by Shen, L. J.
“Have fun,” I gritted out, this time not bothering to hide my disappointment.
“I intend to.”
I didn’t expect a visit from him that night.
To his credit, he managed to hold himself off until half past eleven. I’d listened to him through the adjoining wall of our rooms, going about his evening. Typing on his laptop. Flipping sports channels. Taking business calls.
Finally, there was silence. A knock on my door sounded a few seconds later. I loved that he always asked to come in, never assuming, never demanding.
I opened the door.
We stared at each other for a beat.
“Did you call me?” He frowned.
I suppressed a smile. “No.”
“I thought I heard your voice.”
My chest filled with something warm.
All I did was shake my head. This time, he had to work for it.
“I came for…” He broke off, running his fingers through his silky brown hair, furious with himself. “I don’t know what the hell I came for.”
“Yes, you do,” I said softly.
I wanted to hear it from him. That he enjoyed it. Us. That he didn’t only do it because we were supposed to, but because it made him happy.
God knew it made me happy.
Too happy, maybe.
He leaned down to kiss me. Letting him off the hook was tempting, but for the sake of his synthetic grass heart, I put a hand on his chest, pushing him away.
“Say it.”
His downturned lips flattened, and his eyes hardened. He snapped his knuckles, something I’d noticed he tried not to do when there were other people in the room. He was hanging onto his control. Barely.
“I came here to make out with you middle school style. Happy?”
“Very.” I pulled him by the white V-neck of his shirt into my room, closing the door behind us.
On that night, and the four nights after it, all we did was kiss and fondle and explore. He sucked my nipples until they were too raw and sensitive for me to wear a bra the next day, and I gave him hand jobs while we both stared at my small hand wrapped around his cock in awe.
When my wrist started hurting, I graduated from hand jobs to blow jobs. At first, Cillian was skeptical.
“I like your hands and mouth where I can see them,” he drawled.
“I’m not a rabid animal from the wilderness.” I laughed.
He gave me a jury’s-still-out-on-that sort of look, which made me laugh even harder. I bit down on my teeth.
“Sree?” I asked, my voice was muffled. “Nrro teeth.”
Grinning down at me, he got up from the bed, standing up and lowering my head with his hand until I was on my knees in front of him.
“Fine. But we’ll do it my way. I’ve got requirements.”
“Shocker!” I gasped. We both laughed. Then I said, “I’m listening.”
“Lick it first. Thoroughly.”
He released his cock, velvety, throbbing, and impossibly hard. I captured it in my fist, my fingers barely creating a full circle, and began licking it shaft to tip. He groaned, fisting my hair and tugging on it roughly.
“Faster.”
I obliged.
“More tongue. More saliva. More.”
He ordered with that sharp, princely twang he had that made him sound like the ruler of all things. I did as I was told, getting so wet, I selfishly wished he’d choose not to come, toss me into bed and enter me, Aunt Flow be damned.
“Well,” he said calmly, even as I was doing my best to drive him nuts with my tongue and mouth. “I was going to keep the line between respectful wife and my flings firmly drawn, but I suppose…”
I groaned, continuing to suck and bobbing my head back and forth eagerly.
I want to be your everything. Your sexy nymph and virginal bride.
“I suppose the line has already been crossed. Choke on my cock, you beautiful slut,” he finished his musings by grabbing my hair harder and began to fuck my mouth ruthlessly. Each time, his tip hit the back of my throat. And each time, I almost came when it happened. My eyes got teary, but only because my gag reflex was on high alert.
“Tap my thigh twice if you want me to stop.” His voice hovered above my head. I didn’t want him to stop. I sucked harder, more greedily, taking him all in, moaning like I never had before. I could tell he was getting close to his release. His thighs began to quiver, and that male scent of sex hung thick in the air.
Though he seemed like the type to finish in the mouth, my husband pulled out of me, came into his fist, then tenderly—almost longingly—used his cum-covered fingers to wipe my hair from my face, tilting my chin up.
“That was good,” he said. “You get an A+, Flower Girl.”
“Then why didn’t you come in my mouth?” I tried very hard not to whine and, in my opinion, almost succeeded.
“Instinct, I suppose.” He was already getting dressed. “Escorts have been known to steal billionaires’ sperm. My ground rules are I always bring my own condoms and never leave my cum unattended.” He lowered himself to his knees, so we were almost eye to eye. “Now, how about I return the favor and eat that sweet pussy?”
