Rock Chick Revolution
Page 53
I was a Rock Chick!
That meant…
That meant…
That meant Ren and I were getting married!
Holy crap!
I fought hyperventilating and did it by sucking back champagne.
This was a stupid move because, once done, I started choking.
“Ally? Baby?” Ren called, and I saw him move and then he was leaned into me, hand rubbing my back. “You okay?”
I sucked in oxygen, twisted my neck to look at him, and declared, “We’re getting married.”
His chin jerked back and his brows shot up. “Now?”
“Not now!” I cried, falling back in my chair. He straightened to standing, but I tipped my head back so I could keep my eyes glued to him. “During her thing, Indy and Lee moved in together. The same with Jet and Eddie. Roxie and Hank. Jules and Vance. You get my drift. Now all of them are married. Ava and Luke are getting hitched on the weekend. And three weeks ago, Sadie strolled into a Girls Night Out with a diamond on her finger.” I stretched my torso up to him and announced, “Ren, we’re screwed.”
At that, his brows knit.
“You don’t want to get married?”
“No,” I answered, and completely ignored his expression shutting down in order to continue to have my nervous breakdown. “For the next five years I want to engage in copious amounts of hanky-panky until my biological clock starts ticking so loud I can’t ignore it anymore. Then I want to engage in copious amounts of hanky-panky in order to get pregnant. Prior to part two, I want to get married.”
He sat down but didn’t take his eyes from me as he stated, “This doesn’t sound like a bad plan.”
“It’s not. It’s a righteous plan.”
“Then why are you freaked?” he asked.
“Because no way am I falling into the pattern of meatloaf, Letterman and missionary, and with practice, that’s a possibility.”
His head jerked before he asked, “Ally, what?”
“I like meatloaf but it’s boring,” I explained. “I like chicken parmesan way better. Letterman rocks but I’d prefer to do other things when he’s on. And missionary is my fifth most favorite position behind lotus, cowgirl, scissor and doggie.”
It was Ren’s turn to blink.
Then he again burst out laughing.
When he was done laughing, but he was still chuckling, he calmly picked up his fork and speared some sesame chicken before he said to his plate, “So you’re movin’ in.”
Shit.
“Yeah,” I answered, spearing another shrimp.
“Baby?” he called, and I looked at him.
Oh God.
The look on his face was a new look. It corresponded with the tone of his voice earlier that day. And it was so beautiful, my heart skipped a beat and I lost the ability to think.
And speak (mostly).
“We’re never gonna have meatloaf, Letterman and missionary,” he said softly.
“’Kay,” I replied breathily.
“And if you can pare down that five year f**k-a-thon to two or three, I’d appreciate it,” he went on.
“’Kay,” I repeated.
“Though, during that two year f**k-a-thon, you may have one, then two of my rings on your finger.”
Oh shit.
Even me, Ally, Rock Chick, that didn’t make me warm inside.
It made me melty.
“’Kay,” I breathed, and his eyes warmed.
“Just to give you something to look forward to, we’ll stop the f**k-a-thon when we have to, but we’ll resume soon’s we can after you give me healthy babies.”
Oh God.
I felt my eyes get hot.
Ren and I were getting married.
Not now.
But eventually.
Oh.
God.
“You really love me,” I whispered.
“Do not ever doubt it,” he whispered back.
“How did that happen?” I kept whispering.
“You accepted my devotion to the Bears only dishin’ out minimal shit.”
He was such a liar.
But what he said said it all.
And it meant everything.
He started falling when I did.
I closed my eyes.
I opened them when I felt the backs of his fingers sweep my jaw.
“It doesn’t take much with you, does it?” I asked, trying to be funny.
I didn’t get a smile.
I got heated eyes and the look.
“Yes it does. It takes a f**kuva lot.”
That said it all, too.
Jeez. He needed to stop.
Before I could tell him to do that, he did it.
And he did it by saying, “And most of that f**kuva lot has to do with the fact that you’re a woman who placed cowgirl at two and doggie at four.”
I got over being a big, starry-eyed, head-over-heels-in-love-with-a-hot-guy girl, started laughing and asked through it, “So you approve of my rankings?”
He turned his attention back to his plate, saying, “Cowgirl one. Doggie two. Missionary three. Lotus four, but you’re close enough.”
I kept laughing and through it watched Ren grinning before he took a sip of his champagne.
I quit laughing, grabbed my own champagne and was taking a sip when Ren’s voice—not sweet, instead all kinds of sexy, the kinds that got my full attention when he declared, “Three, one, two.”
I looked at him. “Come again?”
“Tonight,” he replied. “Three, one, two. Maybe during one we’ll also do a four, but I’m finishing you off on your knees.”
My happy place spasmed, my br**sts swelled and my mouth got dry.
“That is, after you go down on me,” he finished as he reached for the champagne bottle.
That was when I started salivating.
A knock came at the door.
I stopped salivating and was thankful I hadn’t begun panting as I looked to the door.
Ren threw his napkin down and pushed back his chair, muttering, “Fuck.”
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked as he walked away.
“Are you in my house?” he asked back.
“Yes,” I pointed out the obvious.
At the door, hand on handle, he turned to me and answered, “Yes.”
What did that mean? I’d never had visitors at his house.
Then again, I frequently got visitors at my apartment. Ren knew that because he’d been there a lot when I got them. So clearly he expected this to go on and I made a mental note to do something about that since it sounded like he didn’t like it much.
And it must be said, when it interrupted dinner and discussion on the later positions in which Ren would be giving me the business, I didn’t like it much either.
