The Husband Game

First time for everything, I guess.

“Yes,” I breathe, and the crowd erupts all over again, like Charlie just pulled off another stellar goal in the last few minutes of a game. “Yes, I’ll marry you,” I repeat, louder, all while Charlie is leaping to his feet and pulling me into a tight hug.

Then our lips collide, and fuck it, I don’t care if it is fake, this is the best fucking moment of my life. I sink into that kiss, wrapping my arms around his neck as he pulls me against him, lifting me straight off my feet, ice be damned. I can feel every inch of his body pressed against mine, and on impulse, I wrap my legs around his waist to pin myself there.

The cheers turn into whoops, and when we break apart, our faces hovering an inch apart, Charlie grins at me. “Here goes nothing,” he whispers. Then he kisses me again, slower, and fuck, I can’t wait to tear all this hockey gear off of him.

But at the back of my mind, a little voice won’t stop whispering: What did we just do?

10

There’s an after-party immediately following the game, but we barely last an hour at it. The whole time, Charlie keeps his hands on me, holding my hand, then wrapped around my shoulders, then sliding down to my waist, the small of my back. Lower.

By the time we’re standing near the punch, his hand sliding along my ass, I know it’s time to give up on pretending that we care about socializing with anyone tonight.

“Should we get out of here?” I murmur, only to be rewarded with a flash of heat from his glance.

“I thought you’d never ask.” He leans down to kiss my temple, and his lips linger against my skin. “I can’t wait to get you back in my bed… fiancée.” His eyes, when they find mine again, practically burn, they’re so filled with desire.

I can’t lie, that word on his lips does funny things to me. It sends electricity shooting through them, makes me suck in a breath and go taut with want. “Charlie…”

“We’re going,” he says, decisive. “I need to tear those jeans off of you.”

My belly tightens with want.

We turn for the door, and as we go, we wave goodbye to the rest of the crew. Anna lifts her drink in salute, while someone cracks a joke about us being eager to celebrate our engagement. All the while, the ring Charlie slid onto my finger earlier feels like a heavy weight. So solid. So real.

We head out of the party hand in hand. Luckily it was being held at one of the frat houses, just a short walk from Charlie’s apartment. Otherwise I think we’d probably have to find another public garden to defile.

I run my hand up his arm, leaning into him, as he keeps his tight around my waist. Every other step or so, he pauses to trail his fingertips up my arm, along my collar. I shiver every time he touches me, eager for more.

We barely make it inside his apartment building before he has me pinned against the wall, and I run my hands over his shoulders, down the sculpted planes of his back, tracing every muscle.

When our lips part, I reach up to brush my fingertip ever so gently along the bruise on his cheek. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, until he turns to press a searing kiss to my palm, and then he tugs me into the elevator.

Inside, he catches me again, tight around my waist. We’re still kissing when it reaches his floor, so we just stumble out of it, our bodies pressed together, our lips locked, his legs pushing mine to make me walk in sync with him.

I run my hands through his hair, and we part again, just a few steps from his door now. “Charlie…” I murmur. In the hallway light, the ring on my finger winks. His grandmother’s ring. Obviously I won’t be keeping it. I couldn’t do something like that, accept this and then keep it, when this whole engagement is a sham. But still… even just wearing it now makes me feel funny. Wrong, somehow.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” I breathe, just as he bends to kiss my neck, the edge where my jawline meets under my ear. He nips at the skin, and I let out a shivery sigh.

“What, you don’t want me to fuck you senseless after all?” He pulls back just far enough to catch my eye, raising one eyebrow in clear disbelief.

“No, not that. I…” I draw in a shaky breath and force myself to take a step back from him. “Just, that, the proposal, it felt… I don’t know. All those people saw us. Everyone knows now, all of your friends, and mine will hear soon enough. Especially if I keep wearing this.” I raise my left hand. The ring is beautiful, vintage and finely designed. But it’s not really mine. Would his grandmother want him to be using his family heirloom like this? As a stunt?