My One Week Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  He shakes his head, brooking no argument.

  I swallow, trying to figure out if I’m daring enough to say the next words. “We can still share a bed,” I offer.

  Spinning around, he laughs this time. “Darling, we aren’t sharing a bed if I’m not fucking you. I’m not strong enough to withstand that.” He returns to the room, shutting the sliding doors.

  “Truth be told, I’m not sure I am either,” I admit with a shrug.

  His eyes seem to flicker with happiness. Like he’s grateful that the situation is hard for me too.

  Believe you me, handsome, it so is.

  He points to the couch. “But I am strong enough to withstand you from a sofa bed. And that’s where I’ll sleep.”

  “At least let me get you a good pillow.”

  He sets a hand on his heart. “A pillow. Hold me back. Perhaps some tea too? Maybe a biscuit?”

  I roll my eyes, stride past the French doors, and grab a soft white pillow from the massive pile on the king-size bed. Briefly, my eyes linger on the mattress, images of us tangled up in the sheets taunting me.

  Daniel’s strong back and shoulders, those sinewy muscles . . . I imagine his toned arms pinning me down, holding me in place. His hands traveling everywhere over me, gripping me, clasping me, pushing me to my limit.

  And me, wanting all he gives. All he does.

  Every rough, dirty deed.

  Then, as I have before, I dismiss those tantalizing pictures, swiping them from my mind as I return to the living room.

  “No tea tonight. But you know what the travel sites say—a good pillow is the measure of a great hotel,” I say as I hand it to him.

  He takes it. “I’ll report back on its measurement at dawn.”

  I return to the bedroom, making my way to the en suite bathroom. In there, I freshen up, brush my teeth, wash my face, and remove my wig. I set it down carefully in the suitcase next to a platinum-blonde one, and a black one too.

  Maybe the blonde for tomorrow? Maybe in this wig I’ll be Mrs. Rousseau.

  Or Mrs. Nicks.

  I smile privately at the possibilities as I make sure the wigs are tucked safely away.

  For now, I’m not Mrs. Dickens.

  I’m Scarlett Slade, no artifice and not a touch of makeup. The remnants of my perfume have faded away.

  I’m only me.

  That raises the question. What would Scarlett Slade do?

  I still don’t know the answer.

  I know what Mrs. Dickens would do. She’d put on a jet-black negligee, head to the door, and strike a pose.

  Invite him in.

  A pang of longing tugs at my chest. His offer is so deliciously enticing. But I don’t know if I can take it.

  I don’t know how I’d survive it.

  Riffling through my things, my fingers stop on a soft, silky teddy. A cranberry-red one. The shade of desire.

  I murmur as I stroke it, savoring the lush feel of the material. I bet he’d love to touch me in this piece of lingerie. Bet he’d love to run his fingers over it, under it, onto me.

  I shiver, sensations rushing through me.

  I want to put it on, but wearing it is far too risqué. Wearing it would be playing with fire.

  Not so much for him, but for me.

  I won’t be able to resist him if I wear this, and I need to know I can handle the pain and the pleasure.

  The possibility of this tryst going terribly wrong.

  But maybe it’ll only go right.

  I reach for my faded Brown University T-shirt from my alma mater, where I earned my bachelor’s degree in economics. I tug it on, then pull on a pair of sleep shorts and head to the living room to say good night to Daniel.

  He’s availed himself of the other bathroom, and has already freshened up, wearing those lounge pants and nothing else.

  His chest is bare and worthy of a calendar.

  All those muscles, all that smooth skin, with just the perfect smattering of chest hair.

  I draw in a sharp breath. My body tingles, then heats as we share a dirty glance.

  His eyes roam up and down my frame. “Didn’t work.”

  My brow knits. “What do you mean?”

  He flicks his fingers in my direction. “I still find you as alluring as ever, even in that gray T-shirt. So your attempt to wear something less sexy didn’t work at all. You still look seductive, if not more so, when you look like yourself. Because that’s the thing, Scarlett. I’m insanely aroused by you.” He sighs like he’s resigned to the score. “And on that note, I better get to bed.”

