by Roxy Reid
“I still think we need to talk about this bloody tension between us and figure out what the fuck we’re going to do to make it go away. Because if it doesn’t go away, the next six months …" Will be bloody fucking unbearable, I think but don’t say.
Grace finishes wiping off her make-up. “There is nothing between us,” she says firmly. “Please shut the door so that I can get in my pajamas.”
I can’t believe this. “What happened to Miss Communicate? What happened to talking about problems to make your relationship better?”
Grace whirls to face me, hands on her hips. “We’re not in a relationship. There is no sexual tension. Now shut the damn door.”
I glare at her, then I slam the door.
How did this happen? How did I become the one who wants to talk about our feelings? It’s not even like I’m trying to talk her into sex. All I want is some goddamn validation. A plan wouldn’t hurt, either.
You can’t escape a flood if you won’t admit the water’s rising.
I stare at the door, trying to figure out how my nice, simple life got so tangled up. Then through the door, I hear it. She’s humming. Something chipper and cheerful. It takes me a moment to place it, and then I realize it’s a song from an old American musical my mom used to like. It’s called Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better.
I resist the urge to shout my frustrations into a pillow. She is so. Damn. Infuriating. But it’s not as if I can have the stupid fucking conversation without her. So, I change into my pajama pants. I brought a t-shirt to be polite, but I don’t feel like being polite now. If she wants to pretend there’s no sexual tension, she can say it to my shirtless chest.
It takes me about ten minutes of lying there to start to feel a little silly. I’m about to get out of bed and grab the t-shirt when she comes out of the bathroom. She’s wearing a sweatshirt and pajama pants that are approximately three sizes too big for her.
“Your turn,” she says, before getting into bed and yanking the covers up to her chin.
I go brush my teeth without saying anything, also without humming show tunes because I am a decent human being. When I come back out, Grace is pretending to be asleep. She’s not very good at it, though, because she keeps peeking to see if I’m watching her. Of course, the really ballsy thing is that when I catch her peeking, she closes her eyes and starts pretending to snore. I’m torn between laughing and wanting to strangle her.
What is it they say about therapists? That half of them go into therapy because they desperately need therapy themselves?
I get into bed on my side and turn off the light. I toss and turn, trying to find a comfortable position. Grace lies as motionless as a corpse. I sigh. As annoyed as I am with her about her stubborn refusal to admit what’s going on between us, I don’t want her to lie awake all night and stress about it. She’s got book readings tomorrow, plus the much-dreaded dinner with her parents. She didn’t want me on this trip in the first place, and now I’m clinging to her like a bad cold, trying to get her to have draining, uncomfortable conversations she doesn’t want to have.
I think of Henry, lying to women because he doesn’t want to fix their computers in his time off. I wonder if that’s what I’m doing to Grace, expecting her to communicate perfectly about difficult things at the drop of a hat just because she’s a therapist.
She’s still motionless. It’s like she can’t relax when I’m this close to her, and that hurts way more than it should.
“Look, Grace, forget I said anything,” I say into the darkness. “If you say it’s all in my head, it’s all in my head. We don’t have to talk about it.”
Her breathing is deep and even. I don’t know if she heard me or if she finally did fall asleep.
I roll over, turning my back to Grace, and try to get some sleep, too.
“Fine, you want to talk, I’ll talk.”
I groan against the sudden intrusion into my sleep.
Grace flicks the light on. I blink at her, bleary. The alarm clock says it’s three in the morning. What the fuck is she on about?
“I don’t want to talk because I’m still mad at you for bribing the damn wedding officiant. I’m grateful that you’re stepping in now and pretending to be married to save my career. I know you don’t have to. I know most men wouldn’t do it. I also know if I ever really lose my temper, you might walk away, and then my career is toast.”
I scrub my eyes, half rising up on my elbows. The last thing I remember is a dream about a giant slice of cake, so it’s taking me a minute to adjust to Grace, kneeling in bed, gesturing passionately. At some point, she lost the sweatshirt. Now she’s in that skimpy camisole that hugs her breasts like … well, like a skimpy camisole. I’m too tired to come up with metaphors.
Grace keeps talking.
“I’m so grateful, and I’m so angry. And I’m terrified of turning into my mother.”
Fuck, we’re talking about mothers. I have no idea what this is about, but I figure it’s going to take a while. I sink back into the pillows, fighting back a yawn.
“Any way we could talk about this in the morning?” I ask.
But Grace is talking so fast, it’s like she can’t stop. “I don’t want to give up our friendship because I sit on my anger. I don’t want to give up my career because I piss you off and you decide you don’t want to help me anymore. Then you want to talk about the fact that I want you, and I should be able to talk about that. I’m a therapist, right? Sexuality is normal. It’s healthy. Why can’t I talk about it? It’s because it’s buried under this feeling of not knowing if I can talk to you like I used to be able to.”
