The Husband Game

Part of me is starting to enjoy this treatment. To even think that I could get used to it one day. Except, isn’t this exactly what I’m supposed to be claiming will doom any decent relationship? All those traditional “the man treats the woman right” beliefs?

Uncertainty is my constant companion these days.

“Honestly?” Charlie pauses, both hands on the wheel. Then he glances sideways at me with a frown. “No. I think my parents would react to everything way worse if they thought I was doing some fake thing.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. But I can’t blame him. Telling my mom certainly didn’t help hamper her anxiety. At least she’s stopped asking me if I’d been brainwashed or if Charlie was some cult leader trying to kidnap me—or get me pregnant. But now she sends me regular articles about reality show stars’ fake relationships blowing up in their faces. She’s intent on convincing me not to do this wedding, real or fake.

So, yeah, I guess I understood not wanting to be completely honest with one’s family. But still. “Aren’t they worried, though, about you proposing to me so quickly?”

“Oh, yes. Extremely.” He slides into the driver’s seat and side-eyes me with a smirk, before he leans over to catch my hand and squeeze. “They’re all worried I must have knocked you up or something.”

My laugh quickly shifts into a groan. “My mom wanted to know the same thing. What, like there’s no other reason people get married young these days?”

“I know, right?” Charlie shakes his head, looking disapproving. “It’s like someone can’t fall head over heels for a girl they’ve just met, and already know right off the bat that she’s the one they want to spend the rest of their life with.” As he talks, he curls his fingers between mine, until my palm sits flat against his, the heat from his hand making my skin tingle.

My chest tightens. The past few days might have been spent in wedding planning terror with Fiona, but the past few nights we’ve had all to ourselves. And the more Charlie and I talk about our dreams for the future—about how we both want to succeed in our careers, to be with people who support us and help us chase those dreams; and about how we both want kids someday, whether that’s supposed to be something people in our generation want or find practical or not—I can’t help but feel like we’re more in sync than I ever could have imagined. Considering the circumstances under which we met and started spending time together, it feels too random. What were the chances I’d meet someone I agree with so much, just out of the blue like that?

And then, of course, there’s how we spend our nights after our heart-to-hearts and date evenings. The way he touches me, makes me think I’ve never really made love before now. I’ve fucked plenty of guys. But none have felt like they’re worshipping my body. Last night, Charlie kissed and licked and sucked every inch of me, from my temples all the way down to my toes, which he sucked between his lips and trailed his tongue across until I squirmed. Only then did he kiss his way back up my legs, to bury his tongue between my legs, deep in my pussy, making me cry out with pleasure.

He always makes me come multiple times before he even lets himself finish once. He’s considerate, giving.

He sure as fuck knows how to get me off. My thoughts drift to last night, the way he bent me over the kitchen sink before we’d even finished cleaning up from dinner, because I’d started kissing him and apparently he just got so hot he couldn’t wait. The way it felt when he took me from behind, hard and fast, growling my name as we both came undone…

Shit.

I’m getting wet again just thinking about it. I cross my legs, and glance over to find Charlie watching me, smirking. “You seem distracted,” he teases, like he can see right through me. Straight into my brain, where he’s reading all my dirtiest thoughts.

“Late night,” I reply lightly, which makes him chuckle and slip his hand from mine to trace up my inner thigh instead.

“You know, I had a feeling you were thinking about something naughty.” His hand keeps moving, almost lazily. Over and over my thigh in slow, tantalizing circles. Each loop inches his fingers higher. Closer to the hem of my jeans.

“How could you tell?” I ask, tilting my head to one side, watching him as he watches the road.

“You always look a little bit worried about getting caught.” He flashes me a quick grin. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take to teach you that you don’t need to worry about that.”