by Noelle Adams
My heart has always ached for Jo when I read that part. I feel for Jo so deeply. That ache at watching someone else lay claim to your dream, live out what you’ve always wanted for yourself.
But Jo in the book feels even worse because she knows she did it to herself. Her own actions put her in that position.
That’s me right now.
I can’t complain. I can’t whine. I can’t even legitimately feel discontent with what I have.
Because I asked for it.
I made it happen.
I thought it was what I wanted.
It is what I want in a lot of ways. This marriage—Hunter—has given me experiences I wasn’t sure I’d ever have.
Experiences I wouldn’t trade.
But I still feel what’s missing. I can’t help it.
I’m not looking for a pity party, and I know I have it way better than most.
But no man has ever loved me the way Trevor loves Melissa, and sometimes it hurts to admit this.
What’s even harder is admitting that it’s possible that no man ever will.
Some people go through their entire lives without experiencing that kind of love. I may well be one of them.
Hunter hasn’t said a word all through dinner, but that’s not unusual. He’s always quiet at Sunday supper and only speaks if someone asks him a direct question. I don’t blame him. I’d probably do the exact same thing if I was thrown in the middle of a family that wasn’t mine.
We’re sitting beside each other but not touching in any way. He’s not particularly tense, as far as I can tell, but he’s obviously hiding his real self somewhere deep inside.
We all get up from the table before dessert and head into the living room where Pop turns on the television.
The first commercial in the new ad campaign that Trevor developed for Pop’s is about to air, and we’re all going to watch it.
Melissa and Trevor take the love seat, and Chelsea sits on one side of the couch, so Hunter and I sit next to her. Hunter is in the middle, and he sits closer to me than to her, which is a perfectly normal thing to do.
So I end up with my thigh pressed up against Hunter’s. Our hips touching. He puts his arm on the back of the couch, again a perfectly normal thing to do in close quarters.
It must look like we’re a couple, like we’re together.
Husband and wife.
But we’re not really. Not the way Trevor and Melissa are.
I have to admit that part of me wishes we were.
We all grow silent as the commercial comes on, and everyone watches it with rapt attention.
It’s brilliant. Funny and polished and compelling. We all clap when it’s over—except Pop, of course, who never claps—and Chelsea gives a loud cheer.
Trevor looks a little sheepish as Melissa wraps her arms around him, and I feel that pang of jealousy again, but I push it away.
I’m not going to be that person. The one who wants what her sister has, the one who isn’t content with the decisions she’s made for herself.
Hunter doesn’t have to love me.
He’s always fulfilled his side of our bargain, and I know he always will.
When Pop mutters, “Not bad,” we all know the commercial is a huge success.
ON THE WAY HOME, I try to make conversation about dinner and the commercial, but Hunter clearly isn’t in a chatty mood.
He’s in his brooding mood, the one where he’s pulled all his thoughts and feelings inside, hiding them from me, from the world.
I sit in silence for a while until I finally ask, “Is something wrong?”
He turns his eyes to me like he’s surprised. “No. Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. You just seem... like something is wrong.”
“It’s not.”
I stare at him for a minute, and know he’s not telling me the truth. “You said you’d never lie to me.”
His lips tighten beneath his beard. He doesn’t say anything for a full minute. It’s like he’s having an internal struggle. Then he finally says, “I’m sorry I’m not like Trevor.”
I gasp. Literally gasp. So loudly it rasps in the quiet car.
Had he read my mind? Had he seen through my mood?
I’ve always assumed I’m fairly self-contained, but with Hunter it’s like I’m always wearing my feelings right there on my face. “I don’t want you to be like Trevor.”
“Don’t you?” His eyebrows are raised as he shifts his gaze to me again briefly before he turns back to the road.
I’m so, so afraid that he knows I want him to love me.
I might be stretching, changing, trying to be less perfect, more real.
But never in the world can I live with letting Hunter know I have feelings for him that aren’t returned.
“No,” I manage to say. “I like Trevor, but... no.”
“You don’t want a husband who’s made a success of his life? A husband your grandfather doesn’t always think is tainting his perfect angel?” Hunter’s tone is offhand, but it’s just a cover. He’s asking a real question, and one that goes very deep for him.
And I suddenly see that he hasn’t read my mind after all. He sensed something in me over dinner but misinterpreted it completely.
“No!” I’m urgent now, reaching over to touch his arm. “Hunter, no. It’s not like that.”
“Oh it is. I promise that’s what Pop thinks every time he sees me. I’m making you... dirty.”
“I don’t care what Pop thinks. It’s not what I think. I’m not an angel.”
He responds to my urgency with a dry little smile that at least is better than his angsty brooding earlier. “You kind of are.”
“I am not. I thought... I thought you understood that I don’t want to be that way, always trying to be perfect.”
His face changes again. “I know. You’re not one for real. But you’re still like an angel to me.”
