by Noelle Adams
Owen’s gaze has grown hot. I know I’m not mistaking it.
Then he leans forward and kisses me, his mouth meeting mine squarely.
It only lasts a second, and he pulls back to check my expression. Then he does it again, this time nestling his lips around my lower one and giving it a delicious little tug.
My body jolts, and my hands move up to cling to his neck.
I draw him down into another kiss, and this one is even better. His tongue gets going, gently sliding along the line of my lips. Then I open for him, and I can’t be held back. I suck his tongue into my mouth and press my body against his.
He’s a good kisser. He doesn’t play games. He’s as earnest about kissing as he is about everything else.
And I’ve never experienced anything like it. Someone giving himself to me like this. Someone taking me seriously, even in a kiss.
I’m not sure what would have happened had his phone not rung just then. It makes a grating noise as it vibrates against the countertop, and we pull away from each other.
He’s smiling sheepishly, and I suspect I might be as well.
“Go ahead and take it,” I say. “I’ve got to get the pasta out of the oven anyway before it completely dries up.”
He takes the call, and I pull out the baking dish. But we don’t ever sit down for dinner.
It’s his aunt on the phone.
His grandfather has died.
WE FLY DOWN TO FLORIDA the next day.
Owen tells me I don’t have to go with him, but there’s no way I’m going to stay here and go through my normal routine when my husband is going to the funeral of someone he loves.
Not just because it would look so bad to the rest of the world.
He hasn’t shown much emotion or said anything. In fact, he’s acted completely normal since the phone call—like absolutely nothing has happened—and it worries me.
His grandfather was very important to him. Even I know how much.
He’s grieving inside. I know it.
But he’s hiding it, holding it all inside.
We get a midmorning flight, arriving around lunchtime. Then we head to his aunt’s big house on a lake, where the family has gathered. The funeral is tomorrow.
It’s a strange situation to meet his extended family. Normally, I’d be prepared, and I’d act as sweet and charming as possible to make sure they all like me. But it feels wrong right now to put on a show. I’m afraid it will make Owen feel bad.
So I greet all these strangers with quiet smiles and authentic sympathy, but mostly I try to fade into the background.
Today is not about me.
Owen seems to genuinely love his family, most of whom have gathered in Florida for the funeral, but he maintains his pose of normality, and it grates on me. It’s a protective covering, and it’s not right that he has to hold on to it so tightly. I stay near him, holding his arm or putting a hand on his back. Hopefully, he’ll assume I’m just acting like a wife, but I feel like he needs comfort, and this is the only way I can give it to him.
Everyone acts like he’s in charge, like he’s now the head of the family. They expect him to make decisions, take control of the large gathering, and organize people. He doesn’t hesitate to do it.
He doesn’t look strained, but I know he is. I know it.
The poor guy should be grieving, but he’s not letting himself do it.
The afternoon goes on forever, and then we have dinner with all the food that friends have brought over. They make him say the prayer before the meal and then say a few words about his grandfather after people finish eating. He’s calm and composed the whole time, but I’m almost in tears by the end of it.
Not for his grandfather, who must have been a really good guy but whom I didn’t know.
I’m almost in tears for Owen.
It’s almost ten in the evening when we’re finally able to escape and head to a nearby hotel. His aunt has reserved a block of rooms for family who’ve traveled for the funeral, and we take the room they give us.
It only has one king-sized bed.
Owen has been quiet ever since we left his aunt’s house, and he stands staring at the bed after we walk into the room.
He’s still holding his overnight bag.
“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I can go see if they’ll—”
“Owen, I don’t care about the bed. It’s fine. We’re tired. Let’s just go to sleep.”
I’m more worried about him than ever. Maybe he was able to let go and mourn privately last night in his bedroom at home, but he certainly hasn’t done so any other time.
And it’s not right. He’s so tightly contained I can sense it, like the emotional tension is sending out invisible waves.
He’s wearing khakis and a blue golf shirt, the same thing he’s had on since this morning. He smells like he’s had a really long day.
He needs to relax, let go.
He needs to.
“Why don’t you take a shower?” I suggest lightly. I instinctively know if I try to coddle him he’ll resist.
“You don’t want to take one first?”
“I’m going to call my sisters, so you take yours first.” I smile at him—as casually as I can manage—and I roll my small case over to one side of the dresser. I put my purse down, toe off my shoes, take out my phone, and sit down in the chair in the corner of the room.
I check a few emails that have come in during the day and a few social media notifications, pretending I’m not watching Owen stand like a statue on the other side of the room.
It takes Owen a full three minutes to finally start moving.
He hefts his suitcase onto the bed, stares down at it for a long time, then finally opens it and takes out a few things before going into the bathroom.
I relax when I hear the shower turn on and call up Sam. Melissa and Trevor go to bed early, but Sam isn’t an early riser, so she’s probably still up.
She is.
