know I’ll move heaven and earth and anything in between to make you happy.” This part is true because he’s let up on the marriage aspect of our relationship.

“You won’t like it.” I attempt to stare his way, as he is doing the same with me. My eyes are heavy with mascara, but he loves it on me. He says it brings out the emerald in them. And I wonder if this is what he’s looking at.

“Try me. I love you so much, Johnson Shaw.” I hate when he uses my dreadful first name, but it gets my attention and I know he’s serious.

Part of me is ready to get this out, but I don’t sense a balance within me. I should wait, meditate, and cleanse my chakras. They are blocked, they have to be, and it’s why I’m so off-balance.

I lean into his space, my fingers dancing over his skin. “You know I love you, right, Lane Zendayio?”

“Of course I do, sexy.” He drops a kiss on my forehead. “So, just tell me, what’s this about?”

It’s now or never. “I want more than one random night with another guy. I want it to be a permanent part of our life, a commitment, and someone else we can love.”

He stops still in his tracks and backs up, out of the space of our bed. He pushes himself up and silently retreats through the threshold of our bedroom. The hinges of our front door squeak, an indication he won’t be staying in our apartment for the night. Shutting it behind him, it’s neither quiet nor a slam, and it’s his way of ending the conversation before it begins.

 

 

1

 

 

TWO WEEKS LATER

 

 

LANE

 

The Male Box is abuzz with the pre-party flutters. Caterers have been in and out of the bar all day, and a decorator was hired for this shindig. I’ve never seen crystal lights or sheer drapes hanging from the ceiling. The Male Box was created for no-nonsense drinking and get-togethers, but this is over-the-top even for Shaw.

But to ask Shaw why there’s so much hoopla for a bachelor party with two of his best friends as the guests of honors, it would mean we’d have to be talking to one another. And because the only thing we tend to do is wake the other up in the middle of the night for a good angry fucking, I won’t be asking him how our very masculine bar, with the word male in it, has been turned into a bridal boutique.

I find my inventory list, attempting to get my bearings for what we’ve bought in anticipation for the bachelor party, compared to our stock for a typical week.

Shaw hadn’t separated the order when it came in and now it’s up to me. The service Ryder ordered to make our dive bar a tad bit more elegant has champagne flutes set out, along with a variety of more lights strung on the tables. How many lights does one party need?

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