God I love this fucking cock.
And I love what this man does to me with that mouth of his. He kisses his way lower, down to my belly now, pausing to bite my navel just hard enough to make me gasp faintly, in the back of my throat, before he tilts his chin up to raise an eyebrow at me in silent admonishment.
Right. We’re being quiet.
I offer him a not-so-sorry grin, and he slides back up to cup my face in both hands, kissing me so hard and fast that I lose all momentum. I let go of his cock, wrap my arms around his back instead, and part my thighs so he can come to rest in between them.
We move together in silent, perfect sync. The tip of his cock finds my entrance, and with aching slowness, he presses into me, an inch at a time, his hands buried in my hair and his tongue deep in my mouth, twined with mine, as he does.
By the time he’s fully inside me, I’m gasping for breath. I love the way I can feel every inch of him, the way his cock glides into my tight pussy and makes me feel so fucking full.
He makes me feel full. Not just in the bedroom, but in every area of my life. In the time we’ve spent getting to know one another, I’ve learned more about how a man ought to treat a woman than in any of my previous relationships combined. He listens to me, he respects my opinion, he takes care of me.
If this isn’t love, then I don’t know what the hell is. The realization makes my pulse skip, my hands tighten around him. He takes that for encouragement and starts to move faster, thrusting his cock in and out of me, until it’s all I can do to keep breathing properly, let alone think about what this realization means.
I lose myself in the moment. In his kisses and my hands around his strong, sturdy body, the feeling of his cock inside me.
When he comes, with a guttural, possessive growl that I echo with a breathy moan, not far behind him, we both collapse back against the sheets in a tangle of sex and sweat, our chests heaving together, and it just slips out. The words I thought to myself as we fucked. The words that, if I’m honest, have been lurking at the recesses of my awareness for a while now, just begging to finally be let out into the wild.
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” I whisper, and the air around us goes still, frozen. It’s like time itself has slowed, as Charlie pauses to turn and gaze down at me, his cock still inside me, his deep blue eyes unreadable in the dark.
I swallow hard. But the words are out now, and all I can do is explain them. “I think I’m falling for you, Charlie, and I don’t know if we should do this marriage thing. Not because I don’t want to be with you, but because… maybe I really want to be with you. I don’t want to break up with you after all this.”
He huffs, a small sound that might be a laugh. Then he reaches up to brush my hair back from my forehead, and leans his against mine, our eyes inches apart. “We don’t have to, Lila. This can be whatever we want it to be.”
I nod, because it’s what he wants me to do, to agree that maybe there’s a chance for us, that maybe this could be real. But deep down, for a million reasons, I know it can’t be. I have the articles to write, we have a plan, Fiona is counting on me. And anyway, I’m not the kind of girl marriage would work for.
My parents are proof enough of that.
14
The next weekend is our wedding ceremony.
We planned for a small wedding—just our families and close friends, really. My older brother, after being informed by my mother that the whole wedding is just for show, a stunt, declines to fly home from medical school for it. As for my friends, I only invite a couple, with Fiona acting as my maid of honor, of course. My mom will walk me down the aisle. Charlie’s brother will be his best man.
But it’s not until I see the officiant gathering the papers together that I notice the signature lines on them, the official-looking stamps along the top. “Those look so real,” I comment in an undertone to Fiona, as we’re getting ready in the hall where the ceremony will be held. Charlie and his family are still in another room, getting ready.
My mother is looking grumpy from her place near the door, although when I walked out in my simple A-line wedding dress—no train, thank you, not practical, and anyway I prefer a simple style—even she couldn’t resist tearing up. “I know this is all for show,” she murmured, hugging me, “But you look beautiful, Lila.”
Now, though, Fiona gives me a sly little smile, side-eying me. “Because they are, silly.”
“What?” My eyes go wide, and I glance from the papers to the officiant to Fi and back.