That meant…
That meant…
That meant Ren and I were getting married!
Holy crap!
I fought hyperventilating and did it by sucking back champagne.
This was a stupid move because, once done, I started choking.
“Ally? Baby?” Ren called, and I saw him move and then he was leaned into me, hand rubbing my back. “You okay?”
I sucked in oxygen, twisted my neck to look at him, and declared, “We’re getting married.”
His chin jerked back and his brows shot up. “Now?”
“Not now!” I cried, falling back in my chair. He straightened to standing, but I tipped my head back so I could keep my eyes glued to him. “During her thing, Indy and Lee moved in together. The same with Jet and Eddie. Roxie and Hank. Jules and Vance. You get my drift. Now all of them are married. Ava and Luke are getting hitched on the weekend. And three weeks ago, Sadie strolled into a Girls Night Out with a diamond on her finger.” I stretched my torso up to him and announced, “Ren, we’re screwed.”
At that, his brows knit.
“You don’t want to get married?”
“No,” I answered, and completely ignored his expression shutting down in order to continue to have my nervous breakdown. “For the next five years I want to engage in copious amounts of hanky-panky until my biological clock starts ticking so loud I can’t ignore it anymore. Then I want to engage in copious amounts of hanky-panky in order to get pregnant. Prior to part two, I want to get married.”
He sat down but didn’t take his eyes from me as he stated, “This doesn’t sound like a bad plan.”
“It’s not. It’s a righteous plan.”
“Then why are you freaked?” he asked.
“Because no way am I falling into the pattern of meatloaf, Letterman and missionary, and with practice, that’s a possibility.”
His head jerked before he asked, “Ally, what?”
“I like meatloaf but it’s boring,” I explained. “I like chicken parmesan way better. Letterman rocks but I’d prefer to do other things when he’s on. And missionary is my fifth most favorite position behind lotus, cowgirl, scissor and doggie.”
It was Ren’s turn to blink.
Then he again burst out laughing.
When he was done laughing, but he was still chuckling, he calmly picked up his fork and speared some sesame chicken before he said to his plate, “So you’re movin’ in.”
Shit.
“Yeah,” I answered, spearing another shrimp.
“Baby?” he called, and I looked at him.
Oh God.
The look on his face was a new look. It corresponded with the tone of his voice earlier that day. And it was so beautiful, my heart skipped a beat and I lost the ability to think.
And speak (mostly).
“We’re never gonna have meatloaf, Letterman and missionary,” he said softly.
“’Kay,” I replied breathily.
“And if you can pare down that five year f**k-a-thon to two or three, I’d appreciate it,” he went on.
“’Kay,” I repeated.
“Though, during that two year f**k-a-thon, you may have one, then two of my rings on your finger.”
Oh shit.
Even me, Ally, Rock Chick, that didn’t make me warm inside.
It made me melty.
“’Kay,” I breathed, and his eyes warmed.
“Just to give you something to look forward to, we’ll stop the f**k-a-thon when we have to, but we’ll resume soon’s we can after you give me healthy babies.”
Oh God.
I felt my eyes get hot.
Ren and I were getting married.
Not now.
But eventually.
Oh.
God.
“You really love me,” I whispered.
“Do not ever doubt it,” he whispered back.
“How did that happen?” I kept whispering.
“You accepted my devotion to the Bears only dishin’ out minimal shit.”
He was such a liar.
But what he said said it all.
And it meant everything.
He started falling when I did.
I closed my eyes.
I opened them when I felt the backs of his fingers sweep my jaw.
“It doesn’t take much with you, does it?” I asked, trying to be funny.
I didn’t get a smile.
I got heated eyes and the look.
“Yes it does. It takes a f**kuva lot.”
That said it all, too.
Jeez. He needed to stop.
Before I could tell him to do that, he did it.
And he did it by saying, “And most of that f**kuva lot has to do with the fact that you’re a woman who placed cowgirl at two and doggie at four.”
I got over being a big, starry-eyed, head-over-heels-in-love-with-a-hot-guy girl, started laughing and asked through it, “So you approve of my rankings?”
He turned his attention back to his plate, saying, “Cowgirl one. Doggie two. Missionary three. Lotus four, but you’re close enough.”
I kept laughing and through it watched Ren grinning before he took a sip of his champagne.
I quit laughing, grabbed my own champagne and was taking a sip when Ren’s voice—not sweet, instead all kinds of sexy, the kinds that got my full attention when he declared, “Three, one, two.”
I looked at him. “Come again?”
“Tonight,” he replied. “Three, one, two. Maybe during one we’ll also do a four, but I’m finishing you off on your knees.”
My happy place spasmed, my br**sts swelled and my mouth got dry.
“That is, after you go down on me,” he finished as he reached for the champagne bottle.
That was when I started salivating.
A knock came at the door.
I stopped salivating and was thankful I hadn’t begun panting as I looked to the door.
Ren threw his napkin down and pushed back his chair, muttering, “Fuck.”
“Are you expecting someone?” I asked as he walked away.
“Are you in my house?” he asked back.
“Yes,” I pointed out the obvious.
At the door, hand on handle, he turned to me and answered, “Yes.”
What did that mean? I’d never had visitors at his house.
Then again, I frequently got visitors at my apartment. Ren knew that because he’d been there a lot when I got them. So clearly he expected this to go on and I made a mental note to do something about that since it sounded like he didn’t like it much.
And it must be said, when it interrupted dinner and discussion on the later positions in which Ren would be giving me the business, I didn’t like it much either.