I slowly sit up, realizing how serious she is. Her hands are trembling. This is hard for her to say. “Grace, I would never—”
“The worst part is, I don’t even know if it’s fair to be mad at you. I was as drunk as you. Drunker, even. I was the one who decided to go to Vegas, right before a book tour that might lead to a major television deal. I was the one who didn’t take care of myself.” She swipes at her eyes, and I realize she’s tearing up. “I’m mad at you because you didn’t take care of me. You didn’t stay sober enough to keep me from doing something stupid. But why the hell would you take care of me when I didn’t even take care of me? I think it’s just because I always feel so safe when we’re hanging out at your place that I just assumed … But that’s not fair. It’s not your fault, and I don’t know what to do.”
I pull her into my arms without a word. Her face is tucked against my bare chest so that I can feel the wetness on her cheek from the tears she’s trying not to cry. I rub her back.
“Shh, shh. There there. I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.” I don’t know how long we sit there. Until her breathing evens out. Until my arms get stiff from holding her. Until I can feel her finally relax against me.
That’s when I reach down and tilt her chin up to make sure she’s looking me in the face. “There is nothing you can say to me that is going to make me stop helping you with this marriage. You can get mad at me. You can move back into your own house. Your career is safe. Got that?”
She hesitates.
“Grace. Do you believe me?”
“But what if I’m too difficult?” she says at last. “I know I can be difficult. I mean, not with you, normally, but I can be difficult with other people. Now that we’re in this marriage thing together, you’re seeing that side of me. I don’t know how long you’ll last.”
I take her face in my hands. “You could be the most difficult woman in the world, and I wouldn’t cut our marriage deal short. I got you into this mess, and I’ll get you out of it.”
“But—”
“That’s not about you. That’s about me. It’s the kind of man I am. Sure, I walk away from things when they’re finished, but this thing between us isn’t finished until your book has had time to succeed on its own merit and your stupid TV people have had time to swoon at your feet and give you that special.” I look into her wide eyes. “I know you don’t
believe that I know you well enough to promise to stay until this mess is cleaned up, but do you think I know myself well enough to know what promises I can and can’t make?”
Slowly, she nods.
“Do you know me well enough to believe me when I make a promise?”
Grace nods again, more visible this time. Something in me uncoils.
“Good.” I release her face and sit back. “Okay, now, tell me anything else you need to, now that you know you don’t have to be afraid I’ll hurt your career in revenge.”
Grace shyly tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “That was pretty much it.”
I nod. “Right, then.” I sink back down into the pillows. I want to be supportive, and I’m glad she’s finally talking to me, but it’s three o’clock in the bloody morning. If she wants me driving hours and hours tomorrow in this stupidly huge country, I need to get some sleep.
I reach for the switch that will turn off the lamp above our heads.
“The only thing else I was going to say is how much I want you,” Grace says.
I freeze.
“Kissing you is better than having sex with other men. Which means having sex with you would be …" She trails off, her voice going low. “I know it’s a bad idea, us having sex, but I fantasize about it. In the middle of the night, when I’m done being rational, I think about going into your room. I’d wake you up, then ride you until you’re mindless for me.”
I’m already mindless for her. I don’t dare look at her. My hand hovers near the light switch.
She sighs. The sound is rueful and sexual all at the same time. “So, what I’m saying is, yes. You’re right. There is sexual tension between us. It’s not all in your head. I mean fuck, right now, all you’re doing is lying there with those shoulders, and I imagine …"
“Yes?” I ask, my voice dangerous. Hungry.
She doesn’t answer.
I roll over to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her nipples visible through that camisole she’s barely wearing. She’s hot and round and glorious. It’s all I can do not to reach for her and tug her over me and let her ride me the way she’s been fantasizing.
I’m getting lightheaded just thinking about it. I shift my hips under the sheets in a vain attempt to get more comfortable, but when her eyes fall to my crotch, the problem worsens. I’m hard as hell for Grace Blackwood. Grace, who wears pearls and sweater sets. Grace, who has been my thoroughly platonic neighbor for years.
Grace, whose eyes are big and dark as she looks me over from head to toe.
“About this no-sex thing,” I say. My voice sounds rough.
“Hmm?” she says, her eyes drifting back up to mine.
“I think we should have sex.”
Her eyes widen. “What! No. No, I couldn’t possibly. We agreed.” She pulls the sheets up to cover her torso, but that only succeeds in pulling the rest of the sheet off my chest. Her eyes flicker down to wear the sheet pools at my hips.
“I think it might be the fastest way to clear the air,” I say. “Get rid of this horrible tension. We’ve established I’m not going to break our deal if things go wrong and we fight.”
She bites her lip.
“Come on, Grace. If you want me that badly … You’ve been working hard. You deserve to let loose if you want to. You’re safe here.”
I don’t really think she’s going to go for it, but I’m dying over here, so I might as well shoot my shot. Then she reaches for me, and I swear my heart stops. Her hand hovers an inch above my skin, like she can’t decide where to touch.
Come on, love. Just a little bit farther.
Then she shakes her head and pulls away. “No. This is a bad idea. We shouldn’t. It might change us.”
“We’re already changing, sweetheart.”
“Not if I can help it.” She rolls over and hits the light switch, plunging us both into darkness.
