The Husband Game

by Wylder, Penny

  I take a deep breath before I cross the threshold, in a vain attempt to quell my racing pulse, the lurch of anticipation in my veins. “Something like that,” I reply as I join him inside.

  He pushes the door closed behind us, bringing another memory springing to my mind. Last night, both of us pinned against that door. The way his mouth tasted against mine, the way he slid between my thighs and—

  I clear my throat, hard.

  Charlie, for his part, just watches me with one eyebrow arched, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking about, and it amuses him deeply. “I thought I was never going to see you again,” he says, his eyes dancing. “I thought you had too much work to do.”

  I stifle a weak smile. “Yeah, well. Actually, about that… This sort of is about work.”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Oh really. And here I thought I’d actually gotten through to you this morning.”

  I laugh, unable to help it. “Alas, I’m more stubborn than you could possibly imagine.”

  “I’d prefer if I didn’t have to imagine it.” He takes a step closer to me, and I can smell him already, the combination of his cologne and the sweat licking across his skin bringing back more memories, the sound of his voice as he thrust inside me, and oh fuck. “I’m pretty stubborn too, Lila,” he murmurs, his mouth close to mine now, his gaze hot as it sears into mine. “I’d be happy to test our wills. See who’s the last one standing.”

  My knees are already weak. Now they start to tremble, too. All I want to do is say yes. Let him make me submit again. Let him fling me over one shoulder and carry me back into the bedroom, to repeat last night all over again. Instead, I raise my chin. “Actually, about that. What are your thoughts on marriage?”

  He freezes, his expression turning to stone. His gaze sweeps across my face, as if he’s checking to make sure I’m serious. “In general, or…?”

  I clear my throat, my face flooding with heat. “Kind of. I, um… Funny story.” I force a laugh that sounds borderline hysterical. “I kind of agreed to write an article about marriage, actually. For the magazine I write for.”

  “I thought you were an artist.” He raises an eyebrow, staring at me. “The easel and everything on campus yesterday—”

  “That was for an article too, actually. The same article. Well, sort of. Except the focus has shifted now, expanded. My editor wants me to do a series on marriage from my own point of view, a personal inside story of one failing—”

  “Sorry, you’re married?” Charlie blinks at me now, confused.

  “No!” I blurt. “Of course not. Um. But… I need to be.” My cheeks could start a small fire right now, they burn so hot. “For the article,” I add lamely, by way of explanation.

  “Oh.” His expression clears. Then shifts again, into understanding. “Oh.”

  “It wouldn’t be for real,” I hurry to explain. “I just need to write a few articles about, um, starting a relationship with a traditional point of view, old-school beliefs on marriages. The series will be about how marriages that start with old-fashioned, traditional beliefs behind them never really work out in the end. So, it would end with the marriage falling apart.”

  “And you think we’d be the perfect couple to showcase this failure, because we had such a traditional start.” Amusement dances in Charlie’s eyes, lingers behind his smirk.

  “Well, you did rescue me from a creep. That’s very traditional damsel in distress and knight in shining armor type stuff.”

  He laughs. “But I only asked you out because you were mad at me for rescuing you. I wouldn’t call that an old-school attitude toward gender norms, precisely.”

  “Neither is the fact that you know what a gender norm is,” I point out. “But we can make do, right?”

  He laughs again, softer now. Then he takes another step toward me, his gaze focused laser-sharp on mine. “If I agree to do this, does it mean I get to spend more time with you?”

  My traitor heart skips a beat in my chest. He’s so close to me now that I have to tilt my head to keep my gaze fixed on his, those deep blue eyes of his captivating. For the first time now, in the light of day, I notice there are little twin sunbursts of yellowish green around the pupils of his eyes. When I breathe in, I catch his scent again, the now-familiar smell of him. A smell that was all over me this morning before I showered.

  My belly clenches, my thighs tightening together as my evil mind decides to flood me with memories all over again. His body moving against mine, the size of his thick cock when I wrapped my hands around it. The way he pinned me down with those big, strong hands while he fucked me…

  Shit.

