Because, though I’m not his other half, he thinks I am. Because my aunt paid for this ruse. Who would Mason be toward me if this spell wasn’t cast on him?
Indifferent, probably.
What the heck am I going to do? He’s waiting for me to finish eating so he can have more life-affirming sex with me.
I sigh. All I can think to do is let him. Let him have sex with me, as much sex as he wants tonight, so I can tire him out, then he’ll fall asleep giving me the chance to sneak out. Sneak out, look for my sister and rescue her from her kidnapping shapeshifter, get us back to civilization and find the person that can undo the voodoo sex magic spell that makes Mason Quinn think I’m his soulmate. And that makes Tyson Savage think Ivy is his.
And then what? Then marry Whatshisface and face a bland, sexless AstroTurf life with too much noise, not enough nature, no pitter patter of little paws, and absolutely no magic.
How fucking depressing.
One more long, drawn-out session of sex with Mason. Poor me, right?
Might as well make it good – though I already know from today that it will be. Because I need to tire him out. And because after this adventure is over, any future orgasms I have will pale in comparison.
He’s smiling at me right now, like he knows I’m thinking about having sex with him. My gaze drops to my plate.
Yup. I’ll make it good. Get him good ‘n tired. Have the extra memories for the future. Auntie Nelle’s parting gift to me, I suppose. And then off I’ll go.
Boo. Sad face. Internal foot stomping.
***
“All done?” He interrupts my pouting.
“Hm?” I ask.
“You’ve been pushing that last bite around your plate for ten minutes. You look a million miles away.” His voice is laced with concern.
I fork up the final bite of delicious chicken and pop it into my mouth.
He clears everything from in front of me and goes to the sink.
“Refill on your mead?” he asks over his shoulder while washing the dishes.
I shake my head no.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have more of this delicious wine, but not tonight – I need to be in possession of my faculties.
That was a nice nap, so I’m pretty awake. Wide awake and determined to get out of here and find my sister. But to do that, I’ll have to try to tire him out without tiring myself out, so more wine is a no-no. I’m not sure how I can even walk after all the sex we had so far today. It must be down to the sorcery.
I plug my phone back in, grab a tea towel, and dry the plate he’s just washed.
He shoots me a sideways curious glance as I dry it and stick it inside the cupboard I saw him pull it from earlier. Nice plate. Thick. Cream in the center, the rim in wedge-shaped blocks of Wedgwood blue, brown, and burgundy.
I grab the other one from the dish drainer in the second sink and tell myself to refrain from internally waxing poetic again about how great Mason’s house is and how even the dishes in Whatshisface’s house have no character. They’re colorless. Like Rick.
Me, Sheila the cunty wedding planner, and my soon-to-be monster-in-law Carla even had to debate about the dish pattern that I chose for the wedding reception. They didn’t like the colorful pottery. They tried to talk me into white. I finally went with black, which was probably a sign of the shift in my mood about the whole thing.
I find myself thinking about the latest text from Sheila and how she doesn’t like my song choices. It was bad enough she kept pressuring me to hire her friend’s band instead of a disc jockey. I like bands, but I wanted a youthful and fun reception and bands, to me, feel like they’re typically for an older crowd’s party. No matter how great the band is, there’s a limit to the variety of music they can typically play. And I chose plenty of music for the older people as well as the younger ones because we’ve got guests from the toddler age to people in their nineties. It’s not like I’ve got Nine Inch Nails talking about fucking like animals and Cardi B’s WAP on the list. Though maybe I should make a last-minute list revision and add those songs just because. My wedding, my choice. Ugh. Because frankly, I’m sick and tired of people telling me how my wedding should be. Except the groom. He has little to no input unless it’s something his mother is trying to get her way on. Then and only then does he have a strong opinion about it. And his opinion always falls with hers, never mine – not once.