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is pleasure. And I feel, as I twist the cap and chug cold water, that I should get some sort of reward, such as answers.
    I don’t know why the questions make him so mad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it is the mention of Nathan that boils his blood. But if he were that easily riled up by Nathan, the man would have gone crazy by now. Drew’s life spins around the axel that is Nathan, his every move orchestrated by the manicured hands that are Mr. Dumont’s.
    My question of the day is a simple one, coming to me during an agonizing long set of sit-ups. Why marriage? What is the reason that Nathan needs a wife ? I pondered the question through dead lifts, pull ups, and squats, my eyes flitting to the clock, counting and waiting for this hell to be over so I could return to my other. And as soon as it was, as soon as I had ripped off my sweaty t-shirt and encountered Drew in the kitchen, I started; my questions tumbled over and around each other, each one more anxious than the last to receive an answer. Is it a citizenship problem? Inheritance requirement? Is he committing a crime and needs a spouse who won’t testify? Is it his family? A crazy ex-girlfriend? What is he hiding? Who is this charade for?
    His eyes go from disinterest to stone to anger to fury. My water bottle hits the floor, water jetting in all directions as he grips my shoulders, slamming the refrigerator door closed and shoving me against it, his face close to mine. I tense, closing my eyes to his furious green ones, taking a gasp of air before shutting my mouth, willing my questions to shut the hell up for a moment.
    “Shut up,” he whispers, the words a growl against my skin, my feminine body realizing so many things in one brief second — his hard body against my own, the unforgiving ridge of his muscles impressive and rough against my damp skin. The peppermint flavor of his breath, hot in my ear, yet finding its way to my nose, and I inhale his scent — a blend of grass and sweat and mint that is intoxicating.
    His hands, originally against my shoulders, have moved. One is now cupping my neck, pulling my head to one side, the other grips my ass, his large hand slipping under the loose hem of my shorts and grips my bare skin tightly, fitting our bodies together in one unending connection.
    His breath, that hot air that was against my ear moves, along the curve of my neck, his head lowering to my skin, his breaths quickening to match the fast beats of his heart, which thud hard against my breasts.
    Oh, and that arousal. Hard and hot, a brand against my leg, my body twisting underneath his hands in order to put that arousal where it belongs, tight against my sex, the thin material of my shorts doing nothing but increasing the pleasure when I involuntarily grind against him.
    He swears, his hand forcing my head to straighten, his mouth hesitating over mine.
    I need it . I need his lips on mine, need his passion for me. I need that hard cock in more places than against the silk of my shorts. I want his fire and energy inside of me. I need confirmation that I am still woman, and I am still desired. I grind again, one small movement that confirms the size of his need. He groans, his hand gripping my ass tighter, pulling me against his cock as he thrusts against me.
    His mouth makes the final move and closes the distance, his mouth drinking of me in an agonized, desperate fashion.
    My heart beats erratically, pumping blood in wild fashion to all of the organs that are crying out. My clit is demanding an enormous amount, my core so wet, so aroused, so needy for more stimulation. My brain is screaming a loud, unintelligible sound that wants to know what the fuck is going on. Then he pushes off me, one hand moving slower than the other, his bottom hand delayed in its release of my skin.
    We stare at each other, the distance between the island and the fridge too small, our bodies too close. I must look like a mad woman — my hair wild from his hand, my