  “I-I guess, yeah, it would,” I manage to stammer, a beat too late, delayed enough that that confident smirk of his widens. He knows he’s getting to me. And he’s enjoying it.

  “So you aren’t too busy to see me again after all,” he replies, tilting his head to one side, amusement dancing in his eyes.

  I take in a deep breath in an attempt to clear my head. Mistake. It only fills me with more memories of him. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to see you again; just that I’m really busy with work. But since this is for work now…”

  “I see.” He laughs softly under his breath. “Good excuse, Lila.” He winks. “I’ll bet you almost have yourself convinced of it too.”

  My cheeks flood with heat. “What are you—”

  “Come on.” He finally closes the remainder of that gap between us, and lets his hands come to rest on my hips, one on each side, framing me. He leans in, and without thinking, I tilt my head farther back, keeping my gaze fixed on his, my lips parting slightly in anticipation. Kiss me, damn it Charlie… But he doesn’t. He just lowers his voice, quiet and conspiratorial. “You can’t tell me you didn’t spend the whole morning thinking about me,” he murmurs. Just the pitch of his tone makes my blood sing, my thighs tremble. “I know I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” His hands trace up my hips to the curve of my waist, slow and purposeful, sending shivers through me with every inch they travel. “Remembering how it felt to watch you scream with pleasure…”

  I can’t help it. I let a full-body shiver pass through me at those words, and he feels it, chuckling quietly. Fuck. I’m already wet, I can feel it, and I shift from one leg to the other uncomfortably. Every inch of me screams out to reach up and touch him. To grab his face and pull him into a kiss. A kiss that would turn into a lick, a bite, a suck… A kiss that would end up with me pinned underneath him on that bed of his all over again.

  Instead, with the last remaining shreds of my willpower, I take a big step backward. “I was at work today,” I tell him, my voice only trembling slightly. Just enough to maintain some semblance of dignity. I hope. “I didn’t have time to indulge in fantasies.”

  “Uh huh.” Charlie’s eyes dance with amusement. “And now?”

  “Now, I…” I swallow hard. Cross my arms over my chest. “Now I need an answer. Are you up for this?”

  He chuckles again, a little softer this time. “You drive a hard bargain, Lila.” He tilts his head to one side, his eyes jumping back and forth between mine as he studies me. Part of me wants to know what he sees there. How much of my façade of calm can he see through?

  But a bigger part of me is scared to know. Because I have the feeling this man can read me easier than an open book.

  “All right,” he finally says, his voice dropping once more. “I’ll play along. But only because you asked nicely. And because I love watching how flustered you get every time I’m within five feet of you,” he adds with a wider smirk now.

  “I am not—” I start, but he steps back toward me again, and I have to clamp my mouth shut before I say something I’ll regret.

  Charlie just grins.

  I glare back. “Fine. Thank you.”

  He arches an eyebrow, never losing that easy, confident smile. “So. Traditional marriage, hmm? That probably means we should go on an actual date, don’t you think?”

  I take a few seconds to
think, a little bit of the fog clearing as I do. “That would probably be a good idea. I’ll do some research on good date spots in the city—”

  “Oh, no,” Charlie interrupts. When I blink at him in confusion, he shrugs. “You said you wanted to write about being in a traditional relationship. I’m pretty sure that means, for our first date, I’ll need to pick the place.” His gaze drifts over me now, like he’s sizing me up. I feel another flutter in my belly, and this one has nothing to do with emotions and everything to do with white hot lust. I love it when he stares at me like this, like he’s undressing me his mind. It makes me want to know exactly what he’s imagining doing to me.

  It makes me imagine all the things I’d like to do to him right now…

  But instead of making a move, Charlie steps back, away from me. “Wear a dress,” he says. “Something nice. I have the perfect spot in mind.” Then he crosses the room in a handful of steps and yanks something from a drawer. A piece of paper, I realize, and a pen. He deposits it on the countertop and taps beside it. “I’ll need your address,” he adds. “So I can pick you up. Does 7PM work?”

