25. Christian

25

CHRISTIAN

“Your bedroom is so girlie.”

“It is, and I like it that way. Being a woman and all.”

“Yes, I very much like that you’re a woman,” I say, and part of me wants to take her to her bed and smother her in kisses and tell her how much I’ve missed her these last two weeks. Still another wants to say, “Holy fuck, what the hell did we just do against the door, because it’s never been like that before. That intense. That electric. That . . . intimate. Was it that way for you too?”

But me playing that role—the needy lover—isn’t in our script. The casting breakdown for her part-time lover and temporary husband calls for me to keep her on her toes, entertain her, make her laugh, make her hot, and make her happy.

No more.

I survey her bedroom, checking out the white walls, the bright white comforter. Purple and silver pillows are piled high on the bed, giving it a feminine touch of color. Thin gauzy curtains hang down around the mattress. “This makes me feel like we’re in Africa. Do you suffer from mosquitoes?”

She rolls her eyes as she wanders over to the bed and wraps her hand around a bedpost. She glances to the door. “You may go now.”

I laugh. “Don’t kick me out. My work isn’t done.”

“Well, I don’t see how you could top door sex anyway.”

I pretend to contemplate, tapping my jaw with my finger. “True. I better take off.”

She pretends to show me the door, gesturing grandly to the exit. I make like I’m leaving, zipping up my jeans at last, but then I grab her waist and tickle her. Laughter bursts from her throat as I carry her to the bed, tossing her on it, still in her tangled dress. I pin her, my palms at her sides. “I’m staying. Admit it. You like me.”

She looks up at me, her brown eyes wide. “Why does everyone say that?”

“Say what?”

“That I like you.”

“Everyone says it?”

She nods against the mattress. “They act shocked that I do like you. All my girlfriends toss that out like it’s some big surprise. Why would I date you, sleep with you, marry you for three months, if I didn’t at least like you? If I disliked you, you can bet I wouldn’t be doing any of this.”

“Only if you liked hate-fucking me.” I grind my pelvis against her. “Do you like hate-fucking?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I could pretend I hate you, and we could see if I like it.”

“New goals,” I say, keeping it light since this is so much easier than telling her all the mad thoughts pinging around in my head. “But honestly, I don’t really want you to hate me, even for the prospect of angry sex.”

“You’re very likable.”

And see? That right there is another reminder to play it cool. I’m likable to her. I’m the fun guy. The man who won’t get attached. That’s why she said yes to playing my wife, and I need her to finish the show. We’re only in the first act of a three-act play.

I glance over at her white bureau. There’s a mirrored tray with a few charm necklaces—a Chrysler building, I think, and a Broadway sign. They’re ringed by perfume bottles. “Didn’t you write about perfume?” I ask, remembering that she had mentioned a blog at some point.

Her expression tightens, and she doesn’t meet my eyes. “I still do. From time to time.”

“What sorts of things do you say?”

She waves a hand airily. “This and that.”

She’s evasive, and that’s not like her. I arch an eyebrow as I run a hand along her hip. I should be Mr. Carefree and Casual, but I don’t want to let this topic go. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

“Let’s just say I put too much of myself in it, and I had to pull back. Make it more about the perfume and the scents.”

I run my hand down her thigh. “Was it too much of your life?”

She nods. “It was. I told stories that were too personal, that revealed too much of my heart.”

“So why do it at all?”

She sighs deeply. “I haven’t written a post in a while. I could shut it down, but I miss the camaraderie with my readers. I felt close to them, this random group of strangers who honestly weren’t strangers. I met Joy through a perfume forum back when she lived in the States, and now she’s one of my closest friends. But at the same time, I think pulling back, not writing as openly, was for the best. I feel safer.”

“Does that make you happy? Safety?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re happy with me. I make you feel safe.”

She shoots me a curious look. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve drawn your lines. I don’t cross them. That makes you feel safe, and safety makes you feel happy.”

She nibbles on one corner of her lips. “It’s funny that you brought this up, because I was thinking about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness today.”

“So American. And what did you think as you were musing on that?”

“I was remembering how my friend Veronica was going on and on about how incandescently happy she was after she banged this hot Danish boat captain in Copenhagen last year.”

I laugh. “Banging hot Danish men with British accents should totally make you ecstatic.”

“We should test this theory again. Just to be sure.” She runs a hand down my arm, and her voice turns more serious, contemplative. “You do make me feel safe. I need that. Thank you for doing that.”

A faraway look fills her eyes, and as I follow her gaze, I see her staring at the collection of bottles on her bureau. One of them is empty. My curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you keeping that empty bottle?”

