Page 17 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

MOTELS, MILESTONES, AND THE WORLD’S LOUDEST WELCOME MAT

CHASE

We’ve been on the road for five hours.

No destination No plan. No timeline. Just her playlist, two gas station burritos, and a motel reservation made purely because the website said “Beds squeak. Walls don’t.”

Sold.

Roxy’s got her legs up on the dash, her painted toes are tapping to the beat of some aggressively sexy indie girl anthem.

She’s wearing white retro sunglasses that are too big for her face and a smile that looks like sin wrapped in sunshine. Her legs are on full display and are distracting me every five seconds.

I want to pull over and eat her out on the shoulder of the highway.

We’ve got ten miles left… I can last.

Willpower, Chase. You can do it.

“Where are we going again?” she asks between sips of her fountain Cherry Vanilla Coke.

I grin at her. “Technically? Nowhere.”

“Perfect.” She responds.

She cranks the volume and says, “I just wanna get lost somewhere that smells like sunscreen and bad decisions.”

Looking at her, I say, “We just came from two places just like that. And you just described you. ”

She flips me off and mutters, “I want what I want.” Then, she blows me a kiss.

We pull into the motel around sunset.

It’s kitschy as hell.

Pink neon. Plastic flamingos. A sign that says NO REFUNDS. NO REGERTS —yeah, spelled wrong.

Parking and leaving my foot on the brake, I rethink our choice to stay here.

Roxy has no such qualms. She hops out, barefoot in the parking lot—her shoes are hanging from her fingers—and she’s already humming.

She does that when she’s happy and she hasn’t stopped since we left Mari Lynn and Knox’s condo.

Check in is easy. I say my name, the clerk swipes my credit card and hands me a key card…

less than five minutes for the whole thing.

Inside the room is pretty basic. One bed.

Mirrors everywhere—and I mean, everywhere.

Even on the ceiling. We’re in a porn motel.

The hot tub is heart shaped. I don’t trust it for a second, though Roxy’s eyes light up, and beside it is a bottle of two-dollar champagne in a plastic ice bucket.

She turns to me, brows raised. “Did you plan this?”

“Nope.” I laugh. “How could I have? We booked it on the road after you found it online.”

She grins. “Did fate just hand us a sex dungeon with continental breakfast?”

I nod. “Apparently. The things you catch in the hot tub are free.”

She wrinkles her nose and throws her bag on the bed, muttering, “Yeah, I think I’ve seen videos filmed here. We’ll skip the hot tub.”

I laugh aloud, “Glad we’re in agreement on that one.”

We shower together—because of course we do—and by the time she’s wrapped in a towel and perched on the edge of the bed she ripped the comforter off of and threw in the corner, she’s already plotting the rest of our route.

I watch her scroll on her phone as the towel pulls tightly across her ample chest. Those magical things are fighting for their freedom. Her legs are crossed. Her lips are full and pursed. Her thighs are still wet with water droplets.

She looks like a retro pin-up model that guys fantasize about and yank their chains to.

All I can think about is how damn lucky I am that she’s mine .

“Hey,” I say, quickly towel drying my hair.

She glances up, her eyes travel from my head to my toes and back up again. “Yeah?” She’s breathy.

Sitting beside her, I take her phone, set it aside on the nightstand, and tuck her damp hair behind her ear before dragging my finger down her neck. She shivers and I press a kiss to her shoulder. “Let’s make a list.”

She smirks but her eyes are hooded as she asks “A list of what?”

“What we want to do next. Together. No rules. No timelines. Just us.”

She exhales. Smiles. And whispers, “Okay.”

We start again.

ROXY

Item number one on the list,

“More sex.”

That’s mine.

Chase laughs and mutters, “How much more sex could we have, Rox? My dick would have to live inside of your vagina, babe.”

We do have a lot of sex… but I can’t get enough of him. He makes me crazy. I don’t know if I’ll ever get enough.

He types,

“More road trips with zero underwear.”

We’re lying across the bed that only has sheets on it, half-wrapped in towels that hide nothing and showcase everything. Our bodies still warm from the shower and bathroom with no ventilation. Our hearts are completely bare .

We’ve got an open note app between us. We’re typing out our dreams. Together.

So far we’ve got:

-More sex

-More road trips with zero underwear

-Mountain cabin getaway with no Wi-Fi

-A couple’s tattoo—he said ankle. I said ass cheek. We compromised on ribs

-Make our own videos, and then, delete them after watching

-New rings, someday—but only if we both design them drunk

-And a shared goal to eat every regional dessert in the continental U.S.—because trauma may break you, but carbs and sugar rebuild you

I glance over at him. He’s sprawled out on the pillows. His hair is damp and waving. His chest is on full display. One arm is slung over his head like he’s modeling for GQ: Reclaimed Husband Edition.