  He sets to work unfolding the couch, putting a sheet over the mattress, and then flopping down on it as I retreat to the bedroom.

  “Good night, Daniel,” I call out softly.

  “Good night, Scarlett.”

  I wish I knew for certain that I could survive whatever comes my way.

  Fuck this bed.

  Fuck this room.

  Fuck this hotel.

  An hour later, I’m staring at the ceiling, wide awake and miserable.

  It’s midnight.

  This king-size bed is so spacious. I flip onto my stomach. I flip back. I turn onto my side. I reach for my sleep mask. I shove it on with a grumble.

  My world is dark. Maybe that’ll blot out these naughty thoughts frolicking through my brain.

  But nope. I can’t even count sheep. Because all I can see are cocks. And I’m pretty sure counting cocks won’t help my cause at all. Instead, I count truths.

  I want the truth.

  Daniel Stewart didn’t give me a single line. He didn’t offer something he couldn’t deliver. He only offered himself for a limited time.

  He promised nothing more, just that we’d return to the way we were. He’s capable of it, I’m sure.

  Am I?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  That’s the decision I’m making right now. I want to find out. I trust him. But I also trust myself. I trust that we can return to who we are.

  Now, though, we can be these other people.

  We can pretend to be newlyweds in a hotel room, holed up together, making love.

  If I’d just married him, I’d damn well be touching him already.

  My temporary husband.

  My make-believe mister.

  I fling off the covers, swing my legs out of bed, and pad across the floor. He’s on the sofa, stretched out on his back, one hand flung over his eyes. His chest rises and falls.

  He’s sound asleep.

  My shoulders sag.

  I’m turning to retreat to the bedroom when his voice calls out, all rough and sexy, “Come here.”

  Shivers race across my entire body. They fill my cells. Need squeezes my chest, and I answer the aching pull of desire. I close the distance, joining him on the pullout couch, getting on top of him.

  I straddle Daniel. “You’re hard,” I whisper like it’s a delicious secret.

  One corner of his lips curves into a grin. “Does that surprise you?”

  I shake my head as I set my hands on his shoulders, curling them over the strong muscles. “No. I suppose it delights me.”

  He lifts a hand, slides it around the back of my head, threads his fingers through my hair, then whispers, “Then why don’t you delight in my cock, Scarlett?”

  Heat blazes through my body. My hips move by instinct as I rock against him, grinding and pressing against that hard ridge, the tantalizing outline my eyes enjoyed a few nights ago in the hallway after the chandelier crashed.

  The chandelier knew.

  The chandelier was a sign.

  Thrusting us together.

  Wetness pools inside me as pleasure winds higher in my body. I rock as he grips me tighter, and I give in to the temporary us.

  But there are things that need to be said.

  Rules that need to be erected.

  Boundaries that must be set.

  So I stop, going still. “I have a proposal,” I say, all breathy.
/>   He growls, tightening his grip on my head. “Let’s hear it.”

  I draw a fortifying breath, then lay it out. “We do this. We do this for the length of the trip. We get this out of our systems. We role-play the whole time, and we pretend.”

  His eyes blaze with desire. “Tonight do you want to be Mrs. Rousseau, my siren of a French wife, who slipped into the bed after dark, since she wants to be fucked hard and ruthlessly?”

  I grin wickedly, savoring our naughty games, our tawdry make-believe. “But the thing is, Mrs. Rousseau loves being pushed, getting worked up, being turned on all day long.” I drag a hand down his chest. “When I’m Mrs. Rousseau, I want to spend the day wandering around town, you whispering filthy words in my ear, telling me all the things we’re going to do when we return to the room at night. I want to be driven mad with lust by Mr. Rousseau.” My whisper is soft and sensual as his eyes glimmer as I promise these dirty deeds. “And then when we return to our room tomorrow night, you can ravage me. You can ruin me in bed.” I nibble on the corner of my lips, voicing my final, tantalizing wish. “You can do anything to me.”