My eyes widened. “On my period? Never.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“Fine. Nipples it is.”
He didn’t stop until he made me come.
It was the first time I came like this.
One of many firsts my husband introduced me to.
While my home life was still far from blissful, it was resembling normalcy more and more every day. My husband was mine, at least for the time being.
I knew he wasn’t seeing other women.
That he was faithful and desired me.
Even Ash, Belle, and Sailor backed down from badmouthing Kill. Maybe it was because of the poker game they’d lost to him, or maybe they had noticed I’d been happier since moving into my husband’s house, but they seemed accepting of my new relationship.
Some nights, I would look out the window at a lone cloud and talk to Auntie Tilda. I’d tell her about my life. My job, my plans, my new marriage.
She always stuck around until I got sleepy.
Never sailed away before I said my goodbyes.
And so, I’d forgotten a very important lesson Auntie Tilda had taught me when I was younger.
I believed I could change my husband.
I was wrong.
It took a full month for Joelle Arrowsmith to pick up the phone and give me a call.
She explained her husband gave her my phone number and asked if I could help the twins for a few hours under her supervision. Trace letters and numbers with them.
“They fell a bit behind on the material. As you know, there are certain milestones they need to hit by the time they go to first grade,” she huffed over the phone.
I knew this well. As a pre-K teacher, my job was to teach children age four and five to use training scissors, know their letters and numbers, and sharpen their intellectual and physical skills so they’d arrive at public school equipped.
We agreed I’d come to their house the following Saturday. It worked well because Saturdays were my day to visit Greta Veitch, something I did religiously despite my husband’s disdain. I could easily slip out early and use the extra hours to spend time with Tinder and Tree.
It wasn’t like Cillian was at the house during the weekends.
He went to his ranch to spend time with his horses and never invited me. My husband always made his way back from the ranch to our house in time to consummate our marriage, but woke up extra early the next day to leave before I woke up. God forbid we’d have breakfast together.
I arrived at the Arrowsmiths’ house first thing Saturday morning. Joelle opened the door, her hair sticking out in every direction and bloodshot eyes, and waved me in.
“God, you look fresh as a daisy.” She sounded disappointed.
I laughed. “Well, I try to get eight hours o
f sleep every night.”
“The twins wake up several times a night to go to the bathroom and ask for water.”
“You need to sleep train them,” I said. “I can help you with that.”
She led me through a narrow, modern hallway painted in scarlet red. The Arrowsmiths lived in an up-and-coming, trendy Southie neighborhood. Their house resembled an actual home from the outside—deliberately humble—but inside, it still reeked of wealth. With granite flooring, crown moldings, and all the other eye-popping things the Fitzpatricks were so fond of.
Tinder and Tree jumped on me in unison, tackling me to the floor, excited to have a playmate.
“Children, please calm down. I apologize.” Joelle wove a hand disapprovingly at them. “The nanny is a middle-aged woman from France. See, we really wanted them to be bilingual. But she didn’t know what I meant. My eyes traveled to her designer shirt, which was not only stained, but inside out.
“Very.”
“Then I suggest you drop the French lessons and hire someone young and fun to do daily activities with them. Take them to swimming lessons or do cartwheels at the park. Teach them how to ride a bike and a scooter. Do things that would build their confidence.”
These kids looked thirsty for attention, conversation, and exploration. A second language was the last thing they needed. I got up from the floor and headed to the kitchen with the twins and Joelle following me as though they were the guests.
“Maybe you can do all those things with them,” Joelle mused, quickly losing her reservations. It took her a full month to come to terms with the fact she needed my help. After all, I was her husband’s enemy’s wife. Now that she took the leap, she figured she’d squeeze the hell out of the arrangement.
“I can do three times a week. Do they go to school?” I asked.
“Yes, but only until noon. Andrew works nonstop, and I am on the panel of three different charities and on the county board of supervisors. Not to mention, Andrew just signed another book deal. There’ll be a grand tour…”
I eyed her in disbelief. She gave her hair a toss.
“Don’t look at me like that. Andrew wants to run for mayor.”
“I see.”
I didn’t see anything, other than how this couple had their priorities all wrong.
“What’s your rate, anyway?” she asked primly.
“Twenty-five per hour,” I answered. She tilted her head, taken aback.
“Really? So little?”
I smiled. “It’s not so little for me.”
Not that I did it for the money. In fact, I’d already decided I would donate every penny given to me by the Arrowsmiths. It felt morally wrong to spend Cillian’s enemy’s money.
