Being My Brother-in-law's Wife (Old version)

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15.

Do you like the way I flick my tongue or nah...

You can ride my face until you’re dripping cum...

Can you suck that dick and throw it back or nah...

Or do you mind if I stretch your pussy out or nah...

That song made sweet love to my ears, the same love my husband made to me countless times last night. A smile can’t help but make way on my lips, husband. Husband. Husband. Husband. I could never get tired of that word nor the man who made the junction in between my thighs ache.

Wait, he’s listening to The Weeknd?

“Mason,” I grumble forcing one eye open only to regret it after. The yellow spills out of the mild purple and stings my eyes, sending me back into the covers head first.

“Good morning,” a voice awakens me and I peep one eye open, Mason adorning a sight I didn’t expect so soon, jeans and a shirt.

You probably still wanted him naked I see.

I blush at my conscience.

Mason’s eyes are very observant and instinctively, I throw the cover over my bare body, “Mia moglie, my tour guide promised to show me each and every monument in Cape Town yet she’s sleeping the day away.”

“I need a kick start,” I suggest seductively with a weak laugh “just something to get me up.”

Mason’s lethal eyes scan my face and he mumbles something in Italian before disappearing under the covers, what is he doing...

Jesus fúcking Christ! Forgive thy for swearing!

“Do you know any good restaurants here?” Mason murmurs quietly in my ear, his hands brushing my hips before moving to grab my rear. His grabbing was sudden and arousing, forcing a soft gasp to emit from my lips.

“There is a Portuguese restaurant just a few minutes away from here so dear lazy husband of mine, we shall walk.” I smile proudly at myself after completing my twin fishtail braids that complimented the white high-collar jumpsuit defined with a gold belt that Mason had picked out for me while we were in Hollygrove.

Mason tugs one end of a braid, swinging it around before bringing it to his nose, “micio, why do they have to be in braids?”

Did he honestly just ask that question? I would’ve thought with his experience involving women than he’d know why I would braid my hair.

“Getting them to the level three curls they are is hard work,” I scoff, reaching over the bedside table to retrieve my cell phone “we should go now before you have another meal.”

Mason chuckles, eyes screwed shut, “you don’t seem to complain, if anything, I’d say you love it.”

Of course you do! My conscience heckles with her legs up in the air.

Our fingers were twined together merely because I liked the reaction of the women gazing at my husband as if he’s Adonis and sulking after finding that he’s my man. Something about our fitting hands brought a great smile to my face but I doubt he would take note of such; Mason obviously isn’t one for feelings.

After avoiding a lot of people, half naked couples heading to the beach and street vendors, Mason and I found the restaurant that was situated in a place where Table Mountain could easily be admired. The place had a sophisticated feel to it but youngsters donning designer ensembles reined the place, which is explanation as to why Silento started playing while we were skimming the menu.

“I hate this song.” I mutter looking up from my menu and Mason was actually bopping his head to the music. I lean back in my seat and admire the tousled haired man, who had his bottom lip in between his teeth as he rubbed the gorgeous ring on his finger.

“Mason isn’t an Italian name, is it?” I ask quietly and his lively eyes find my boring brown ones.

“No,” he mutters leaning back into his seat with a smile “my mother is Italian and English.”

That explains her beauty.

“You took her eyes,” I blurt out, leaning on my clenched fist as a slight rose hue settles in his cheeks “such beautiful blue eyes.”

“You think my eyes are beautiful?” he laughs, taking one of my hands into his and brushes my wedding rings “thank you, mia moglie because your eyes are bellisima.”

I scoff, a smile daring my lips but I manage to conceal it, “brown isn’t a fascinating colour so I doubt they’re impressive at all.”

“Never mind the colour,” he whispers kissing my knuckles gently “your eyes are almond-shaped and light when you’re happy, scorching when you’re angry or furious,” he kisses my knuckles again “but dark and lethal when I’m making love to you.”

Before I embarrass myself by mumbling something stupid I ask, “Can I borrow your phone for a quick second?”

“Checking for infidelity so soon caro?”

I force my lips into a tight smile before dropping it, “if I did then I’d be caring and we both know I don’t.”

Mason pursues his lips into a thick line and slackens his jaw before giving me his iPhone 6, “yesterday’s date.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yesterday’s date, our wedding date, is my password.”

