Temporary Wife

by Aria Ford

  When I kiss his cheek, he puts his arms around me. My silent goodbye isn’t going to be so brief, it seems. I let him fold me in his arms, and I lay my head against his heartbeat. I feel better than I have in years. I don’t feel alone. I don’t feel like he’s a stranger. He kisses the top of my head, which is sort of a sweet thing to do. He doesn’t look like he would be sweet, but he is. Like how he kept asking me if I was sure, how he made me come again even after he was done. I think I could stand here outside this club forever if he’d stand here with me like this.

  I remember I have some shred of pride left, and I pull away, give him a shy smile. I can’t quite meet his eyes. I know he’ll be one of my best memories. That I’ll remember this for years to come when I’m feeling lonely. But I don’t want to cling. I don’t want to hang around until he tells me he has to go meet some woman. Someone he’d be really interested in, someone smart and glamorous and beautiful, who could be more to him than a pity fuck behind a bar. It stings to think of it like that, so I think of it again. To remind myself how far apart we are, to remind myself that someone like me could never be with someone like him.

  I turn and walk toward the street, giving him a halfhearted wave goodbye. I’ll go to the bus stop and wait. I have a plan: going home, taking a shower, crying, and eating Chips Ahoy.

  I’m blinking back tears and holding my top shut. Before I make it to the sidewalk, his hand is on my arm. I feel a rush of relief, even if he’s just being polite. He turns me around, drapes his jacket over my shoulders. It’s warm from his body heat, the silky lining sleek against my torn cotton shirt. It feels so good. I thank him, tell him it’s a nice thought but I’m headed for the bus.

  “No,” he says.

  “No?” I blink at him.

  “I’ll give you a ride. Make sure you get home safely.”

  There’s no room to argue with him, and I don’t want to argue anyway. I want five more minutes or ten just sitting near him and breathing in the cologne and the salted caramel smell of his skin. He takes out his phone, and seconds later we’re getting into a black Town Car, a driver holding the door for me. The interior is leather and there’s warm air from the vents and soft jazz from the speakers. It’s like rich person heaven in here. I sink into the seat gratefully.

  He doesn’t ask me where I want to go or where I live. I don’t tell him. Instead, Griffin slips an arm around my waist and pulls me to him, kissing my lips. At first he nips at them gently, teasingly. I lick his top lip playfully and get the hot, wet slide of his tongue in my mouth as payback. I feel the heat pool low in my belly, and I want him again already. It’s like there’s still a pull I can’t resist, even though the sexual tension should be gone now that we’ve done it.

  Nothing seems to have dulled the sparks I feel, the fireworks that flare behind my eyelids when he kisses me. His fingers pry the elastic out of my ponytail so my hair falls free into his hands. I feel him weave his fingers through my hair, soothing my scalp and making me tip my head back. He uses the opportunity to kiss my neck and my toes curl.

  “Tell me your name,” he says against my throat.

  “No,” I say, “I know this is only one night. Let’s not pretend it’s anything more or less than that. Don’t spoil the—the magic of this with our real lives. We won’t look for each other that way. We’ll let this be perfect as it is—”

  “I knew you were a romantic,” he says with a sort of growl. He captures my earlobe in his teeth and a sharp sensation of wanting jars me. I hold his head down, not wanting him to stop.

  I’m already attached to him, connected. Like he understands what I need. I don’t need to fool myself into thinking he wants anything to do with me after tonight. I won’t give him my number and then spend months being disappointed when he never calls. I’d rather be a perfect memory than a girl he doesn’t bother to text back.

  “I have to call you something,” he says, “So I know what name to scream.”

  I feel that down to my toes when he says it. I get to be with him again tonight. I get to make him scream. It feels like an unexpected gift.

  “Call me anything you want.”

  “Kate,” he says decisively, and I’m surprised how close that is to my real name. I wouldn’t care if he called me Ethel, though.

  “Griffin,” I say.

  “It isn’t fair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” he says, nuzzling my neck.