He couldn’t have said anything that would have touched my heart any more. My throat closes up around the emotion.
Then he adds in that light, casual tone again, “So you really don’t want a husband you can be proud of?”
“No!” I’m responding to the root question, but I suddenly realize what I’m saying. “I mean, yes, of course, but I am proud of you.”
“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”
“I’m not lying. I’m not. I think you’re amazing. I always have. And I’m so proud of how hard you’re working, how you’ve turned your life around, everything you’re doing. I am. I don’t want any other husband but you.”
Okay, a little more came out than I’d intended, and my face grows hot in the dim light of the car.
Hunter meets my eyes briefly, and I see that my words have meant something to him.
It makes me feel different.
Makes me feel better.
“I’m trying,” he says at last. Very softly.
I reach out to touch his arm again. “I know you are. Both of us are. We’re not like Melissa and Trevor. All we can do is try.”
He smiles, and I let out a breath.
Evidently I said the right thing.
I READ IN BED FOR ABOUT a half hour before Hunter joins me. He doesn’t say anything as he climbs under the covers. Just reaches over and turns out the lights.
He doesn’t seem to be in a sexy, playful mood, so I’m surprised when he moves over on top of me. “You wanna have sex?” he murmurs.
“Sure.”
It’s dark in the room. I feel his breath. Feel his weight. Feel his beard. Feel an intensity that’s different than normal.
He kisses me, and he keeps kissing me as he strokes my body and takes off my pajamas. Soon I’m aroused, but Hunter doesn’t stop kissing me.
Even when he finally lines himself up and enters me, his lips are still moving over mine.
My head spins and my body throbs and my heart is doing something else, something stronger, deeper, harder.
Scarier.
This is different.
It feels different.
And I’m so afraid it’s going to make me think things that just aren’t true.
But I can’t tell him to stop. I can’t pull away. I don’t want him to.
I want this.
I want him.
Exactly like this.
He’s moving over me in a steady, sensual rhythm that’s rocking my whole body, my heart, everything.
It’s dark in the room, so I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to see him. I can feel him. All over. Inside.
“Sam,” he murmurs thickly, speaking the words against my lips. “Sam, angel.”
I’m not close to coming. It’s not even a possibility. I’m too full of far too much that’s far more important to me.
It feels like he wants a response so I whisper, “Hunter.”
“Can you come?”
“No. No. I want it just like this.”
“I can—”
“No. I want it like this. You come.” I squeeze my inner muscles around him, making his body tighten, making him grunt.
“Angel.” One of his hands is holding on to my bottom, lifting me slightly as his thrusts become more urgent.
I squeeze around him again. “Come, Hunter. Come.”
He lets out a raspy exhale as his hips jerk and roll. Then I feel the tension break in him, and it’s exactly what I want.
Exactly what I need.
Him to want me, need me like this.
He buries his head against my neck as his body softens. I’m wet from his release, but it’s not uncomfortable yet.
I stroke his head, his back. I feel the sated leisure of his body.
He’s my husband, and at this moment, he really feels like it.
My husband, even more than my friend.
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up feeling like everything has changed.
I’ve been waking up fairly regularly when Hunter comes back from his run around seven, which is much earlier than I used to. I don’t actually get out of bed then. That would be ridiculous. But I’m nearly always awake as he gets dressed and ready for work, and we talk about our plans for the day.
Today I wake up to discover that he’s already in the shower. I hear the water, so I stretch out under the covers and wait.
I wonder what he’ll say today.
I wonder if he’ll look at me the way he did yesterday.
I wonder if he’ll kiss me, touch me that way.
I want him to.
So I’m definitely disappointed when he comes out of the bathroom in just his underwear and barely gives me a second glance as he mumbles good morning.
“Did you sleep okay?” I ask, analyzing his expression for some clue about his mood.
I can’t get a good read on him because he doesn’t meet my eyes as he pulls on a white T-shirt and then his trousers. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Good.”
I wait but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t continue the conversation.
My fluttering heart starts to sink. It might feel like everything has changed to me, but obviously nothing has changed for him.
“Do you have a lot going on today?” I ask, pleased when my voice sounds normal.
“Uh, no. Well, yeah, I guess. I won’t be home for dinner tonight.” He’s pulled on his blue Oxford and is busy with the buttons. He moved his clothes in here a couple of weeks ago since he sleeps in here all the time anyway.
“Why not?”
He looks distracted, unfocused. “Why not what?”
“Why won’t you be home for dinner?”
“Oh. I have plans.”
It would make sense for him to mention to me what those plans are. It seems like a normal thing to do—to tell your wife what’s keeping you away at dinner. Hunter doesn’t though. He’s tucking in his shirt and evidently too busy for a regular conversation.
“What plans?” Two months ago I wouldn’t have asked, but I’m getting upset and I can’t hold back the question.
He blinks at me for a few seconds. “Oh. Just with a friend. Nothing big.”