I have nothing to apologize for and I kept my lips shut while I was scrolling down his music list until we were attended to, “good day, my name is Keegan and I’ll be your waiter today. Shall I tell you the African cuisines we also offer?”

Keegan was a young, lean male with rich caramel skin and light brown eyes, coloured as many would cast him but his skin tone wasn’t what I found intriguing the most. Keegan was obviously attending to Mason far more than he was attending to me and he bit his lip while dipping down to show my husband the African dishes I had to offer.

“Uh, I’ll only eat the African dishes my wife prepares, young man,” Mason shifts uncomfortably in his seat but with every glance he stole of me I made sure to visibly stifle my laugh.

“But we offer South African dishes, it doesn’t get more original than this,” Keegan offers seductively and that’s when my laughter left the confined walls of my mouth, resulting in both men staring at me dumbfounded.

“Uh,” Lie. Smoothly. “I found Sade’s By Your Side and I didn’t know that he had the song.”

Pathetic? Tell me about it.

Even I got agitated at the way Keegan was ogling at my man and ended up ordering for both of us, “we’ll just have two English breakfasts, four garlic bread slices and two cups of Rooibos tea please.”

“And you?” Keegan grins smugly and attends to Mason – woah; did he just imply that I could’ve just ordered all that food for myself?

“I’m pretty sure my wife ordered everything for the both of us,” Mason grimaces suddenly and pulls a seat beside me, enticing a bubbling feeling deep within my body, “now go attend to our order or I will call your manager.”

Keegan flinches at that command and grabs the menus before dashing away. I was so encased in their little love session that I stopped scouting his music, “your boyfriend is cute.”

Mason groans, his hand on my thigh, “Jae, now we both know that I like doing poking, not the other way around.”

My cheeks heat up and the suggestive squeezes he offers me only intensify the feeling, “mason, you can’t be so foul-mouthed whenever you feel like it.”

“Why the hell can’t I speak publicly about making love to my beautiful,” he kisses my lips “sexy,” he kisses me again “intelligent wife?”

Did he treat Selena with this amount affection as well?

“Well, there’s kids here,” I wave my hand in the air to gesture the snobby kids “and I really want to talk about your music.”

“My music?” he pinches his brows in confusion “is there anything wrong with my music Jae?”

Mason has beautiful music, psychedelic that I would only listen to. Mona’s music is loud, rowdy and has more screaming than actual singing. Every day after Mona performed in a hip restaurant after school I would indulge in pacifying music that would calm the flames induced by my sister’s music. Music for me is a turn on because I’m very picky on whom to listen to and Mason possessing such gorgeous music is an added bonus.

I smile shyly at him, “I wouldn’t have expected you to listen to Sade, The Weeknd, Frank Sinatra – I could go on forever.”

Mason is quiet for a few moments, studying me with harsh pastel blue eyes. I wanted to question why he was suddenly quiet but his words stopped me from doing that task.

“You’re immensely different, what kind of female fawns over soothing jazz and pseudonym songs?”

I frown at him, obviously offended at how rude he could be, “only because I happen to have the same music as you, what kind of women did you associate yourself with?”

“Ones who would’ve asked to go shopping for clothes long ago.” And the fact that he just said that with calmness and a shrug worries me; he’s actually enraptured by gold diggers.

“You’ve had sad relationships then,” I laugh at him but then the smell of food intercepts my laughter, my eyes settling on a very queasy Keegan balancing our orders in his hands. Carefully, he sets them on the table and gives us one curt nod before disappearing from us.

“Rooibos?” Mason mumbles while swinging his cup around his nose and bops his head in approval “smells good.”

“Taste good as well,” I too inhale the sweet rich aroma of the tea “so, I was thinking we could go to Robben Island first but it tends to become occupied during the holidays so we could go to the Apartheid museum instead.”

Mason offers me a sweet but plastic smile, “as long as you’re riding me tonight I couldn’t care less.”

Ignoring the first part of his sentence with a slight blush I say, “Honestly, I’m trying to go all out but you fail to meet me half way. Maybe black culture and apartheid doesn’t entice you but mind I remind you that your wife is black too.”

Mason slides a piece of sausage into his mouth and chews slowly before swallowing, “I don’t understand why you’re so keen on researching old wounds even though you weren’t born at the time of this oppression.”

Scusi!