Ten minutes later, I’m still hard as stone. I’m trying desperately not to think of the fantasy Grace described when Grace hits the lights again. She turns to look at me, and I watch the way her breasts move against her camisole. If I just leaned over and bit her there, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her she’s human, not some goddamn paragon to virtue. If I kissed her there, right after, to remind her how delicious it can be to be human. How good I can make her feel.
“Do you still want to have sex?” Grace asks.
I yank my gaze up to her face. Her skin is flushed, her pupils are dilated, and her breath is coming faster than it should. If that’s what proper Grace looks like, I must look like a fucking animal.
“Because I want to have sex,” Grace says.
“Oh thank God,” I say and kiss her with everything I have.
12
Grace
Bad therapist confession. Sometimes I wonder why my clients are so scared to tell their partner the truth. What’s the worst that could happen? It's just love. Then I remember. Losing love is the worst thing that can happen.
—Grace Blackwood, text to Sean Bronson, three years into their friendship
He’s hot and hard against me, kissing me with so much intensity, I can’t breathe. I thought our other kisses were hot before, but they were just polite test drives. This is eighty miles an hour on the highway, no looking back.
Sean pulls away suddenly, and I’m confused until he yanks my camisole over my head in a blur of motion. My pants are next, then his pajama pants, and then he’s back on top of me, kissing me like a starving man while he traces the lace edge of my underwear with his thumb. He dips his fingers below the waistband, stroking every place he can find that makes me gasp and shudder. It feels good, but it’s too much, too fast. I’m losing control. I need something to hold onto.
“Slow down,” I gasp.
“Not good?” he asks, softening his touch.
I make a helpless sound. Sean being gentle with me, watching my face carefully to make sure he’s getting this right, is somehow even worse. Because dear God, he’s getting it right. I twist in the sheets, not sure what to do with all the feelings rising in me. It’s one thing to have a one night stand. Those are about clear, uncomplicated pleasure. Then there’s dating, where I let more of my emotional guard down. With dating, by the time we have sex, I know enough about him to take away vulnerability’s dangerous edge.
This is everything at once. He’s wracking me with pleasure at the same time he’s murmuring profane blessings against my skin. And it’s Sean. Just a second ago, I was so mad at him I could cry. Now I’m so desperate for him that I don’t know what to think. Threaded through all of this is the fear that we’re ruining our friendship and that it will never recover, but when he’s touching me, I don’t care.
He sucks my breast until I feel it in my core. All the while, he doesn’t let up his stroking. I think I would have come ten times by now if I could turn off my brain.
His lips move to my neck. His fingers stop moving, but he still rests his hand possessively over my sex. “What do you need from me, Grace?”
Well, that’s a loaded question. I need him to fuck me. I need him to save my career. I need him to be my fake husband and my real best friend. I need him not to let me push him away. I need him not to let me drag him closer and destroy us both.
“I can’t stop thinking,” I say instead. “Normally, I can. I can focus on the sensations. With you, there’s so much sensation, and I’m drowning in it. I’m trying not to overthink things, but it’s not working.”
He grins down at me, lazy and wicked.
I pout. “You think this is funny?”
He kisses me, and it’s rich like fine wine. He kisses me slowly and thoroughly until I’m languid and limp.
“Better?” Sean asks, his voice rough.
I nod. He reaches up to smooth my hair back. The gesture feels unusually tender after all the dirty things he’s been doing to me. Then I catch his wedding ring glinting at the corner of my vision, and just like that, my brain is running a hundred miles a minute
again.
“Almost,” I say. “Can you take your ring off?”
He blinks, looking like he’s completely forgotten it was there. Then he looks at mine. He lifts my left hand and tugs it off. I immediately feel freer, like I’m not lying anymore. Like I’m just me.
I expect Sean to put it on the nightstand, but instead, he plays with it for a bit, rolling it between his fingers. Then he absently drags it across my stomach and under my breasts. He teases my nipples with the jewel’s cool roughness.
“Just think,” Sean says. “Tomorrow, you’ll be wearing this ring while you’re giving a speech to a room full of people. They’ll never know what we used it for tonight.”
“Sean!” I try to scold. It comes out more of a gasp. He laughs and tosses the ring on the bedside stand, along with his.
“Nevermind. I’ve got a better idea.” He rolls us so that I’m on top like in the fantasy I told him about. “You said you feel too much.” His fingers bite into my hips. “Take it out on me.”
“What?” I ask, distracted by the seductive beauty of his face thrown back on the pillow and his eyes as I move over him.
“You said you were angry. Take it out on me.”
The idea is oddly appealing. I rake my nails down his beautiful chest, and he shudders.
“It’s not just anger,” I tell him. I stroke the pads of my fingers over where my nails stung him. I’m gentle as a feather now. “I feel a lot about you.”
“Good. Give me it all,” he says and pulls me down for another drugging kiss.
This time, when I start to feel overwhelmed and like the feelings are pulling me under, I break away. This time, I’m the one to reach down between us. I stroke his cock. His hand jerks with need as he shows me how he likes to be touched. I touch him like that until he’s restless and moaning under me.
“This is for being so sweet to me at dinner tonight,” I say.
He fumbles blindly for the bedside stand. “Condom. Grace, you need to stop now or I’ll—oh please, don’t stop, don’t stop love, don’t stop.”