We chat for a little while, and she asks about how Owen is doing. I don’t say much. I can’t say much because there’s just a thin wall between him and me. But Sam must sense that I’m worried about him because she says, “People grieve differently.”
“I know.”
“He might just need some space.”
“I know. But we aren’t... In this situation, I can’t... give him space.”
“You’re sharing a room?” she asks. She’s always been incredibly smart and insightful.
“Yeah.”
“You know him better than I do. What do you think he needs?”
“To... to let go.”
“Maybe you can help him do that.”
“How?”
Sam hesitates. “I don’t know. Use your intuition.”
“Mine isn’t as good as yours is.”
“Yes, it is. You’re really good with people, and you’re a lot more perceptive than you’ve ever given yourself credit for. You’re going to know what Owen needs tonight. Listen to your intuition, and then try to give it to him, whether he seems to want it or not.”
“Okay.” I swallow hard. “I’ll try.”
Owen is in the shower for fifteen minutes, which is a lot longer than he normally stays in the shower. I hope he’s been able to cry a little in there or at least release some of the emotional tension. But he’s completely contained when he comes out of the bathroom, wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of light gray boxer briefs.
He glances over at me, holding the clothes he wore today in a wad in front of him. “I wasn’t thinking when I packed. I should have brought pajamas or something to sleep in. I don’t want you to be—”
“Owen, it’s totally fine.” I stand up and give him a little smile. “I really don’t mind. I’m not uncomfortable. You can sleep in anything you want.”
I hand him one of the bottles of water they gave us at check-in. “Do you need anything before I take my shower? You didn’t eat much for dinner. If you’re hungry, I could—”
“Okay. I’ll take a shower and go to bed too.”
I get the little cotton nightgown I packed from my case and take it and my toiletry case into the bathroom. I shower, change into my gown, brush my teeth, and wash my face. I stare in the mirror at myself as I brush my hair, which is still dry because I pulled it into a bun for the shower.
I look okay. My hair is smooth and shiny, and my skin is clear and rosy. The lacy straps of my silver-blue gown make my shoulders look unusually sensual. The cut is simple and not a bit provocative, but my nipples are clearly visible through the fabric.
But I also look... really young.
Far too young and inexperienced to be married to a man like Owen.
I have absolutely no idea what he needs from me right now. Or if he needs anything at all.
I finally leave the bathroom, with no more idea of what I’m going to do than I started with.
He’s lying on his side under the covers, facing the direction of the bathroom. His eyes are open, and his body looks tense.
“Do you want to watch some TV?” I ask, putting my clothes into my suitcase and plugging my phone into its charger.
“Not unless you do.”
“I’m fine.”
I turn off the lights before I get into bed, sliding under the covers and stretching out on my back. I turn my head to look in his direction.
It’s dark in the room, but Owen is still lying stiffly.
I know he is.
“Do you want to... to talk or anything?” I ask after a minute. My voice sounds unfamiliar in the dark room.
“I don’t think so. Thanks though.”
He doesn’t sound right.
He doesn’t sound right at all.
“Okay.” I swallow hard, knowing I need to do something but having no idea what to do. “Can I do anything?”
“I’m fine.” He’s facing in the other direction, and his voice doesn’t sound strained at all.
That alone is making warning bells clang in my mind.
I want to comfort him. Hold him.
I want to hold him so much that I’m nearly shaking with the effort to resist.
Then I remember what Sam said to me. That I’ll know what he needs, that I should be brave enough to do it.
I don’t think I can possibly describe how much courage it takes for me to scoot closer to him. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, but I still can’t see him very well. His back is facing me, and it feels dangerously tense.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I spoon him from behind, edging one arm underneath him so I can wrap both around him.
“Chelsea.” For the first time, his voice breaks. “I said I’m fine.”
“I know you are, but I’m not. So I’m doing this.”
For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. So I adjust my position, settling myself more comfortably. My arms are wrapped around him, and he’s still so incredibly tight. But he doesn’t pull away from me.
I hold him for several minutes, occasionally rubbing his chest, until I finally feel his tension break.
His body starts to shake.
I make a helpless sound in my throat and tighten my arms around him. “Oh God, Owen, I’m so sorry.”
He’s shaking helplessly now, not making any sound, and it’s scaring me. I wanted him to let go, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough to be what he needs me to be right now.
I hold on to him. It’s all I can do.
He’s obviously not up to talking right now, so I don’t say anything. I keep my arms as tight as I can, feeling like I’m trying to hold him together, like he’ll fall into pieces and slip away if I don’t maintain my grip.
It’s a long time—I have no idea how long—before he finally stops shaking. To my relief, his body begins to relax.
“I love him,” he rasps into the silence of the hotel room.
“I know you do. I wish I could have met him.” I’m stroking his chest over his T-shirt.
“You would have loved him too.”
For some reason the words feel more intimate to me than anything else he could have said. “I’m sure I would have.”