“Try reincarnation,” I take a generous sip of my tea and hoist myself up with a smug smile “I’m going to go to the front office and get us a ride to that place.”

“Jae, that won’t be necessary,” Mason warns with an arched brow and low voice “I hired a car this morning.”

"Oh,” I clap my hands in excitement and totally ignore his words purposely “he could give us a tour of this place before we leave for Tanzania.”

“Jae –” I was long gone and standing at the front desk, punching in the numbers of a random business card I found in a stack of brochures.

“Hello, is this,” I glance quickly at the business card before returning to the call “Nishan Roberts?”

"Hallo vrouens?"

Vrou---vrou what? The male had a thick, rugged accent with a jagged voice. There was no doubt in the male was from Cape Town, the Afrikaans slang is their thing and I attempted to pick up on it while visiting South Africa, although it is in need of intense polishing.

“Erm, my husband and I were hoping if you could give us a ride to the Apartheid museum and possibly give us a tour of Cape Town?”

"Hoe lank bly julle?" (How long are you staying here?)

“Kyk, ek kan nie goed Afrikaans praat nie so kan ons Engels praat?” (Look, I can’t speak proper Afrikaans so can we just resort to English)

Nishan laughs heartedly and I felt giddy at my action, I just told someone where to get off, ”okay, so how long?”

“Two-three days I think.” That’s if he doesn’t decide to make love to me all day.

"Is today your first day?"

“Yes,” I toy with the business card “look, I’ll totally understand if you’re too busy to give us a tour.”

"Absolutely not! I wouldn’t mind giving some tourists a tour, where are you now?"

What is the name of this place again?

“Dias Tavern,” I hope I said that correctly “could you be here soon?′

"Absolutely, who am I speaking to?"

“Jaenelle, Jaenelle DeLuca. We’re the obvious newlywed couple in case you decide to come in.”

"Alright,” Nishan laughs lowly ”I’ll see you in ten minutes."

I trot back to my seat and to fit the mood, The Hills by The Weeknd begins to play on the radio. Mason shoots me a harsh glare, eyes lethal and gorgeous. He is not quite a happy trooper at the moment but nothing could take me down my power trip.

“Why you a moody Suzy?” I blink my eyes innocently at him, scooting a little too close to him than we were previously even though I didn’t mind it one bit.

“Your food is cold;” he daps his napkin on the sides of his face and I could read his dangerous eyes “aren’t you a fan of food?”

“I am,” I mutter morosely while chewing on my cold tomato slice “I’ve called a guy to take us to the museum.”

Mason seems far too infatuated with the silverware, arranging them fittingly in front of me “We’re not leaving this place until you eat.”

What?

“Excuse me?” I chuckle arching a brow “Mason, I’m a grown aṡs woman, not a child.”

“Well I refuse to have you starve yourself just so you can look like those models.”

I push my plate away and shift my body to him, all my undivided attention diverted to him, “what makes you think that?”

“You forget that I’m older,” only by three years! “And I’ve been around enough to see the first signs of anorexia, bulimia and other eating disorders. Italian men happen to like their women thick so I will not allow you to continue with your juvenile behaviour.”

“Mason –” for the millionth time Mason interrupted me once again.

“I already ordered another plate for you and I will watch you until every morsel is nowhere in sight.”

I’m bloated, infuriated and the heat of Cape Town isn’t assisting either. The situation would’ve settled a lot time if Mason bothered enough to apologize for his fallacious assumption but he seemed too encased in his iPhone to even care. Cast it into juvenility but I ignored Mason and pretend to sway to the low tone belonging to Nishan as he practically begged me to sit in front with him.

“Where did you learn Afrikaans?” Nishan asks, indicating to gain right of way into the busy street.

“I came here when I was nineteen and fell in love with this place.”

“So you’re not from here,” Nishan mumbles with a bashful smile “where are you from?”

“New Orleans,” I turn my head to the backseat only to find Mason tapping furiously on his screen.

It wouldn’t hurt if he could be jealous now, throw a hissy fit or do something to show that he cares...anything to show that he cares.

“How will you be in there?” Nishan asks, his head jutting forward to get a better look at us.

“An hour, tops.” I promise with a smile.

“I’ll hang around then, but I’ll be back in an hour.”