  A full-body shudder is his answer, then a low, deep rumble that seems to take over his entire being. “What are you proposing tonight, then?”

  My hands travel down his body, trailing over his pecs, then to his abs, tracing the grooves of them, the ridges, my nails brushing against his hot skin. When I reach the waistband of his pants, I slide off him and settle between his legs.

  I look up, meeting his eyes. I lick my lips. My intentions are clear. But words help, so I finish with, “Tonight, I’m going to suck my husband’s cock.”

  The only sound that comes from him is a command. “Suck me hard and deep, darling. Like you love to do.”

  Oh, yes. I’m sure I’ll love every single second.

  13

  Daniel

  This is precisely what I was imagining before she walked in here. When my cock was already rock-hard. When I was tempted, so damn tempted, to take matters into my own hands once again. But I don’t have to.

  Because she’s going to take matters into her mouth.

  She tugs my pants down, and I kick them off. She kneels between my legs and slides her hands up and down my thighs. My skin sizzles. My bones crackle. Lust thumps through me as my dick announces it’s ready and eager for her.

  She’s quiet for a moment, studying my body as if she’s contemplating how she wants to take me in her mouth—slow and sensual, or rough and deep.

  I have an idea of something I’d rather enjoy while she sucks me off. “Why don’t you take off your shirt?”

  Quickly, she reaches for the hem, then tugs it over her head and tosses it onto the carpet.

  My cock hardens even more thanks to the view of her beautiful breasts, all creamy skin and dusky rose nipples standing at attention.

  “I’d like to take those beauties in my mouth, bite your nipples, play with your tits, and lick you all over. I bet you’d like that. I bet you’d like it if I squeeze them hard while I fuck you.”

  “I’d love that,” she murmurs as she reaches for my cock, wrapping a soft hand around it.

  Her touch feels spectacular.

  But she also seems to know that I want so much more than hands.

  Because seconds later, she bends down, her soft, chestnut hair brushing against my thighs, and she licks the head.

  I arch up, needing more of her mouth, craving all of her. I want to bury my cock in her throat. I want to defile those lips. I want to see how far she can take me. “That’s right, love. Take it all. Swallow my cock,” I say, urging her on.

  She swirls her tongue around the head, moaning and groaning against my shaft as she gets acquainted with my dick. The sensual curves of her lips fit so perfectly around me as her lush mouth goes deeper, drawing me in farther.

  Pleasure pounds through my body as she licks and sucks.

  My hand wraps around her head, roping through those strands, tugging her even closer. “I like it deep, Scarlett. Can you handle that? Can you take me like that?”

  She nods, whispering “I can” against my shaft, then she shows me. In one swift move, she swallows me all the way down.

  Electricity zaps through my body. All my cells light up at once. I close my eyes and rock into her mouth, moaning, “That’s right. You’ve got me now.”

  I wrap both hands around her skull, tightening my grip. She doesn’t seem to mind. She responds to the way I handle her, somehow miraculously relaxing her throat.

  This woman.

  It’s like she doesn’t even have a gag reflex, and it’s my lucky day. Hell, my lucky year.

  I open my eyes, gazing down at the filthy sight in front of me. My business partner sucking me off. Her right hand roams to my balls, her nails playing with them, flicking over them, the other hand traveling to my cock. She wraps a fist tight around the base while her mouth works me up and down.

  As lust barrels through my body, Scarlett rocks her hips up and down too, like she’s savoring this, like she’s loving every second of it.

  The way she’s enjoying this blow job trips a wire in me. I thrust up harder, and she takes me deeper, my dick melding to her mouth, lodged in her throat. Pleasure ratchets up the base of my spine, then it explodes—a glorious carnal annihilation of my senses as I come hard and deep.

  My thighs shake. I groan for ages as bliss blots out the world.