  I blink a few times. I can’t remember the last time a guy came over to my house—well, for anything but a hookup after we’d already been out somewhere. And even then, it’s been a while. Normally, if I go on a date—also a rarity these days—I just meet the guy out at whatever local pub we pick together. Or, more often than not, one that I pick, since the guys I’ve been out with in the past tend to be pretty lazy about planning.

  I run a hand through my hair, then find myself nodding. “Yeah,” I hear myself saying, as if from a far off distance. “Yeah, 7PM would work fine.”

  Now I just have one problem remaining, I realize, as I jot down my address for Charlie. What the hell am I going to wear?

  7

  I spend more time than I care to admit digging through my closet on the hunt for the perfect ensemble. I try on at least half the dresses I own. A lot of them are more appropriate for as night of clubbing rather than going out on a proper date. I toss those to the side. Some night I’ll want to wear a revealing, sexy little number around Charlie. But I have the feeling tonight won’t be the right night for that vibe.

  Something nice, he said. But a lot of my nicer dresses look too modest—like the sort of outfit I’d wear to Sunday mass, not out on a first date with someone I might actually like. Even if I am only seeing him for work. And even if our relationship will be totally fake from day one.

  Still.

  Eventually, I settle on one of my old standards: a little black dress with one strap, knee-length but tight and rouched, so it shows off my curves without being scandalously skintight. It’s a standard for a reason, one of those dresses you can make look super fancy or pretty sexy, depending on the accessories.

  Tonight, I pair it with kitten heels—not too high, or at least, not so high that I’ll trip over my own two feet, since I can be a bit clumsy in high heels—a simple gold necklace and a clutch bag I got from Fiona. One of the big designer brands that occasionally send her free stuff in a bid to get featured articles about their products on the website. Whenever she doesn’t like the stuff they send, she always passes it along to me. Sometimes I keep them for myself; other times I resell them to make a little extra cash, because hey, a girl’s gotta eat, and a writing salary doesn’t exactly make me bank.

  As if she’s reading my mind, my phone dings with a text from Fiona. How’s it going?

  Going on our first date tonight. So far so good.

  Great. Make sure to take note of all the details for the first installment of the article. I’m thinking you’ll want to really play up the romance and the sweetness in the first article, to make it really hit home when things fall apart in the final installment.

  My stomach surges with nerves. She’s giving me editorial notes on my whole relationship. I chew on the corner of my lip for a moment before I respond. I feel a little weird about all of this. Like I’m setting up some kind of… I don’t know, straw man relationship to trick people into rooting for.

  Hey girl, business is business. Trust me, everyone does stuff like this. It’s how you make nonfiction really sing.

  Maybe, I reply, still not sure.

  Don’t worry. This will all pay off in the end, Fi writes back, along with a little hug emoji that does nothing to soothe the nerves pounding in my skull.

  But she’s right. I need to stop viewing this as a romantic relationship. Just like I told Charlie earlier today when I went to ask him about doing this. This is business. Nothing more. I need to view tonight as a writing assignment, the way I’d plan for any other interview or assignment.

  Somehow, telling myself that does not decrease the amount of angry butterflies bashing against my stomach’s walls, though.

  By the time I have the outfit together and my nerves soothed, I barely have time to dash on some makeup before my phone timer goes off, announcing it’s 7PM. Barely a second after that, my intercom rings, and my stomach does a funny little lurch in anticipation.

  There’s Charlie. Right on time. For some reason, even though I haven’t known him for long at all, it doesn’t surprise me that he’s the punctual type.

  I flash myself one last once-over in the mirror, grab my coat, and then I hurry out of the apartment, doing my best not to stumble in the unfamiliar heels, one hand on the stairwell banister the whole way down. At the bottom, in the hallway, I straighten the hem of my dress one last time and fling the door open, then…

  Freeze.

