The Husband Game

But he’s a master teaser.

We chat about nothing and everything at once. About childhood memories and favorite movies and what we really think about family holidays—we both have a love-hate relationship with Christmas, it seems. We love the time spent with our families, but we hate receiving presents.

“Nobody ever gets you exactly what you want,” I say, while he laughs along in agreement.

“Right. You ask for fingerless gloves and you’ll get ten pairs of mittens instead,” he replies. “Or, in the case of my family, a bunch of yarn and some patterns so you can knit them yourself.”

I snort. “DIY bunch, are you?”

“You have no idea. My great-grandfather built our whole house from scratch. The rest of every generation of males since has spent our whole lives trying to live up to that level of self-reliance.”

“So, are you a carpenter on the side then?” I grin.

“Of course.” He winks at me. “And a landscaper, gardener and home-grown chef besides. Not to mention by age 10 I’d already learned how to raise, care for, and slaughter my own chickens…”

I gasp. “You kill them after you raise them yourself?”

“Only when they’re already sick, or they stop laying eggs,” he replies.

I swat his chest. “That’s positively heartless. How could you?”

He arches a brow. “What, and eating eggs from chickens someone else has treated horribly, who spend their whole lives in cages, that’s better?”

My cheeks flush. “Well, at least you don’t know the animals you kill.”

“I think it’s better to know them. More respectful of the sacrifice they’re making for you. In modern times, we’ve gotten so far away from the natural life cycle. We forget what’s natural. What’s normal to experience, throughout our lives.” There goes his hand again, tracing patterns along my thigh, higher and higher, until his fingers hover an inch from my hip, and God, all I want him to do is take it further. To touch me right now, pull me to him so I can sink into the kiss I’ve been thinking about all goddamn day.

“So what is normal to experience?” I whisper, my lips mere inches from his, a span of space that’s starting to drive me absolutely wild.

“Everything,” he replies easily, his gaze sweeping across mine. “Pain. Pleasure. Loss. Desire.” His hand pauses to go flat against my thigh, his whole palm taking up half my leg, I swear.

My whole body tenses. Between my legs, my pussy practically aches when he says that last word. Desire. Fuck. I certainly know a thing or two about that, after a day spent at his side. I lick my lips almost absently and notice the way his gaze drops to them again, tracing the pattern of my tongue. “I want that,” I murmur, under my breath. “I want to experience everything.”

Because, as much as I’ve loved my career so far—getting what I wanted, being in a position where I can support myself and write full-time—it does keep me from living fully sometimes. I get so consumed by work. Even today, all I was thinking about earlier at our coffee date was my guilt over blowing off my assignment, and how I needed to get back to it.

But there has to be some kind of balance. Like Charlie says, we need to live our lives fully. Experience everything. Including pleasure, desire. Including days when we allow ourselves to blow off our responsibilities for a minute and just follow what our bodies tell us to do.

Charlie’s smile widens. “There’s one more place I’d like to show you in town, if you’re interested,” he says, and his voice comes out lower this time, curled with suggestion.

“What’s that?” I whisper, breathe, barely able to keep my wits about me long enough to make my tongue work. My head swims with desire. All I want is him, all over me, every inch of me.

“My place.” He arches a brow.

My heart hammers in my chest, a caged animal thrashing to be released. “Fuck yeah,” I reply.

* * *

We barely make it through the door of his apartment—a three story building in the up-and-coming part of town, not too far from campus, although far enough away for the worst of the student parties and the loud touristy streets to only serve as a dull, distant background roar.

The moment he slams the door behind me, he pins me against it, and then finally, finally, his lips collide with mine. He kisses like a man who’s experienced drowning before. Hard, fast, desperate. My whole body opens like a flower for him; my legs spread so he can slide a thigh between them, my arms slide up to drape around his neck as he forcefully parts my lips, his tongue invading my mouth, claiming me, swirling against mine.

I moan a little, and he chuckles softly, mouth still clamped to mine, before he draws back to kiss his way down my jawline.