She shrugs, looking innocent. “We want this to be as real as possible, right? So we can recount every little nitty gritty detail. What better way to add verisimilitude than to make the wedding real? Then we could do a spinoff article about the divorce, how messy all the paperwork is…”
Panic floods my system, makes my heart rate jump. But maybe it’s not just panic. Because something else leaps into my throat, takes over my imagination.
Imagine marrying Charlie for real. Being together as husband and wife. Starting a family… I suck in a deep breath to try and clear my head. Stop talking nonsense. This whole time, I’d been preparing myself for a show, a fake marriage. Now, though, I can’t help the kernel of hope that springs up in my chest at the idea of making this fake relationship real.
“I need to talk to Charlie,” I whisper.
“You can’t.” Fiona looks scandalized. “He can’t see you before you walk up the aisle.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re really holding to that?”
“It’s a traditional wedding, remember?” Fiona shakes her head. “Let me handle it, okay? I’ll talk to him. See what he thinks.” Without another word, she ducks away from me, leaving me standing there next to the officiant feeling stunned. Thrown for a loop.
And somehow, despite all of that… excited. Like this really is my wedding day. The start of a new chapter.
When I glance over, the officiant is eying me. “Nervous?” he asks.
“You have no idea,” I joke.
He just smiles. “Don’t be. I’ve seen a lot of weddings like this, the small, less ostentatious ones. Those relationships, in my experience, are always the ones that prove the truest. You and Mr. Cross will do just fine together.”
I want to believe him so fucking badly. But I have an entire life’s worth of history arguing otherwise in my head. Not to mention the fact that I’m specifically going into this marriage to try and make it fail.
My stomach churns. But when the pre-processional music starts, I take the arm my mother offers, and let her lead me to the back of the church.
“You’d better be getting paid damn well for this, that’s all I’ll say,” my mother mutters under her breath.
I nod along with her, unable to make my mouth work properly. Or to think too hard about what I’m doing. What I’m about to swear to.
Then it’s too late to back out or change anything. The music swells, and Mom and I enter the chapel, my hand tucked under her arm.
The moment I meet his gaze, any lingering fear and doubt is swept away. Because Charlie looks incredible. Perfectly handsome in his pressed suit, his honest gaze fixed on me. The way his eyes widen, and his breath catches when he sees me, too…
I couldn’t ask for anything more. Couldn’t want anything more than him, the man watching me walk up the aisle without flinching, without trying to back out or turn tail and run.
Charlie isn’t your father, I remind myself as we near the front of the chapel. He won’t leave. At least, not until you make him.
And maybe I won’t have to. Maybe I could avoid all of the pain I’d signed up for. Maybe we could make this work for real.
As if reading my mind, when we reach the front of the chapel, my mother pulls to a halt, and tugs at my hand until I turn toward her. She leans up to kiss my cheek. “Follow your heart, my darling,” she whispers softly. “Do what makes you happy, all right? Not whatever you think anyone else is telling you to do. Only you know what you want from your
life.”
Words of wisdom. Words that I want so badly to follow.
She pats my cheek one last time and retreats to her seat at the front of the chapel, and then I’m facing Charlie alone across the altar as the officiant reads a short welcoming paragraph. In the front row, I notice Charlie’s mother daubing at her cheeks with her fingertips, until mine leans over to offer her a handkerchief. They smile at one another, and a knot in my heart eases.
Behind Charlie, Mark offers me a cheeky little salute.
I smile at him. Then look at Charlie again. Our eyes lock. This is real, I mouth, because he needs to know. If nothing else, he needs to know what he’s getting into. Be given one last chance to back out.
But Charlie just keeps his gaze steady on mine, unphased. I know.
He knows. Fiona caught him in time and told him, and he’s still standing here. He still wants to do this. My heart feels so full it could burst, like it’s pushing at the seams of my ribcage, straining to escape my chest.