  “It isn’t fair that you’re so gorgeous and so far out of my league. Who cares about fair tonight?” I tell him.

  I don’t hesitate. I wrap my arms around him, pull him down over me. He slides me down beneath him on the seat, and I stretch out to full length. I love feeling his weight on top of me, his legs twisted up with mine, all that body contact. I arch against him as we kiss. It’s easily the hottest kiss I’ve ever had, but it’s more than that too. The way he kisses me, the way he cradles my cheek in his hand make it feel like he’s kissing me, and not just anyone. My shirt’s fallen open and his jacket is underneath me somewhere. My breath comes faster. I rise against him, my breasts rubbing against his muscled chest. I don’t want fabric between us. I don’t want anything between us.

  The car stops and he sits up, pulling me into his lap.

  “I live in this building. Will you come upstairs with me?” he says.

  I don’t stop and think. I do what I want for once, and I say yes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Griffin

  She’s letting me take her upstairs. I haven’t felt this completely lucky since I bought my first club. This girl, the one I’m calling Kate, has me wrapped around her finger. If she told me she wouldn’t go upstairs, I swear I would’ve asked her where I could take her, or if she just wanted to stay in the car. I would’ve closed the window between us and the driver and just stayed.

  I had her spread out on the seat, her softness yielding beneath me, and I couldn’t keep it together. All I knew was this powerful sense of focus, of need to get inside her, to join with her, like that was my only reason for anything, for breathing.

  I wrap my jacket around her and guide her inside. In the private elevator to the penthouse, I don’t even wait. I bend her back over my arm and kiss her breathless. Our embrace is reflected in the gleaming brass walls on every side. Her blond hair falling over my arm, her surrender, her hands on my back. I plan to have her again and again. I may never stop.

  In the apartment, I give her a second to look around. It’s overwhelming probably, so beautiful and not at all what she’d be used to. I can only spare about thirty seconds to let her be impressed, though. Because it’s all I can do to keep from bending her over the nearest table.

  “Do you mind if I—go to the restroom?” she says.

  I point the way down the hall and wait for her. I should be opening champagne or something, probably. Getting out something to nibble since I bet she didn’t get to eat. I didn’t eat either now that I think about it. But I’m too focused on getting in her pants. I can’t organize my thoughts to set up a romantic looking seduction scene. In fact, I have to talk myself out of knocking on the bathroom door, asking if she’d like to share a shower.

  I can’t stand having her that far from me, in the literal next room. It’s giving me the shakes, and I’m pacing. I need her back. I won’t feel right until I have her bare in my hands, until I know everything about every inch of her. When she comes out, she’s wearing my black silk robe. I feel like I could drop to the floor, my knees turned to water at the sight of her. She’s gorgeous, her messy blond hair, her smooth pale body wrapped in my black robe, the same silk that I’d worn this morning now hugging her naked curves. I can’t swallow.

  I stand as if frozen for a minute just looking at her. Then I realize I can still move, so I do. I go to her and scoop her up, bring her to my bed. It’s on a platform, covered in a dark purple velvet that is as lush as possible. The lights are low from sconces on the wall. She looks so perfect in my robe. She’ll look even more perfect spread out
on that deep purple velvet, all creamy skin and golden hair and eyes a surprising dark brown. I peel back the silk and reveal her skin, the dusting of freckles on her chest, the mole low on her belly by her right hip. I look at her so long she starts to squirm. I touch her, placing my palms on her thighs. I slide my hands up her sides, tease just beneath her breasts. I watch her pink nipples tighten and go hard as I stroke nearer and nearer to her rosy peaks.

  When I finally touch one, a feather light brush of my thumb over her nipple, she moans. I could come in my pants just from that sound. It feels so primal, so intimately connected to the way I was touching her that I get a sympathetic tug of pleasure from her moan. I can’t wait. I take her nipple in my mouth, my tongue laving the pebbled tip until she’s writhing beside me on the bed, her hands in my hair, pulling my hair, in fact. I love it. I feel alive in a way I never have now. I can feel the tug of her hands from my scalp all the way down my spine like a live wire jumping with electricity. I’m so hard already that I don’t know how long I’ll last. I have never had to worry about that. I know I’m excellent in bed, and staying power hasn’t been a concern. Either because I’ve never been this aroused before or because I didn’t care that much if my lover got off. My lover. That’s what she is tonight.