“I don’t think I can live up to his legacy.”
“Of course you can, Owen. He trusted you with Masterson’s. You’re not going to let him down.”
“I hope not.”
“But he loved you anyway. He would have loved you no matter what you do.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you. And you come from a family who knows how to love.” I realize something as I’m talking. “My grandfather isn’t like that. I know the difference.”
“Pop loves you, Chelsea.” He rolls over so he’s facing me, forcing me to loosen my embrace.
“I know he does. But he doesn’t love me the way your grandfather loved you. You know it’s true. Pop’s love is like his money. It always comes with strings.”
He lifts a hand and uses his fingertips to stroke my cheek.
I smile at him in the dark. “It’s fine, Owen. I’m used to it. And I’m not trying to make this about me. I’m just trying to say that the way you and your grandfather loved each other was special. And it’s worth grieving over.”
“I know it is. Thank you, Chelsea.”
To my surprise, he reaches out and pulls me against his front. This time his arms are around me, and I nestle against him.
We lie together like that for a long time. He’s relaxed now, but I know he’s not asleep. He occasionally brushes a hand down the length of my hair. He occasionally shifts position slightly.
It’s been more than an hour since we went to bed when I notice something as he adjusts. I feel something rub against me that wasn’t there before.
He’s getting hard in his underwear.
It surprises me but doesn’t alarm me. I like how it feels. I rub myself against him.
He makes a guttural sound.
I enjoy the sound of it, so I rub against him again.
“Chelsea.”
“What?”
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think?”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I’ve lifted one of my legs, and I slide it along his thigh so I can feel his arousal more fully. “I want to.”
He groans softly and moves both his hands to cup my bottom. “Chelsea.”
“I want to.”
I’m telling him the absolute truth. My body is buzzing with excitement now—with that same deep tenderness heavy in my chest—and the pressure of arousal between my thighs makes me want to moan.
I find his face in the dark and kiss him.
The kiss isn’t tentative and questioning like the one we shared in the kitchen yesterday. This one is openly needy.
It fills me. Thrills me. I wrap my arms around him and kiss him with everything I’ve got.
We keep rocking together as our lips and tongues move urgently, almost sloppily. I can’t get enough of the feel of him. Big and warm and strong. Earnest.
So serious.
I get my hands beneath his T-shirt so that I can stroke the bare skin of his back, and he hikes up my gown so he’s gripping the soft flesh where my butt meets the back of my thighs.
I’ve lost all track of time, but the kiss seems to go on for a long time. I’m hotly aroused when he finally breaks his mouth from mine and starts pressing little kisses down my throat.
He pushes me over onto my back as he does, and I let him.
“Chelsea,” he’s murmuring between kisses. “Chelsea.”
He’s saying my name, and it’s even better now than ever.
When his mouth lowers to my chest, I gasp, my arms flying up to grab the headboard. He teases my nipples through the cotton of my gown, and it’s making me crazy.
He lifts his head, stare
s down at me for a moment, and then kisses my mouth briefly before he moves back down to my breasts.
This time his hand moves between my legs, sliding my panties aside so he can stroke me intimately.
I gasp loudly and arch up as he slides two fingers inside me.
He’s got to know how aroused I am. I’m very wet.
I writhe as the pleasure builds. He’s fucking me with his fingers now and suckling one nipple through my gown.
I come before I know to expect it, making a soft little sobbing sound as the pressure breaks.
He sustains his rhythm as I ride out the spasms, and then my arms finally fall back down to the bed as I pant loudly.
I still can’t see him very well, but it feels like he’s smiling as he kisses me again.
I part my legs to make room for him and bend up my knees as our mouths move together hungrily.
I can’t keep my hands off him anymore. I stroke his back, his ass, his thighs, and finally move my hands forward and slide them into his underwear. When I find his erection, he stiffens palpably and makes a choking sound. “Chelsea.”
“Please.” My voice is raspy and unfamiliar. “Owen, please.”
He lifts himself up abruptly and yanks off his boxer briefs as I pull off my panties. Then he moves back between my legs, and I help him line himself up. “Do we need... protection?” he asks.
“No. I’m on birth control. We’re fine.”
He gently pushes himself inside me, pulling back and readjusting once as he does.
He feels big and full and perfect inside me, and I give an embarrassing gasp as he settles in fully.
“Is it okay?” He’s holding himself up on his forearms, and his mouth is only a couple of inches from my ear.
“Yes. It’s good. So good.”
“Good.” He rocks his hips a few times, and I gasp again. “Oh, fuck, it’s good.”
I bend my legs even more as he starts to thrust for real. His motion is fast and urgent but not too rough. It feels just right. Deep. Intimate. I move with him and dig my fingers into the tight muscles of his ass.
He’s starting to make soft grunts, and it makes the whole thing even better. Like he’s losing his control, like he’s not holding back anymore.
Some of his grunts sound like he’s saying my name.