  Because damn.

  Charlie Cross cleans up fucking well.

  I see him through the glass doors in the lobby, in a suit and tie, one hand in his back pocket, that little smirk of his playing around the edges of his lips. It widens the second he catches sight of me, and his eyes do that slow drag thing down my body, making me feel warm and hot all over, like I can feel every place where his gaze lands on my skin. I suck in a sharp little breath and open the lobby door, and have to suppress a shiver. To disguise the latter, I go to put on my coat—or at least, I try to. But I’ve barely moved before Charlie offers a hand, and I realize what he wants.

  I swallow and pass the coat to him. He holds it out, letting me slide my arms easily into the sleeves. As he pushes it up to my shoulders, he leaves his hands there, lingering for a moment as he leans in close, his lips grazing the edge of my earlobe as he whispers.

  “You look incredible tonight.”

  I force what I hope looks like a casual smile of agreement and turn to flash him the same lingering up and down look, pointed. “So do you,” I reply, and I really fucking mean it.

  He laughs softly. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.” He actually holds the door for me to pass, then draws it shut behind us. He walks ahead to the curb, where I notice his little sedan parked, a sporty model—nothing top of the line, but expensive enough that I’m pretty sure he’s not at college on a scholarship, I’ll just say that.

  My eyebrows must rise as he opens the passenger side door for me, because he notices me checking out the car and shrugs.

  “I’m on a hockey scholarship,” he explains. “Leaves me with a bit of free funds to play around with.”

  Hockey. Well, that would certainly explain the abs he’s got. I step into the car and let him shut the door after me, my heart rabbiting in my chest. I’m not used to this kind of treatment. I’m not used to men holding doors or helping me put on my coat. I’m used to… well, modern guys. Guys who send you off tipsy after a mediocre date and ask you to text them to let them know you made it home okay, but who never respond to follow up when you do.

  My heartbeat takes a minute to settle into a regular pattern. Especially once Charlie slides into the driver’s seat next to me and draws his own door shut. Because suddenly the air seems to get sucked out of the car through the closed windows, and I’m all too aware of how close we are. How his hand on the gear shift lingers near enough to graze my thigh—something he does briefly, as he s
hifts it from park into drive.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask, my voice a little too high and wavery to completely disguise what I’m feeling.

  He glances from the road to me and back again, smiling. “You’ll see.”

  I huff out a sound that’s somewhere halfway between a sigh and a groan. “That’s not fair. You already planned the whole thing. I don’t even get a hint?”

  His eyes dance. “You want a hint? All right…” He purses his lips, pretending to be thinking hard. “The place we’re going to is new, but already famous.”

  I frown at the road ahead. New but famous? Nothing comes to mind. I fidget in my seat. “Is now a bad time to admit I don’t really follow the social scene in town?” I ask, which makes him laugh a little louder this time.

  “Me neither.” He glances sideways at me, his smile widening. “But I asked around. Some friends who would know promise this place will not disappoint.”

  “You asked some friends for advice on where to take me?” I fire back, equally amused.

  “I wanted to make sure it would be somewhere up to your standards,” he replies.

  “And what do you know about my standards, exactly?”

  “Mm, well, I know you went out with me, so they can’t be that high.” He reaches across to nudge my leg, and I push back, playful, until he turns his palm upright and traps my hand in his, his strong, rough fingers wrapped tight around mine. “You’re worth the effort, Lila.”

  “Because it’s tradition?” I ask, unable to keep a slight edge from my tone. But I can’t let myself forget that. I can’t forget that this is all a show, all just for an article I plan to write. This will all come crashing down soon, and I cannot allow myself to get caught up in the romance before that happens. No matter how appealing the romance might seem.

  None of it is real.

  “Because you deserve it,” Charlie responds, and his gaze searches out mine for a longer second now, until he has to turn back to the road once more. His hand remains tight around mine. “Lila, I would take you out even if you weren’t planning to write some article about how dating is a terrible idea.”