She closes her eyes and sighs, then rises, getting out of bed all rumpled and tousled. She walks to the bureau, plucks the crystal one, and takes it to the en suite bathroom. I lean near the edge of the bed so I can watch her through the open doorway. She drops it into the rubbish bin. It lands with a hard thud.

“Why did you do that?” I ask.

She stands in the doorway. “It was my wedding day perfume. I’ve needed to do that for a long time, Christian.”

A pinch of jealousy flares in me and the feeling surprises me and pisses me off. How on earth could I be jealous of her dead husband?

But the vicious truth whispers in my ear. I’m envious in some terrible way that she’s held on to him for so long.

She returns and sits next to me. “I needed to do that.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” I say coolly.

“I did it for me.” She tilts her head, takes my hand. “I don’t love him.”

I laugh lightly. “Good.”

What I mean is that’s fucking great .

“I want you to know that.”

That’s more than great. It’s perfect, and I do my best to keep a stoic face while inside I’m pumping a fist in victory. I’m so fucking happy she’s over him. This, right here, is the definition of happiness.

“Okay,” I say calmly, since letting on how much this knowledge thrills me might push her away.

“I’m not holding on to him. I need you to know that. I held on to the bottle because it was a gift from my blog readers.”

Ohhhh.

“The plot thickens,” I say playfully, since her response makes precisely the kind of sense I want it to make. Selfishly, I like her explanation a lot—her past is well and truly her past. “You weren’t ever holding on to something from him, then. You were holding on to something from people you miss having a connection with. You should reconnect with them.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

I grab her hand, looping my fingers through hers. Our rings touch. As I gaze at our joined hands, our metal connecting, I remember doing the same with Hannah. Holding the hand of my first wife nine years ago, did I feel the same with her as I do in this moment?

I loved Hannah. I don’t question that. But did I feel like this ? This sort of unexpected awareness of the way a person affects you, deep in your body, far into your mind?

I feel like I could talk to Elise about anything. I never had that with Hannah.

“You do know I’m over Hannah, right? It was years ago, but still. In case you were wondering.” I need her to know there’s no competition from the past—no ghost, no poignant memory. “I don’t have baggage.”

“You do seem remarkably baggage-free,” she says with a smile. “But is being baggage-free your baggage?”

I shake my head. “If you’re asking if I’m tied to my single lifestyle or have some über-commitment to being a playboy, I’m sure Griffin would say yes —”

“Why on earth would Griffin say yes?”

“Oh, I used to tell him my dream was to become a kept man of some gorgeous, brilliant older woman.”

She smacks me. “You’re terrible. Preying on older women.”

I kiss her shoulder. “I can’t resist them.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you truly attracted to me because I’m four years older than you?”

“Umm . . .”

“Seriously?”

“No. That’s not it, but I think you’re fascinating. You intrigue me. I like that you’re not focused on the same things a twenty-five-year-old is focused on. You’re building a stellar international business, you’re taking care of yourself, and you’re looking out for friends. You have all this rich life experience, and yeah, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it attractive. So sue me.”

She pushes a hand against my chest. “Fine, then I like that you’re younger than me.”

“Oh yeah? You like boy toys?”

She scoffs. “Not in the least. I like it because it means you’re more thoughtful.”

“It does?”

She nods. “You’re pretty damn thoughtful, Christian, and that’s incredibly attractive.”

I yank her closer. Maybe because of her compliments, possibly because we’ve moved past a wall, I say what I wanted to say a little while ago. “That was really intense against the door, wasn’t it?”

She trembles. Like a muscle memory from sex moves through her. “It was crazy intense,” she whispers. “We barely said a word to each other at the club.”

“I think I sort of attacked you. In my defense, you sent that photo in your black lace, and I did give you fair warning.”

She drags a hand down my shirt, unbuttoning it. “I liked being attacked like that. I liked the intensity of it.”

“It wasn’t too much for you?” I ask as she spreads open my shirt, and I push off the sleeves.

“I was wound up for you all day. As I walked around, I felt this tightening in my body, like a jack-in-the-box, wanting to see you.”

Lust climbs up my legs, weaves through my chest as I undo the wrap on her dress, letting the fabric fall apart. “I felt it too. What is that all about? It was like a crazy drumbeat.” I tap my chest. “Right here.”

She nods, and there’s a savage look in her eyes, a fierceness. “Once I saw you, it was like an explosion. Like we detonated. I don’t think I’ve ever had sex that intense before.”

The caveman in me thumps his fists. “I haven’t either. But when I see you, Elise, I want to take you.” I cup her jaw, holding her close. “I want to take you hard, and relentlessly, and I want to get so fucking close to you that you let go of everything.”

She shivers. “When you fuck me like that, I feel consumed.”

“Does that scare you?”