The officiant turns to me. “Do you, Lila, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”
Death, I think to myself. Not any magazine articles or job requirements. Death only can part us. Suddenly, my shoulders straighten, my resolve hardening. “I do,” I say, quiet yet firm.
“And do you, Charlie, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
He holds my gaze. Never wavering. Not backing down from any challenge, least of all this one. “I do.”
“Then by the power vested in me…” The rest drains to a background hum. The only thing I hear is the word kiss, before Charlie steps to me, bends to kiss me, hard and fast. I wrap my arms around his neck, arch up against him, as our families cheer.
When we break apart, every face in the room is smiling, despite any misgivings or worries they may have. Our families are here for us. No matter what.
Just as we’ll be here for one another now.
We sign the marriage license, and I lean into Charlie’s side, whispering to him under the hubbub of the room. “I didn’t know this would all be actually legally binding. If you’re worried…”
“No, Lila.” He stops me with a hand on my chin, another soft kiss to my parted lips. “I’m not worried.” His eyes search mine. “Because I’m falling for you, too. And I want to do this. For real.”
“You mean…” I can barely breathe.
“Fuck those articles.” Charlie grins. Holds my gaze. “I want you. If you want me too, then we’ll make this marriage what it should be. Exactly what we just promised.”
“Okay,” I whisper. My smile explodes then, so wide it makes my face hurt. “Okay. Let’s do it.” He kisses me again, then, and that feels like the moment. The exchange of our real wedding vows, the truth.
We both really want to give this a go. So fuck the rules. We will.
* * *
Four hours into our reception, it still shows no signs of slowing down. A restaurant in town begged us to hold the event there, so we could write about the food in the article. And I plan to give them the best damn review they’ve ever had, because it is amazing food. Even if I barely get a chance to eat.
I’m too busy being swung out onto the dance floor. First by Charlie, then his father and brother, then my brother Adam, who showed up at the last minute without warning, laughing and telling me I didn’t really think he’d miss my wedding, did he?
Then Mom needs a turn, and before I know it, I’ve danced all the way through the room and back again. Not to mention toasted over and over again with champagne, to our health, to our marriage, to our newly united families.
I’m having so much fun, I almost forget about the news I’ll need to break to Fiona at some point. About how I won’t be able to complete the article series. But maybe that will be all right. Maybe we can find a way to spin the final stories, to talk about how I was so sure a traditional marriage would fail, but that this article will actually be about how love can triumph over all of your expectations.
I’m still thinking through pitches when I catch a glimpse of Fiona’s telltale dark hair, over in the corner. I start toward her and notice that she’s already talking to someone. Charlie, in fact. They lean against the wall, deep in conversation. I head their way, but just as I do, I notice Charlie shove off the wall and say something, his forehead scrunched tight, his fists balled.
He looks… angry. And Fiona just looks bewildered.
Before I can take another step, Charlie storms off. I watch him go, around the corner toward the men’s room. Then I look back at Fiona, who’s already leaning against the wall and casually sipping at a flute of champagne as if nothing just happened.
“What was that all about?” I ask when I reach her, pausing to snatch a flute of champagne for myself off a nearby table. I’ve barely had a glass all night, what with how people keep whisking me off to dance. It feels nice to just relax for a moment, here in a quiet corner.
“What?” Fiona blinks at me, the very picture of innocence. Then she glances over my shoulder. “Oh, Charlie?” She shakes her head. “Damned if I know. All I asked was if he would do an interview with me after the break-up, so I could get his side of why marriages like this are doomed to failure.”
My face flushes with heat. Maybe it’s the champagne, or maybe it’s just the fact that all night, I’ve felt more loved and appreciated than ever before in my life. And here comes Fiona wanting to crush that.
“What would you know about it?” I snap. Not like Fi has ever dated anyone for longer than a month or two at most. She always says she has no time for relationships, that she’s married to her career, and love is a waste of time.