I grab Mason’s wrist and drag him behind me as we enter the market place. The place was an open area; stores on display with no concealment whatsoever and the jewellery pieces were so captivating. They would’ve captivated my husband if he actually paid attention to the ornate beads.

“Caro,” I call out and he finally lifts his eyes up from phone, although he had a cute innocent facial expression going on.

Don’t fall for it! My conscience seethes.

“Hand it over.” I motion his phone with my finger.

“Tesoro, you can’t make me do that.”

“Mind I remind you that I wasn’t team Honeymoon until you begged me.”

"Begged?” Mason gasps.

“Like a horny dog.” I spit “now, hand it over.”

“Micio,” he frowns, eyebrows raised up high “you don’t have to be hasty.”

“I will make sure you’ll be the first sexually deprived man on your honeymoon –” I’m cut short when he hands me his phone, his eyes settling on the nearest beads he could find.

“I like those.”

“You do?” I challenge with an open-mouthed smile.

“I gave you the satisfaction now leave me alone.” I laugh quietly at that, admiring a few cultural sculpture pieces for the house briefly before coaxing Mason to take a picture of me next to the famous statues of Nelson Mandela, F.W de Klerk and two more whom, no matter how hard I tried, I failed to pronounce their names properly.

I don’t know how it happened but while we were waiting for the bridge tow wedge itself in between the two opposite sides of the stunning attraction side, Mason and I were holding hands – and I didn’t instigate it. But I’ll tell you what I did, I never let go of his thick long fingers.

The Apartheid museum was welcoming and a little less occupied than the line for the Robben Island boat rides downstairs. The sun was terrible on our skin but we took some time to spray on some sunscreen while we read a few letters written by anti-apartheid activists back in the sixties.

“White people ey,” Mason mutters and flutters his eyes close, following the quick spurts of my sunscreen spray on his face and neck “mia moglie, your eyes.”

I too shut my eyes as he mirrors my actions, layering my skin with the protective liquid before placing the sunscreen back into my handbag.

“Was it because of jealousy or racism?”

Choosing the latter I say, “It was definitely racism.”

“I beg to differ.” Mason challenges, reading Chief Albert Luthuli’s political notes.

“And why?”

“Well,” Mason grumbles pointing to the cased archives “I think it was more of jealousy rather than colour.”

“Colour Mason, it was because of the fact that white people thought that they were superior towards South Africans. White people were educated, wore expensive clothing that wasn’t animal skin, had longer hair and various eye colours.”

“Which still doesn’t justify the reason why they chose to create such laws micio. Look, apartheid laws limited South Africans to land, superior job opportunities and ruled out education. They were selfish and wanted all natural resources to belong to them.”

“South Africans were greatly educated at the time so that proved as an advantage for the Whites. Being uneducated made them prone and vulnerable to unsafe work conditions and minimum wage, they didn’t know any better.”

“Why would someone kidnap me to torture due to my colour?”

“Italians have pretty impressive clothes.”

Mason laughs, heartedly with his eyes shut and crinkles evident at the corner of his eyes before gaining composure, “any other reason besides that one, which doesn’t actually count micio.”

“Italian men have a thing for black pus –” Mason cuts me short with a scarlet tinge in his cheeks.

“Now, do you think that someone might torture me because of what I have?”

I tilt my head to the side and arch a curious brow, “what you talking about DeLuca?”

“I’m Italian, I’ve got money,” which you kill people for; I wanted to add as a cough “I’m stable both financially and economically and I have a wife with a body of a goddess, who wouldn’t want to have what I have?”

The facts pieced themselves like perfect puzzle pieces and I frown, I believe Mason just proved a valid argument. The least I could do was shake his hand with a wide defeated smile.

“You did well, for a man who knows nothing but to fire his rifle.”

“I actually wanted to be a detective when I was younger.”

My eyes widen at his revelation and I press my lips into a thin line, “I wanted to be a kindergarten teacher but I don’t do quite well with kids.”

“Why not?” Mason enquires softly with calculating eyes.

“Well – I am not a fan of the gurgles and cries. Oh hell – don’t forget the nasty presents on the other end...” I swear, I was en route to passing out.

“Guess I will be the one tending to all of our presents, won’t I micio?” Mason chuckles before lurching forward to a recreation of what seemed like a hostel room back in the sixties.