  “Kate,” I say, my mouth on hers as I shrug out of my clothes. She helps pull off my shirt and seems absorbed in touching my abs and my chest. I love her small, warm hands on my skin. The way she touches me and looks at me is incredible. I can’t stop kissing her long enough to speak. I pull her up on her knees and kiss her again, her hair falling all around us like a curtain. She reaches for my belt, and I can’t help bucking into her hand, letting her feel the bulge of arousal that waits for her. She smiles against my mouth, a satisfied grin that makes me afraid I’ll come right this second. God, how is she doing this to me?

  Once she has my zipper down and I’m in her hand, she strokes the length of me with soft, tentative fingertips. I grit my teeth and count backward, trying to hold out. When I can’t take anymore, I curve my hand behind her neck, under her hair, and lower her onto the bed. I lay her back while she’s still on her knees, her legs folded under her, lifting her hips a little, so her sex is open for me. She looks so amazing lying there and the way she looks at me—I feel like I can’t get air into my lungs fast enough. I’m panting like I’ve run for miles.

  I nudge myself between her knees and she lifts her hips higher to meet me, eager for my invasion. I flash back to the first time I kissed her. Was it only tonight? An hour ago? The way it felt when I slid my tongue in her mouth the first time, like I was penetrating her, raw and real. I position myself against her opening, determined to hold out, to go slowly. She reaches for me, for my hips and drags me down on top of her until I fill her. I enter her all at once with a deep push and the intensity of her tightness enveloping me draws a cry from me. I hold myself up on my hands, my face over hers, but she keeps pulling me down until I cover her completely. My hands are in her hair, our tongues mating in time with my thrusts. It is so fast, so unbelievably fast and consuming, like a wildfire. We lay side by side on the bed, sweaty and spent. Her fingers steal into the palm of my hand almost shyly. I hold her hand, staring up at the ceiling. When I can breathe normally again, I gather her in my arms, her head on my shoulder.

  “I’ve never brought a woman here,” I say.

  “You bring men here?” she says.

  “No! I just—go to a hotel or to her place.”

  “Oh. Then why me?”

  “I have no idea,” I tell her honestly, “I didn’t want to let you go, so I brought you home with me.”

  “This wasn’t part of your plan?” she says.

  “It was. As soon as you started to walk away from me, I decided I wanted to spend the night with you. I don’t—do that. I don’t stay the night. But I want you to.”

  “I’ve never spent the night with a guy. I mean, I’m not a virgin. I just—I haven’t. Haven’t wanted to stay and sleep with anyone all night, wake up beside anyone. It seems like a big deal.”

  “I know,” I say, “but I still want to.”

  “Okay,” she says, and smiles.

  “Tell me something you’ve never done. Besides spend the night.”

  “I’ve never done exactly what I wanted, just because I wanted to. I try to do the responsible thing. Not, you know, like this.”

  “Are you afraid of what people will think if you’re irresponsible?” I say.

  “There’s nobody to think anything about it. My parents are dead. My little brother too. Car wreck two years ago,” she says, her voice careful and even.

  I crush her in my arms and kiss her hair. I want to protect her from that. I don’t even want to think what it would have been like if Gina had died when Mom did. Two years ago—she must have been very young. I was twenty-five and barely survived half that much loss.

  “That’s terrible. My mother passed away last year in a Jeep accident in Syria. She was doing charitable work. But I still have my sister. She’s sixteen,” I say.

  “Josh would be fourteen and a half, if he had lived,” she tells me. I brush her hair back from her face, not knowing what to say.

  “They went to this monster truck thing—a rally or whatever, the thing where they drive over piles of regular cars and everyone screams and cheers. He loved stuff like that. I was at school. I wasn’t with them.”

