22. Emily

Ilet Simon know that I'm cooking dinner again via text but he doesn't respond. The house smells like frying butter, garlic, and shrimp, and I'm boiling linguine and drinking an enormous glass of wine, and I start to think this is a really bad idea.

There's no reason to rush anything. I can stay in my guest room, keep on hanging around with Freddie and Elena, basically find ways to pass the time until five years have come and gone.

But there's the pesky little problem of giving birth to his child.

I can make excuses. I can think of a dozen reasons why sleeping in Simon's bed the way he wants me to is a good idea. I can twist myself into pretzel shapes, smash myself with all manner of rationalizations, but the best reason is the simplest.

We're going to fuck one day, and I don't want it to be awkward.

Not that Simon would ever be awkward in bed. That guy practically oozes sex—I can't imagine he'd have any trouble making me come just about a dozen different ways.

No, I'm worried about myself.

I have experience. I dated guys in high school and did some hand and mouth stuff. I had sex with a boyfriend when I was twenty, and another boyfriend when I was twenty-two, but none of those guys stuck, and neither of them had even half the raw magnetism of my current husband.

I'm not a virgin. But I'm definitely inexperienced. And I need to feel comfortable with Simon if I'm going to be able to perform up to what I have to assume are his lofty expectations.

Meaning, it'll help to sleep in his bed.

For the inevitable sex we're going to have.

I'm practically dying with embarrassment as I start plating the shrimp linguine, half a bottle of wine sloshing around in my belly, and the guy's not even home yet. Part of me hopes he doesn't show up—then I can give in to my cowardice and skip this conversation entirely.

I told him I'd turkey-baster his baby into my belly, but that was a lie. I'm not even sure that would work.

The door opens and shuts, and I wince with each step as Simon comes into the kitchen. He breathes deep and leans against the counter, a smile on his face, and I hate how much I like that he looks pleased. It sends a raw, animalistic urge deep into my core, and now that I've started thinking about sleeping with him, it's like I can't get his kiss, his touch, his mouth out of my freaking head.

"You cooked," he says, practically beaming. "I mean, you said you were going to via text, which is why I rushed home. But you really went all out."

"Don't get used to it." I shove his plate at him. "Want wine?"

He laughs as he sets the table. "I'd love some."

We have a normal meal together, or at least as normal as it can be. When I ask how his day went, he gets all quiet and doesn't say much, which is Simon-speak for bad. But in this context bad can mean lost my keys or it can mean killed a warehouse full of mafia goons, and I decide not to press the issue.

Instead, I keep looking at him. I grab quick glances, at his mouth, at his arms, especially at his hands. I have a thing for fingers and fingernails. I don't know what the hell it is about them, but a set of clean nails, trimmed well, with good cuticles, really gets me going.

And Simon has amazing hands. They're big with long, thick fingers, and lovely, manicured nails. They're not bitten, not picked, not broken, but clean and smooth, almost polished to a sheen.

Then his fingers, my god, his fingers—they're almost muscular, which is not at all the word I'd normally use to describe freaking fingers, but somehow Simon pulls it off.

I want those fingers. I want them on my body, between my legs, in my mouth. I want to suck his middle finger all the way down as he fucks me.

"I talked with your sister Laura today," I blurt out because I really need to stop imagining him pinning me down and stroking into my pussy with those beautiful hands of his.

He looks surprised as he leans back and rolls up his sleeves, showing more of his muscular, veiny forearms. Fingers and forearms, the guy has to know what makes me horny, and I hate him for it.

"And how'd that go? I assume she didn't seek you out?"

I tell him about finding her in one of the guest houses playing piano. "It was beautiful, to be honest, but she's a little—" I hesitate, not sure how to put it.

"She's strange," Simon supplies, a little smile on his lips. "It's okay, you can say it. We all do. Laura's been through some things in her life and they made her a little bit closed off and hostile. Sort of like Davide."

That makes a lot of sense. She seems like an interesting person—talented, beautiful, born into a rich and powerful family—but it's like she has trouble coming out of her shell. I can relate in a lot of ways.

"She seemed very complimentary of you." I clear my throat and throw back the rest of my wine. "She said you're the most honest person she knows."

That surprises him. He taps a finger against his mouth (I could absolutely die right now) and looks over toward the door. "I've never heard her say that before. What were you talking about?"

"Nothing," I say a little too fast and it makes him smile. "I mean, we were talking about you, obviously." I start rushing, the words spilling out. "I just didn't know if I could trust you, and she kept asking if I cared about you as more than just a means to an end, and I just—" I stop and take a breath. "Did you mean it when you said you want me to sleep in your bed with you?"

He leans back and stares at me, shaking his head like he's having trouble keeping up. "That was a lot," he says with a small laugh. "But I'll answer your question first. Yes, baby, I meant it when I said I wanted you to sleep in my bed."

I take another deep breath to try to steady my galloping heart. A thudding pulse sounds between my legs, and if I'm not careful, I just might throw myself at him and beg him to sink those beautiful fingers deep inside me.

"Tell me why," I say, feeling breathless and more than a little embarrassed.

He takes his time answering. I think the guy likes to torture me. "We're going to be married for five years," he says softly like he's trying to make sure his words don't freak me out, but too late for that. "I never wanted a wife, but now that I have one, I'd like to at least have a relationship with you. Maybe we're not in love, and maybe we're not forever, but we're in this together for a while. I was thinking some intimacy might smooth things over. If we go through the motions—" He shrugs and gestures in the air, indicating that anything could happen.

I swallow and lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. "I was thinking—" I start and have to stop, because he's leaning forward, his eyes locked on mine, and it's intimidating. Simon's got an aura around him like a heavy blanket and when he directs it at me, it's like I'm being crushed by his attention.

I force myself to sit up and straighten my spine. I may come from nothing, but my father taught me to never bow my head, not for anyone.

"I was thinking the same thing," I tell him, tilting my chin up. "And if you're going to be the father of my child, then maybe it's not a bad idea, you know, to get comfortable with each other."

That stuns him. I like when he leans back and stares at me with an expression caught between surprise and delight, like I said the one magic phrase that could cure all disease or something. He runs a hand through his hair, giving me a glimpse of his forearm again and lays a hand on the table between us, palm up.

"That's a very good point," he says and glances at his hand, the implication clear.

I don't move yet. "I want certain assurances," I say, feeling mortified and way out of my depth. "You won't touch me. I mean, this isn't a sexual thing. It's about building trust and intimacy."

"I won't touch you until you ask me to."

I grind my jaw. "There's no until, it's not happening." Which is a massive lie. I can see myself begging him to tease me late at night, but if I don't speak it, maybe it'll never come to pass.

Wishful thinking. I'm going to ride this guy's palm like it's a fucking horse.

"What else do you need?" he asks, and I like the sound of that word on his lips, need.

"Just no touching. I think that's reasonable. And I want you to start coming home for dinner most nights." I tack on that last request on a whim. I like the idea of sitting down for meals together. Again, as a way to build intimacy. Not because I enjoy his company. No, never that.

"I'll try my best," he says and sounds sincere. "I can't promise every night, but I'll make it a priority."

I bite my lip, trying to think of some other demand, but his hand still hovers between us, and his fingers look so damn inviting, and I just can't help myself.

I reach out and put my palm in his.

He laces his fingers through mine. They're so big, so long and thick. I shiver and close my eyes, and I hope he doesn't see the ecstasy on my face.

"Tonight then," he says. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

Absolutely fucking not.

Not even a little bit.

"We'll find out," I say and manage a smile.