Biting my lip, I lean over him. He watches me. I straddle his lap, hovering over his groin. The towel moves as his erection grows and his eyes go dark. “Item number five,” I whisper, grinding, just once.

He groans and raspily says, “Yeah?”

“I ride you on this squeaky-ass motel bed until it collapses and my phone records it in the mirrors.”

He yanks the towel. It parts and he throws it before grabbing my hips so hard I gasp.

“You sure?” He growls.

I grind before reaching between us and ripping his towel off, too.

Swiping my phone, I open the camera and hit video.

I point it down at Chase and capture his face before setting it on the side of the bed pointing up.

Looking at the screen, I see us both in the frame.

I sink down onto him. He groans and I say, “We’re making a home movie, lover. ”

The bed squeaks. Loudly. As advertised.

I ride him while his fingers dig into my hips, holding me in place. Rolling, he flips me under him. I gasp.

His mouth is on mine. His hands are on my boobs. His voice is in my ear, dirty and reverent. “You want soft, or do you want loud?”

Smiling, I plant my feet into the bed. “I want both .”

Oh, Chase.

Oh baby, does he deliver.

He fucks me, then, he makes love to me. He stops to eat me like I’m his last meal , before flipping me over and driving into me over and over and over, like the world might end if he stops. He licks, bites, sucks on, and kisses me like I’m the answer to every question he’s ever asked.

I come on his tongue, on his cock, and then, again on his face when he says, “You’re mine, baby. You always have been.” While I’m still shuddering, he comes deep inside of me, the bed frame cracking on his final thrust.

We both collapse as the bed frame folds in. We’re breathless.

Sweaty. Happy. Home.

When we can breathe semi-normally, we both laugh. He mutters, “You wanted to break the fuckin’ bed, Rox.”

I laugh harder. “I did.” Something cold presses into my thigh. Reaching down, I pick it up and lift it. It’s still recording. I grin, “It’s all on video.”

Chase’s face flushes but he fake pounds his fists on his chest. “Me Tarzan, you Jane, baby cakes. We’ll watch it later before deleting it.” We laugh so hard, we wheeze.

Later, he calls the front desk, and says, “We broke the bed. But we’re emotionally better now. Charge it to my card.”

CHASE

The coffee is terrible. Like, burnt tire with a splash of regret terrible.

But Roxy looks like a dark-haired Shakira as she sits on the edge of the motel bed with her hair wild, her mascara smudged, and she’s only wearing panties. Her eyes are sleepy.

Everything’s perfect.

“I can’t believe you broke the bed,” she says between grimacing sips.

I raise a brow. “ I broke the bed? Don’t you mean we broke the bed?”

She looks at me through hooded eyes. “You’re like eighty percent responsible.”

I snort, “You begged for thrust variation and wanted it hard.”

She shrugs. “I need variety.”

I mutter, “As long as the only variety you want is me in different positions, locations, and the choice of my mouth, fingers, dick, or combinations of the three.”

She winks. “Only variety I need, baby.”

We finish packing in quiet sync.

Toothbrush. Playlist. One very broken bed frame. Roxy grabs the side rail. “If we’re paying for it, I’m taking it. It’s a souvenir.”

We hit the road again—her feet are once again bare, her hair is bedhead messy, and we have no real plan.

Half an hour in, we stop at a gas station that sells fried pickles, engagement rings, and fireworks.

Roxy beelines for the dirty lighters and zebra-print condoms.

I grab her hand and hold up a cheap mood ring in the shape of a heart.

“Round three?”

She laughs, though her eyes are shining. “You’re proposing with a mood ring now?”

I drop to one knee right there, between an ice machine and a microwave burrito rack.

“I am. Roxanne Ruiz West… will you re-marry me in front of this Slim Jim display and spend forever letting me buy you shitty jewelry and even shittier coffee? Besides, this one gives me an indication of if I’m about to get kissed or stabbed. A man needs the insight with you.”

She blinks. Then, grins. “Only if we get matching tattoos from the shady van in the parking lot.”

Standing, I slide the ring on her finger. It’s cheap. It’ll probably turn her finger green. The stone shows a bright blue. Leaning over, I read the color chart. Romantic or Happy. I mutter, “Perfect!”

She kisses me through her laughter. “Gas station vows hit harder than therapy.” Back in the car, she takes a picture of the ring and posts it. Caption, “ Married. Again. Poorly supervised and hot as hell.”

I take a photo of her flipping me off wearing it. Caption, “ Third time’s the charm. Or the felony.” And just like that, we’re back on the road.

Married. Feral. Us.

And more in love than ever.