Oh –

Oh –

Our presents –

Could he possibly insinuating that he wants to have kids with me?

The bell for touring boat rides rung outside the museums and I clutch Mason’s fingers suggestively. He gave me one bored look before nodding, “would you lie to go on a tour boat ride?”

I gasp dramatically with a soft grin, “we don’t have to if you don’t want to –”

“You know that you want to.” He grumbles with a smirk and I chuckle at his action.

“I was trying to be dramatic, okay? Sue a black girl for hustling an Oscar.”

“I could always buy you one,” Mason suggests amused as I drag him to the dock where we are required to pay for the tour boats. “A lot of celebrities sell them on the black market when they need a quick fix.”

“Mason,” I arch a brow once realizing the direction he’s heading in “Mason, don’t you dare go there...”

My words are soon an afterthought once I notice him heading to the grand expensive boats, dropping a wad of money to my fellow brother before pulling me behind him as we step onto the boat. I must say, I should stand behind him more often because his behind stirs a whole lot of emotions.

Mason boards the large boat but due to the fact that I’m shorter than he is he had to carry me inside. Multi-racial couples were seated in the love nest seats with flutes filled with champagne, chattering in their gorgeous languages while sharing a short peck every once in a while. Mason found a seat too, a love nest seat and I curved naturally into his side as the fishy ocean air blew against our skin.

“Champagne, wine or juice?” the black butler asks and I laugh, gazing at Mason.

“What could you possibly be laughing at micio?”

“The butler is black,” I fish my purse for a few notes we got at foreign exchange and I hand him two hundred rands “spit in their champagnes whenever they are snobby, okay?”

The black butler nods with a sly smirk and hands us two glasses of champagne before stepping away. Mason had the most lively grin on his face and twinkling blue irises, which he later hid by pushing his Raybans sunglasses on. There was a moment before the tour guide arrived where I looked at him for a while, trying to compute the fact that he is mine now. All those high school years of blending in with the walls and suddenly I’m married to this walking Adonis.

“You’re beautiful.” My thoughts voice themselves and it does not stop there “you’re really beautiful.”

Mason’s smile drops, jaw clenching and I soon regret my words. Did I maybe say something wrong? Did I offend him by saying that he’s beautiful?

Mason is quiet for the rest of the boat ride, standing up to take a few pictures of the view before sitting back down and hugging my side. We had to be the most distant couple abroad and the fact that we weren’t talking just made everything worst. I wanted to apologize for offending him, rephrase my sentence by saying that he’s mind is beautiful – anything just to make him speak to me again.

Things got a whole lot worse once Nishan drove us to the market places close to the beach house and bided us goodbye, only to have Mason stand at his driver’s window and I know they weren’t sharing anecdotes. To try and escape the madness that is Mason’s fury, I stepped into one of the shops selling stunning gowns.

The auburn-haired shop owner offers me a tight smile but as soon her eyes found my wedding rings then she was even introducing herself and her business.

“Hi, I’m Macy McAdams.” The pale woman smiles widely at me “are you from here?”

“No,” I pull a pretty sheer number from the rack “originally from New Orleans.”

“My,” she breathes with twinkling eyes “you’re far too beautiful to be from this damned place. I’m originally from Spain but moved here with my ex English husband to set up business.”

Damned place?

“Micio,” Mason calls out and strides to me once he had located where I was “I was searching everywhere for you. Don’t take off like that again.”

As if he has right to tell me what to do.

“Oh,” Macy grins, eyeing my built husband “and who is this man calling you a pussycat?”

“My husband,” I say flatly, obviously not impressed with the way she was gawking at my man.

Macy leans forward and offers Mason her hand, “nice to meet you, I’m Macy McAdams,”

“Mason DeLuca,” he places a tender kiss on her hand and that’s when all pain struck my chest.

It’s the Selena episode again.

I stalk away from them and notice a younger girl standing by an urban rack, cream skin with curls similar to mine. She gives me a polite nod and lurches towards me.

“Men interested in our race like it when we keep to our roots.”

“Roots you say?” I echo with a wide smile “tell me more.”

The assistant was a Pedi-speaking girl from Johannesburg who came here after her family moved to Lesotho. She ended up giving me an outfit I knew Mason could not deny and complementary accessories.

“We should freshen up; I’m taking you out for dinner.” That’s all Mason said after disappearing to the shower.

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