Page 134 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
Life after the mind-altering, scene-ending proclamation of love was just that . . . it was life. It traveled around like clockwork.
But there was one change, one single thing that shone like a beacon through the mud-filled day-to-day monotony. Instead of going home to an empty house, I went home to wide-open arms and a smile designated only for me.
Love was waiting for me. Love was patiently and excitingly waiting for me to come home.
Henry waited for me.
ME!
The girl who got a vibrator stuck in her vagina.
Life after the monumental confession of love wasn’t easy; it was only the beginning of the crazy up-and-down rollercoaster adventure we’d embarked on together. Situations weren’t pretty; there were misunderstandings, fights, sleepless nights, and moments so electrically charged with stubbornness that I couldn’t think of one possible way we’d get over our disagreement. But we did.
We said stupid things, and we did stupid things. Everyone was human, a lesson I learned rather quickly after the first time I forgot to tell Henry something important.
This wasn’t a story of finding love, experiencing that kiss for the first time, or discovering the unyielding feeling of falling head over heels in love with someone.
This story was entirely different. This was what continued after the lights were turned off, the music died down, and the cameras stopped spinning in their cinematic, dramatized way.
This was a story of struggle, of strength, of misunderstandings, and the forever bond of two individuals.
This was the story of my life after my happily ever after . . .
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Titanic
ROSIE
“Just sit still; if you move, the chair moves.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Henry asked, questioning my knowledge.
“I know how to do The Titanic. You just have to work with me.”
“Missionary is always a popular position, love. We can try that one out. You know missionary, right? We’ve done it a few times. It’s when you’re on your back and I’m plowing you between your legs.”
“I know what missionary is,” I chastised, irritated that he wouldn’t sit still. “You know I like to try positions from my books, though, so sit still while I grab my Kindle. I need to make sure I’m doing this right.”
“Because that’s sexy,” Henry mumbled, as I removed my bottom half from his.
Naked, boobs slinging about, and white butt on display, I trotted over to my nightstand to grab my Kindle. Thankfully I remembered to shut the blinds this go-around. I’d been known to forget to cover the windows, and it wasn’t until the deed had been done that we’d realized there had been a gaggle of street youths, with binoculars pressed against their faces, getting an eyeful of slapping body parts.
Walking down my block—making eye contact with said teenagers—had been humiliating, to say the least. I swore I heard them call me Pinky. Henry thought I was delusional, but it was unmistakable. I thought it was because they’d seen the beautiful hue Virginia has to offer. Henry, if he chose to believe the nickname, said it had to do with my cute pink nipples.
Cue giggling like a schoolgirl.
Kindle in hand, I walked back to Henry, who was waiting patiently on my office chair in all his naked glory. I’ve only really been with one penis—you already knew this—so I might have been a little biased, but I wasn’t lying when I said Henry had a fantastic appendage.
Girth. Check.
Length. Check.
Hair. None.
Balls. Wrinkly and weird, but let’s be honest, they’re coin purses full of milky babies. Can’t really go right with those things.
Everything about Henry’s “junk” appealed to me.