She nods. “But I don’t want to stop it.” She shoves down my jeans and takes my length in her hand. I ache with desire, with this torrent of need that grows stronger each time I see her.

“So if I respect your boundaries and your walls, you’ll let me keep fucking you like that? Like the world is on fire?”

Her eyes blaze with lust. “I do want to be consumed.”

“ Je te veux tellement,” I say, telling her in French how much I want her.

“Moi aussi,” she says.

Something passes between us, something that feels deeper than the way I felt on our bizarre wedding night.

I know what it is for me. I know what it isn’t for her.

And I know I have to keep a close watch on our arrangement, making sure I can make her feel safe while I also help her lose herself. Because that’s what I see in her—I see a woman who wants so much, who craves so deeply, but who’s terrified of what that hunger might do.

I suspect she wants to be the woman she was before. The one who wore her heart on her sleeve, wrote her bliss for the world, and shared herself with one person, believing she was the only one.

That part of her still lives, but she won’t let it come out.

Maybe she will with me.

I move her against me, her back to my front, so we’re side to side. I glide my hands around to her breasts, fondling them as I slide inside her easily. She moans, a low, sensual sound that vibrates between us. She leans her head back against me, her dark hair spilling over my shoulder. Her top leg hooks over my thigh, and she opens wider as I move inside.

It’s that kind of slow, luxurious lovemaking session that feels like it could go all night long. As the minutes tick by and pleasure twines between us, my skin hot and slick against her and her breath coming harder and faster, I can feel her give herself to me.

This is the part of her she tries to extinguish. She’s come out tonight, and she’s surrendering to me, and it’s fucking beautiful to feel.

It’s not that our sex is particularly kinky or particularly rough. It’s not that we’re doing anything dirty or risqué. We’re not screwing on the metro, or sneaking a quickie on the Pont des Arts, nor are we christening every surface in the house.

We’re in her bed, which may be precisely why everything about this moment feels more intimate. I’m in a private place, belonging to a most private woman, and she wants me to pleasure her in a way that erases the world beyond the windows.

I don’t need to blindfold or tie her up to do that. All I need is this white-hot desire that flows between us.

She turns her face toward me. I bring my lips to hers and kiss her as I move in and out. There is little that’s artful about this kiss, but it feels like drowning, like falling under. I can’t get enough of her lips, her taste, her breath.

She sighs against my mouth, and I swear it’s as if her body melts into me. She’s a liquid woman, all silvery-hot desire, and it wraps around me, making me hotter, making me harder.

And she takes freely. With no remorse, she soaks up all the bliss I want to give her in this luxurious, decadent indulgence. She comes once more, and it’s a beautiful thing, the way her ecstasy moves over her body. She shudders and cries out, and it sounds like something inside her is breaking free.

When she comes down, she mumbles something about how it’s my turn. I nip at her ear. “That would imply I’m done with you.”

I flip her to her knees and push her down to her elbows. She turns around and watches me, and it’s the most erotic, sensual thing to see her look at me like that. Pleasure rattles through my body, and it’s mingled with all these new sensations, deeper emotions, and a fervent wish to make this arrangement last a little bit longer.

I bend closer, pulling her against me, covering her. She comes again, calling out incoherent words of rapture, and finally, I let go too, my world turning white hot and electric.

A few minutes later, we’re sated and tangled together. She puts her hands on my chest and looks me in the eye. “Thank you.”

I laugh. “Why are you thanking me?”

“For understanding what I need. For giving it to me. Even if I didn’t know what I needed.”

“I like giving you what you need. You should stop worrying so much about people wondering if you like me. I know the truth. I know you do.”

“I do.”

But that’s the trouble. I have to keep it on this level. This I like you level. If I let loose the truth, I might lose her. I need her to feel safe with me, and safety means keeping myself at an arm’s length.

The problem is I don’t want an arm’s length between us anymore.

I’ve fallen for the woman I made a deal with.

That’s why I touched her like a starving man at the club, but this potent need didn’t start tonight. It ignited when she proposed this arrangement. It took root when I saw what she’d be willing to do for me and for Erik. Marrying her in my hometown only sealed the deal, and all the emotions that raced through me that night in Copenhagen, the ones that seemed strange and foreign then, are crystal clear now.

The falling is complete. It’s here. It’s happened, and now I’m in love with the woman in my arms.

But this woman needs me to be the kind of man who doesn’t fall so easily. And I need her to save my brother’s hopes and dreams.

I segue to something else entirely as I press a soft kiss to her neck. “Mmm. You smell good. You should write about other smells you like. If you don’t write about perfume, write about other scents.”

“Maybe I will,” she says, snuggling closer to me.

With her soft and malleable in my arms, it doesn’t feel like there are any boundaries.

But there are. There most definitely are.