  “I’m glad you weren’t with them. You wouldn’t be here.”

  “You don’t know how many times I’ve wished I was in that car, Griffin,” she says, her voice thick with tears, “And tonight, when that man was choking me and ripping off my clothes, I kept thinking—why couldn’t I have just died? Why couldn’t I have just died in the car wreck and not had to go through losing them and now this—being raped in a goddamn hallway while I’m waiting tables!”

  Her whole body shakes with ragged sobs. Her face is hot and sticky on my shoulder, her weeping hectic and loud. I can’t think what to do. I just keep my arm around her and let her cry. I want to tell her to stop, that it’s okay. But I know it’s not okay. I’m sure as hell not okay, and I’m not completely alone in the world and waiting tables to survive. I don’t think I have much right to tell her to hush because everything’s fine.

  “You’re safe here,” I finally say.

  She nods enthusiastically and sniffs and hiccups. I disentangle myself from her and come back with a box of tissues. She mops up her face and blows her nose about twenty times. Her makeup that was smeared is now completely gone. Her face is puffy and red. I kiss her again because it makes my chest hurt to see her like that. I can’t imagine looking at her and not kissing her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says after a while, “I haven’t cried like that in a long time. Not since the burial even. I mean, I’ve cried, but not like that. Not like I’m dying of it.”

  “It’s okay to do that here.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s not your job to just—save me and comfort me,” she says hotly.

  “What if I wouldn’t mind applying for that job?” I say before I can even think. I want to protect her. I never want another man to hurt her. I want to make her feel safe enough to be herself like she just did.

  “I never told anyone that I wanted to die. I’m not suicidal. I haven’t tried to hurt myself. It’s not just grief. They say that the worst part goes away after a year, like—ding—time’s up, you’re back to normal. But if that’s true, I don’t think I’d still wonder what the point is. Like, why am I even still here? My whole family’s gone. My life as I knew it is gone. I had to drop out of school. I live in a total craphole with my friend Amy, and we work opposite shifts, so it’s not like I’ve even got her.”

  “What about—I know you said you had to quit school, but what about student loans? You might have been able to finish your degree,” I say.

  “I could have done that, I guess. But I had just lost my whole family, Griffin. I couldn’t keep going. I didn’t want to deal with taking o
n debt after I spent weeks sorting everything out to get death certificates. I had to clean out the house and figure out what to donate and what to try and sell, and I only had till the end of the month because it was a rental. There was just me. To go through Josh’s baseball cards and know I didn’t have any way to keep them. I didn’t have a house or anything—any way to store these keepsakes I didn’t want to let go. I was like shell-shocked after all that. I couldn’t face financial aid and more debt and trying to live my life like I hadn’t just lost everything important…you probably think that’s stupid.”

  I didn’t think it was stupid. I think it’s unfortunate, and that some university advisor really dropped the ball in this case, because some form of support system surely existed at the campus level to help. I wish that I could have helped her, that I could help her now.

  “How can I help?” I say.

  “Just you letting me do that, cry and be mad and everything. That helped.”

  “I don’t just mean tonight.”

  It is out of my mouth before I realize what I’m saying: I will absolutely move her in here tomorrow. I’ll take her for a live-in lover, and we’ll see where it goes. Her eyes get big, but she shakes her head.

  “No way. I want this perfect night with you. I don’t want you trying to solve my problems for me. I’m here for a good time. I’m sorry for sobbing all over you. We’ve both lost people we love, so let’s just steal tonight and be as happy as we can before reality catches up with us.”

  It’s probably the best idea I have ever heard. I roll over to set my alarm, and she spoons up behind me, her cheek against my back. I feel myself relax completely. She’s holding me, one arm behind my neck, one slung over my chest. She molds her body to mine, her chest against my back, her thighs behind mine, her bare feet somewhere around my calves. It’s practically heaven. I didn’t know I wanted anything like this, but here I am. Griffin Doyle, self-made millionaire, international playboy, ruthless businessman—being the little spoon in bed with a waitress. I can’t help but smile.