I always admired that in her, before. But now I wonder if she doesn’t seem a little bitter, too. It’s fine if she doesn’t want to date, but why shit on someone who does want that in their life?
“Excuse me?” Fiona’s eyebrows rise, but I just shake my head and follow after Charlie.
It’s my wedding day. I don’t need to listen to her. It’s like my mother told me. Do what makes you happy. Well, I know who makes me happy. I know who I need to follow right now, and it’s not Fiona.
15
I find Charlie outside the bathrooms, sitting on a step that leads down to a side door of the restaurant. “Hey.” After a moment of hesitation, I slide down onto the step beside him, and lean my shoulder against his.
“Hey.” He half-turns toward me, a shadow of a smile showing at the corner of his mouth.
“Sorry about Fi.”
“Don’t be.” He shrugs. “She has a point. We got into this to prove something.”
“But that’s not what I want to do anymore.”
“Do you mean that?” He turns to face me now fully, and I can see what’s really going on. The worry written all over his face. I know him well enough by now to be able to read that much, at least. “Lila, don’t get me wrong, I’m in. All in. But I need to know that you feel the same way. That this isn’t just some extension of the ‘marriage is doomed’ BS you started out wanting to prove.”
“It’s not.” I reach up to place my hands on his face, one on either side of his jawline. His stubble grazes my palms. “Charlie, I… I’ve never felt like this. Like I could really trust someone, be with them fully. Like I can be myself with you and I know you won’t ever up and leave.” I press my lips together to collect myself for a moment. He watches me the whole time, his eyes sharp, taking in every detail of my face, like he’s memorizing me. “I want to try to make this work. To make it real. To be with you.”
“What about the—”
“Fuck the articles,” I interrupt, before he can even finish his sentence, which makes him laugh. Then I’m laughing, too, both of us grinning at one another like idiots.
“Well, I don’t know.” Charlie turns my hand over, palm up, to kiss it softly. “I do have some things to thank those articles for… Pretty sure you never would have seen me again if you didn’t have to
write them.”
I laugh and swat at his shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You didn’t even let me get your phone number that first night,” he points out, eyebrow arched.
“Okay, so maybe the articles prompted me to do something I already wanted to do. Maybe.” I raise an eyebrow, still defiant.
But that defiance melts away at the expression on Charlie’s face. He’s staring at me with pure, unadulterated love. “There we go.” He grins and leans in to kiss me. When we break apart, his face hovers directly in front of mine. “Lila… I love you.”
My heart flips in my chest. Electricity spools through my veins, and it takes me a moment to find my voice. To smile and whisper back. “I love you, Charlie.”
When he kisses me again, it tastes like a promise. Like the start of a real forever.
* * *
The week after our wedding passes in a blur. Family dinners, friends’ dinners, parties and even a whole second reception that Charlie’s hockey team sets up for him the next weekend. There’s a cake with our faces on it—a blown up photo of him proposing to me in the middle of the rink. We burst into laughter when we see it, still holding hands, and Anna rushes at us to give us both crushing hugs, her boyfriend Pat not far behind.
The whole team cheers us on. And when we clasp hands again, our rings knock against each other. Charlie gave me his grandmother’s wedding band, too, the one that matches the vintage diamond I was already wearing. As for me, I went new instead of traditional. I had a band specially made for him at a store in town, platinum with a frosted band. On the inside, against the underside of his finger, sits an inscription.
To writing our own story.
Because that’s what we’re doing now. We’re writing our own happy ending, to the love story I didn’t realize I’d been writing all along. A week ago, I told Fiona I wouldn’t write a break-up story. Then I sent her new articles—one about the wedding itself, and one about the aftermath. About how this process of rushing into a traditional marriage made both Charlie and me realize that’s something we want. We want the whole package: successful careers, yes, but also the white picket fence, the house in the suburbs and the 2.5 kids. Maybe some dogs, too.
The Husband Game Page 14
