I grin hearing his comment and lower down my phone, aborting mission for another selfie despite the perfect lighting and angle.
He did take tons of good pictures throughout our time together which for tonight, they are all indeed spectacular.
But you know when you have this ridiculously beautiful dress, face full of an hour worth of make up, the perfect hair after such struggles to style it, well, there will never be enough camwhoring despite all the good pictures. The effort of getting ready for the rehearsal dinner deserves to be recognised at least with ten worthy-to-post-at-Instagram pictures.
"Sit on my lap," he commands after taking a seat next to me, "let's take a selfie together."
I oblige and move my ass on his thighs, which he quickly wraps his arms around my waist, then smells me from behind, "I can't wait to get inside you."
I giggle hearing his whisper, "Which one Owen? A selfie or be inside me? Make up your mind."
In a flash he already pushes my dress and shifts the thong, inserting himself from under me, "Now let's take a cute selfie with my dick in you."
I am too stunned by how fast everything happened so he takes my phone and snaps a few pictures of us, looking descent and fully clothed when in reality, his fly is undone with his hardness deep in me.
"Do you want more or shall we enter the cumzone now?"
I burst in laughter when he already ditches the phone somewhere, now generously helping my legs to be raised upward, taking my whole weight in his arms as if I'm that light.
Without waiting for me to get ready for the impact, he starts slamming in me that I scream by the hard thrusts.
Between the jokes and lame pick up lines, it's always amazing how he can turn his cheerful mood into being a beast when it comes to fucking. Not even holding back but pounds on me like I'm a piece of meat, which I am more than happy to be treated so.
We have afterall, made all the vanilla sex during the day. Unleashing the beast once the moon is out!
I've decided to be honest with him since we've been one all eleven weeks we're together. So that afternoon after we got back from the church, I tell him what I know about Gerard.
"He's my third boyfriend." Is all he said. And then he went on with undressing his suit and slides into the shower, cutting off the conversation.
I try again when we're getting ready for the reception dinner, "How long were you guys together?"
"Hm?" He stops fixing his cufflink and looks at me.
"Gerard. How long were you guys together?"
"Oh," he continues with the previous task while still maintaining the eye contact, "A few months. Not even a year."
"Why did you guys break up?"
He fixes his hair next, now looking in the mirror, "Things didn't work out I guess."
"Do you still love him?"
He doesn't say anything but keeps on playing with his hair, when I know it's already perfect.
"You still love him." I conclude.
All of a sudden he turns around, "Of course I still love him. When I fall in love, I fall hard." I feel this weird pain surge into my heart, my legs feel weak from his admission.
"But then it's too much work that we don't think the love alone can save us anymore, so breaking up is the best choice. It's better to be whole alone than be broken together." Shit. I think I just hit a nerve.
"I'm sorry if I made you feel whatever you don't wanna feel again." Grow up Elle, people break up not for fun. Sometimes they've tried their best, just like him and Gerard. Stop being childish and think this will be a story where Gerard will suddenly come and snatch Owen from you. He's not even yours to begin with.
He's not even yours to begin with. Okay. That stabs me right to the heart. I'm genuinely hurt now, brain.
"Too late," he approaches me, "You already made me feel whatever I don't wanna feel."
His intense gaze with that statement coming out of his mouth make me feel guiltier, "I'm sorry I made you feel that."
"Don't be sorry, it's my fault I fall for you." Oh wow. What's that again?
"For every minute passing, I hope I can stop the time so I can be with you, so you won't leave me. I know I sound clingy but I really like you. I really like you, Elle. I have these feelings that I want to be with you for the rest of my life, share all the little things happening in my life, and I want to know what's happening in yours doesn't matter how silly you think it is."
I blink hearing his confession. Just blink, with my mouth shut because I really don't know what to say or do.
When daddies confessed their feelings to me at first I would also be surprised like this, but a day later I'd recover and string them until the end of the contract. After that I bolted out and ran for my life, completely blocked them with no communication whatsoever.
But who was I kidding. They have money. So they tracked me down and after some explanation that I didn't feel the same way with them and had no intention to go further beyond the contractual term, we ended things like two civilised adults.
"I..." this is the part I ask for a day to digest everything, "Can we talk about this after we get back to New York?" Thank God we're two hours away from the city.
"Sure," he smiles, then kisses my forehead, "We'll talk when we're home." Home.
Five minutes ago I would've agreed it's home too but right now that's the last place I wanna go. Or be.
I don't want things to end too but I know I need to go through the ending because my goal is a bright future that I carve out myself, not being stuck with a sugar daddy for the rest of my life.
Mason and Mimi are the cutest creature I've ever met. I won't lie I'm jealous to see the picture perfect family of Evie; a loving, loaded, crazy-gorgeous husband, a pair of adorable kids, and her looking happy and belonged, I'm sure if I say yes to Owen we'd look like that too in others' eyes.
But he's a client. That's against my principle.
To hell with that principle. It's not like he's a daddy daddy. He's more like a boyfriend-daddy rather than an old wrinkly disgusting man who plays daddy to a young, half-his-age sugarbaby.
But what happen to the love story? Evie told me how Augustine wooed her, proposed to her, and finally married her with the wedding they both dream of. I want that.
I want a guy who'd woo me after a cute scene of meeting him somewhere, not because an agent called me to see a client who's interested to hire me for 12 weeks.
"Hey," he stops typing on his laptop when I invade his side of the bed that night after we return to our room.
We don't talk much throughout the reception; I was busy chatting with Mason and Mimi because they're too smart and adorable while Owen mingle around with other guests who're also his friends. I don't know any of those people that's why I'm prone to spending time with the twins rather than be his arm candy.
But now, after the confession, then the reception, we're back on this bed, which I don't know if it's okay to even be next to him since I haven't given him my answer.
Five days left, Elle. Only five days left.
"Where do I sign?" I let out a straight tone once I gather all the courage I have to finally talk to him.
He stops hitting the keyboard and turns to me, oh God. Why do you have to be so hot and sexy. Your hair is the definition of sexy, your eyes never fail to grab me into your world, your lips-
"Where do I sign, Owen?" I repeat the question with the same tone but this time emphasising each word.
"Sign what, Precious?"
I take the laptop off his lap and put it next to me, then climb on him replacing the spot where the laptop resided half a minute ago, "I want your package," I cup his clothed hardness underneath me, "so where do I sign, Owen?"
He laughs heartily as I giggle at my victory to lighten the mood between us. I actually spent some time in the bathroom looking for a pick up line that can help our situation, good thing it worked.
"You're so cute." He mutters as he shakes his head a couple times, now smiling widely with my favorite dimple etched on his cheek. So I kiss that exact spot knowing I'm gonna miss the dimple so much.
"So, so cute." He gently manoeuvres the direction of my lips to fall on his instead of the cheek.
Okay, think I can be cute for another five days.