Angela and I smile at each other after I sign the register as "Anthony M. Micelli" and hold the pen out to her. She takes the pen and writes, "and Angela K. Robinson-Micelli." I know that she probably won't be going by that but it's still a nice touch.
As far as we know, Nevada is not a common-law state. You have to have an actual marriage ceremony for it to count here. And this time, we will most definitely be consummating that ceremony. Eight weeks late but better late than never.
I know, we don't have to have sex in every state we've been to, but it would be fun. And I also know that it's probably for the best that we didn't have sex that very first night. If we hadn't been married, then we probably would've gone our separate ways and missed out on all that this has developed into. And I think we probably would've regretted the drunken marriage if it had led to drunken sex. We might've felt trapped. This way, this is something we've chosen, again and again.
When we get to our room, we set down the luggage and I pick her up. She's more of a handful than Marie, and I don't just mean physically. That shy, classy lady I figuratively picked up eight weeks ago has turned out to be more than I ever imagined, sometimes more than I can handle, but totally worth the effort.
Of course, the problem with carrying your bride over the threshold is that someone has to go back for the luggage. They never show you that in the movies. Or maybe you're supposed to use a bellhop, I don't know.
But once we and our bags are behind the closed door, she says, "Oo, Tony, how sweet!"
I look and she's admiring a big bouquet of flowers.
"Uh, I didn't order those." Geez, it was tough enough coordinating the wedding and getting her ring and everything.
"Oh, there's a card." She reads it and laughs. Then she hands it to me. I notice that the envelope says it's from a Reno florist.
"Dear Angela and Tony,
May this Vegas honeymoon be the best my ex-wife has ever had.
—Brian"
"I told you he had a sense of humor," I say.
"It takes me awhile to truly appreciate my husbands' finer qualities."
"Well, luckily I have awhile."
And then we kiss.
We could go dancing. We could go see Wayne Newton. We could of course gamble. But as Angela said on the plane, we'd rather gambol.
We're still in our wedding clothes.
"Did I tell you how much I like this dress?" I ask, as I slowly unzip it.
"Yes, but tell me again."
"I like how it shows off your legs. I like how it hugs you just enough. I like how it falls to the floor."
She smiles. "I like this tuxedo. If you have to cover up your body, this is the perfect way to do it."
I shake my head. "I know a better way to cover it."
She grins. "Well, so do I."
A few minutes later, we're in bed, taking turns covering each other's body with kisses. And then we take turns covering each other's body with our own, with a lot of kisses on the face and neck.
"Your skin is so soft, so sweet, so warm," I murmur between kisses.
"I love feeling your skin next to mine," she whispers.
"I love feeling my skin inside yours," I gasp, and then I enter her. So good, so good, in here!
"Fill me up, Tony, oh, yes!" she sighs.
And for a long while, all we say is each other's name and the words "I love you." Three simple words. Well, five, counting our first names.
She's not having rapid-fire orgasms this time. She's less hungry, more lingery. I'm going slower, too, not trying to prove anything.
Our eyes and our mouths are making love, too. And for awhile, our hands clasp, and our feet weave together. Like we want to connect everywhere, every way, we can.
But the centers are where it's hottest and most intense, more and more.
"More, more, Tony, please please more!"
"Please please me," I tease, which she finds funnier than I expect.
"OH, TONY, YOU'RE SO VERY TONY!"
"Give me your sweetness, Sweet Angie! Yes, just like that! A little more!"
Her orgasms flow back and forth between us like an electric current, like the current of a river.
It's a little late to ask, but I think to wonder, "Is your diaphragm in?"
"Yes, I put it in when I used the restroom at the Vegas Airport."
"Good, 'cause here comes my baby juice!"
She finds this hysterical but I don't care. I let her laughter rock me into coming. There is no one like my Angie and no place I'd rather be.
When we're tangled up in what I once heard Mona refer to as post-coital human macramé, Angela says, "Tony, would you mind if we didn't stay in Vegas?"
I'm startled. "Uh, are you not having a good time?"
"Don't be silly. Of course I am. But I was just thinking, you once promised to paint the town red with me, the town of San Francisco."
"Yeah, I remember. You want to go back to Frisco?"
"Yes, please."
"Well, I guess we could cancel the other nights here."
"Thank you, Darling." She kisses my cheek.
"Road trip?"
"Road trip."
"Coastal route?"
"Well, we might not get to San Francisco till Saturday then."
"Hey, as long as we get where we're going, the side trips are fun."
She grins and says, "All right, we'll honeymoon in Albany."
She doesn't have to explain that she's quoting the end of His Girl Friday, where Rosalind Russell has given up on her boring fiancé and has gone back to her ex-husband, played by Cary Grant. I know my cue. I grin back and say, "Well, isn't that a coincidence? We're going to Albany! I wonder if Bruce can put us up."
But, no, I don't think we'll stay with Brian.
THE END FOR NOW
...
Author's Note: Again, thank you to everyone who's read this story, especially those of you who've taken the time to comment. Anonymous Guest (AKA readingfrenzy?), I appreciate your insights and guesses, although I don't in fact have children. A.G., as the person with the 200th review, your "prize" is to name the slightly hippie-ish woman who runs Jonathan's daycare in the sequel. Please leave the name in the comments, or PM me if you can. If you refuse this prize, then it'll go to GoldenGirlSherry.