  Eventually, I push up on my elbows to find Scarlett wiping a hand across her lips, giving me a sly smile, then saying, “I had my tonsils removed when I was younger. I pretty much have no gag reflex.”

  I shudder everywhere. “That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said. And I intend to fuck that beautiful mouth so many times.”

  She licks her lips. “Can I fuck your mouth now?”

  Holy hell. She’s sinful and delicious.

  “Get up here.”

  14

  Scarlett

  I shed my shorts and my underwear. Damn panties are useless already, soaked all the way through.

  I climb up his body, sitting on his face.

  That’s exactly where he wants me. His hands fly to my hips, and he tugs me down tighter, and then he goes to town on my pussy.

  I’m so aroused, so ready, so craving another orgasm.

  This man is intent on giving it to me. He flicks his tongue across my clit. I cry out, urging him on.

  Yes.

  Just like that.

  Don’t stop.

  I rock against him, and he holds my hips, gripping them tighter as I find a rhythm, fucking his mouth. My hands trail up my body, gripping my breasts, squeezing them.

  I meet his gaze for a hot, delirious second. His blue eyes are searing, glittering with filth and lust.

  He lets go of my hips, runs his hands up my belly, then pushes mine away, grabbing my tits.

  I shove my hands in my hair as I rock against his mouth while he squeezes my breasts, kneading them, pinching my nipples.

  Like he promised he’d do.

  I feel like his depraved wife.

  Like his wild midnight lover.

  Indulging. Relishing. Savoring.

  And fucking his face as he grabs my breasts harder, twisting my nipples, sending pinpricks of pain through me.

  Pain that’s pleasurable.

  Sharp, hot pain that’s so delicious it goes straight to my clit.

  As he licks me ferociously, I fly over the edge, my pretend husband coaxing a powerful orgasm from me.

  The world goes blurry and beautiful. As I cry out, panting his name, he grabs hold of my hips so that I don’t fall as I come hard on his face.

  I’m moaning and murmuring and so drugged out from my climax that I barely have time to process what’s happening next.

  He scoops me up, carries me in his arms, and brings me to the king-size bed.

  I half expect him to leave, but instead we slide under the covers together.

  He wraps his strong biceps around me and kiss
es my neck, whispering, “You’re so beautiful when you come, darling. I want to do that to you over and over again.”

  I am a woman unleashed.

  I speak from the heart of both desire and trust in him when I say, “I want all that and more.”

  Forget water lilies.

  Monet’s blue kitchen is the artist’s true masterwork.

  I discover it in its colorful glory the next day as we visit Giverny’s most famous spot—the artist’s garden where he drew so much inspiration. But I’m more lured by the artist’s house.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this slice of heaven?” I ask as I gawk.

  Yes. Gawk.

  There is no other way to describe what I’m doing in the spacious kitchen of the home of one of the greatest artists ever.

  It’s a robin’s egg of a room, a dreamscape of this one sumptuous color, with sapphire-blue stone on the stove, shades of pastel blue splashed across the table, and colorful patterns of ocean blue, sea blue, and tropical blue on the mosaic tiles on the wall. I wheel around, turn to Daniel, flick my blonde hair off my shoulder—today I am platinum—and arch a brow sharply.

  “You’re in trouble,” I say.

  He smirks. “So it’s my fault that you didn’t know about Monet’s house before?”

  I spin in a circle, gesturing to the pinwheel of blues before us. “Yes. Because a blue kitchen is magnificent, and since you’re the one who’s brought me here, you must have known about it previously.” I raise my chin defiantly, stepping closer to him, getting in his face. I poke his chest. “What kind of husband would keep this a secret from his wife?”

  His smirk turns into a devilish grin. “Maybe I only kept it a secret because I’m just now getting to know what you like. I’m only now discovering all these sides to my brilliant, beautiful wife.”

  I shiver at those words, at our games, because these roles with him are delicious. “Still, you should have brought me here sooner. Perhaps when you were courting me,” I say, like this is a version of naughty improv theater, and it’s his turn to decide where to take the flirty scene.