The Husband Game

My throat practically closes in on itself. You’re wrong, my instincts scream. I am doomed. Didn’t you hear a word I just said?

But deep down, there’s a tiny little voice in the back of my head that murmurs, Or does he have a point?

With one last smile, Charlie touches my cheek, and then he breaks away from me toward the house, as if sensing that I’ll need a minute to compose myself. I’m both grateful for his instincts—the man really does always know what I need, sometimes even before I know it myself—and wishing that he’d come back and hug me again. Kiss me until I don’t feel anything, until I can’t think about any of this.

In the end, he doesn’t. I watch him enter the cabin, watch the lights flare. I lean against a tree and consider it. A family. A husband. A home that I wouldn’t have to worry about losing, because I’d know my partner would never abandon me the way my father did.

It’s certainly worth thinking about. Even if it’s hard to believe a life like that could ever be mine.

* * *

Dinner that night feels just as warm and reassuring as our hockey game. I sit at the table between Charlie’s parents and listen to their good-natured banter; to his brother’s exploits. To all of them teasing Charlie about embarrassing stories from when he was growing up. Then we watch a movie on TV together, before everyone retires.

I notice his parents don’t put me in the same room as him. But I’m in the one next door, which is almost as good. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling until well past midnight, when all the noises from the rest of the house have finally died down. Only then do I rise from the bed and toss my nightgown on, tiptoeing next door, to the closed door beside mine.

I tap lightly on the frame. I’m about to tap a second time, worried I’d done it too quietly the first, when the door creaks inward, and Charlie’s face appears in the gap. He holds up a finger to his mouth in the universal gesture for quiet. Then, wordlessly, he inches the door wider and lets me step inside.

I don’t even make it one step. I move on instinct, stepping toward him and wrapping my arms around his neck at the same time. My lips sink into his. He pulls me against him, and gently, I hear the sound of him easing the door closed after us. We pull apart just long enough for him to whisper, “We’ll have to be quiet,” his voice barely a breath against my neck. Then he’s kissing me again, his lips at my neck, my jawline, his hands clawing up my thighs to push my nightgown out of the way.

He spins me around, drops onto the mattress with me pinned beneath him. I arch up against him, raise my arms as he draws my nightgown over my head and tosses it to one side.

I’m not wearing anything underneath.

And I’m pressed close enough to feel exactly how hard that makes him, as his cock starts to rise against my inner thigh, stiffening with each press of my thighs against his. I reach for his shirt and pull it off, tossing it after my gown. Then only his boxers separate us, and no matter how distracting it is when his tongue trails down my chest to circle my nipples, licking and sucking, his hands palming my stomach, my sides… I still manage to keep my hands working long enough to shove his boxers down to his ankles.

His cock springs free, swollen with desire, hard and thick and velvety soft. I wrap my hands around the base, stroking the length of him from base to tip, savoring the glide of him through my fingers.

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.