Who the hell is this friend?
If this friend is a female, then I’m seriously going to tear someone’s hair out.
Before I can follow up to get more information, Hunter finishes buckling his belt and heads for the door. “I’ve got an early meeting, so I need to get going. I’ll see you tonight.”
I stare at his back as he leaves. “See you.”
He has to put on his socks and shoes and then probably fills up a mug with coffee before he leaves. But it’s not long before he’s gone. It’s a minute before I hear the apartment door open and close.
And I have to wonder if I imagined last night.
Or maybe I took a regular night and transformed it into something unreal in my mind.
I lie in bed and mull over this for a long time and finally come to the conclusion that I did.
I didn’t imagine what happened, but I imagined what it meant.
And I was wrong.
Hunter was rushed and distracted this morning, but he wasn’t mean or rude. He was normal. I’m the one who wasn’t.
I was hoping for something that was never going to happen.
I’m not going to do it again.
I know I have feelings for Hunter. I had them way back in high school, and I guess they never really went away. They rekindled as we wrote those letters while he was in prison. Then for the past two months, they’ve grown and changed into something bigger, harder, more substantial.
But I’m not a stupid woman. I’ve never been a stupid woman.
And I’m not going to put my hopes in something that will never pan out.
So I’ll take what I get. A friend. A husband of convenience. Someone I can have fun with and who can help me do things I might not otherwise get to do.
But that’s it.
Being smart is the one thing I’ve always been good at, and I’m not going to lose it now.
I can be smart about this too.
Hunter is under no obligation to love me, so I shouldn’t expect him to act like he does.
It’s an emotional balancing act—this precarious pull between acceptance and expectation.
But I’m usually good at things.
I can make it work.
I KEEP UP THE EMOTIONAL balancing act for the next two weeks, and it seems to be working. We fall into a normal pattern of working, chatting, having sex, and living our own lives, and nothing feels too dangerously intimate.
Two Mondays later, in the afternoon, I’m lying on my bed reading a book.
It’s not a book for class. It’s a romance novel that just came out by an author I usually like. And it’s very sexy.
For the past two months, I’ve had more sex than I’ve ever had in my life. Very satisfying sex. Physically, I’m lacking nothing, but I still get turned on as I read.
The book is sexier than I expect, and I end up getting very turned on.
It’s only four in the afternoon. Hunter won’t be home for a couple of hours. I’m not going to lie around aroused and frustrated waiting for him when there’s something obvious I can do to take care of it.
I do have a vibrator, and I used to use it fairly often. I haven’t recently. I haven’t felt like I needed to.
It’s in the drawer of the nightstand where it’s always been, so I reach over to pull it out.
I’m aroused enough that I could use my hand, but the vibrator is easier and quicker.
I check the batteries, and they’re still working. I don’t need to take off any clothes. It’s plenty strong enough to work through my panties and yoga pants. I just bend my knees, spread my legs, and hold the vibrator over my clit as I turn it on.
The device makes a low hum, and it stimulates me pleasantly. In less than a minute, I’m rolling my hips and arching my neck as I gasp through a decent but unremarkable orgasm.
I keep the vibrator on for a little while to sustain the contractions even longer.
Then I relax and flip the switch off.
I open my eyes, pleasantly relaxed, to discover that Hunter is standing in the doorway of the room.
I squeal and scramble up into a sitting position.
“What are you doing here?”
He blinks as he steps into the room. His body is slightly stiff, and his face is flushed. “I live here.”
“I know you live here, but it’s just four o’clock. Why aren’t you still at work?”
“They let us off a couple of hours early because we finished that big project.” He comes even closer to the bed, and I recognize the smolder in his eyes. “What’s going on in here?”
“Nothing.” I’m embarrassed. I admit it.
I know I’m not the only woman who gets herself off. I know it’s a normal, natural thing to do for women of all ages in all situations.
But still...
I don’t want someone else to see it.
Even my husband.
“Why did you need that thing?”
“Because I... I... what does it matter?”
“Am I not satisfying you?” His voice is low and hoarse now.
I gasp, my embarrassment vanishing immediately. “Of course you are! This has nothing to do with that.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. I was just... just reading a book. And it got me going.”
His face relaxes, and I can see his brief insecurity is answered. The smolder returns to his eyes as he reaches for my e-reader.
“Hey!” I try to take it from his hands, but he holds it out of my reach. “That’s my book. You can’t just—”
I break off my words because he’s already reading the page I left it on.
I see his eyes widen as he reads.
“It’s a good book,” I say, starting to blush again as I remember what happens in that scene.
“You like this?”
“Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
He raises his eyes. “You want to do it?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“You mean...”
“I mean we can do this if you want.”
I swallow hard. “It’s... it’s a pretty long sex scene.”
“Are you implying I’m not up to the job?”
I giggle, embarrassed and excited and strangely thrilled. “You mean right now?”