“I take it you and your husband have separate accounts.”
Joelle scanned me in new eyes, her face lighting up.
“We do.”
It was technically true. Kill and I did have separate accounts. But that didn’t mean I didn’t have access to his money. Money I’d refused to spend. I still only used whatever I was paid every Friday by Little Genius, letting the astronomical amount of dollars Kill transferred pile up in my checking account, untouched.
“All right. Three times a week. Including full Saturdays. I have to catch up on admin work.” Joelle stretched her arm in my direction. I shook it.
“Half a Saturday. I visit my former grandmother-in-law on Saturdays.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She gave herself away. So she was the one who told Kill. “You got yourself a deal.”
Turning around to the twins, I exclaimed, “Guess what? We’re going to make letter-shaped cookies today! I brought all the ingredients. You ready?”
“Yes!” Tree pumped the air with his fist.
Tinder nodded, eyeing me shyly. He was obviously more reserved than his brother. I herded the boys to the bathroom to wash our hands, rubbing between their fingers as we made funny hygiene songs that included a lot of fart jokes. Meanwhile, Joelle set up her laptop in the kitchen so she could see us. I appreciated that, if nothing else, she was concerned enough to keep an eye on us.
I set bowls with flour and sugar on the kitchen counter and dragged two chairs for the boys to stand on. We cracked eggs, added oil and water, then battered, sang, and whistled as we worked.
Every now and again, I’d catch Joelle watching us with longing mixed with envy and fascination.
Andrew wasn’t at home. I had the feeling he rarely was, which made spying on him a little harder.
We poured the batter into letter-shaped cutters. While we waited for the oven to heat, I emptied a mixed bag of colorful sprinkles into a bowl and asked the boys to separate the colors. It was a great exercise in patience, self-soothing, and teamwork.
“Don’t forget to save me all the reds,” I sing-songed. “Red is my favorite color.”
The color of pomegranate.
“I love blue.” Tree exploded into giggles. “Like Sully from Monsters, Inc.”
“And I love pink,” Tinder said. “Like flamingos.”
“Pink is for girls.” Tree blew a raspberry. “Tinder likes Elsa, too.” The boy stubbed a pudgy finger at his brother’s chest, leaving a cloud of flour on his shirt.
“So do I.” I high-fived Tinder. “Isn’t she cool? She has awesome superpowers.”
“Catboy from PJ Masks is cooler,” Tree said defensively, pitching the idea to me. “He is as fast as lightning and can hear anything. Even ants!”
“B-But can he freeze someone?” Tinder grinned, gaining confidence with me by his side.
The differences between Tree and Tinder were staggering.
Tree was talkative, animated, and naturally curious. Tinder stuttered, and his left eye twitched frequently. His jerky movements and low-hanging head told me he was extremely insecure. He also chewed on the collar of his shirt until a pool of saliva formed around it.
“Moooooom.” Tree narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Tinder ruined his shirt.”
“Jesus Christ, Tin, again? You’re really something, aren’t you.” Joelle darted from the table, advancing toward us.
She grabbed Tinder by the shoulder. I put my hand on hers, stopping her.
“Please don’t,” I said. “It’s totally natural. I have a few kids in class who do it, too.”
“He goes through dozens of shirts a week!” she burst, her lower lip trembling.
“Let him,” I whispered under my breath. “If it’s his way of coping with stress, making a fuss would only escalate the issue.”
We held each other’s gazes for a second. Luckily, the oven dinged, signaling it had reached our desired temperature.
“Excuse me.” I grabbed the trays.
I sent the children to wash their hands again, asking them to sing the songs we’d made up together from the top of their lungs while I tidied up the kitchen. That gave Joelle and me a few minutes alone.
“Joelle,” I started cautiously. I didn’t know how much time I was going to have with this family, but I knew they needed me. “Tinder is—”
“I know,” she cut me off, fidgeting with her necklace. “His therapist said it is too early for an official diagnosis. We are monitoring him closely, but I feel completely in the dark as to what his condition entails.”
“Criticizing him won’t help.” I put my hand on her arm. “Every child is different in personality, progress, and needs. French is the very last thing these kids need. Tinder, especially, needs a lot of love, and affection, and attention. He needs to know you love him unconditionally. If you’re confused, think about what he is going through. He is starting to realize he is different.”
Her shoulders sagged with a deep sigh. By the exhausted look on her face, I could tell she’d been wanting to talk about this with someone for a long time.
“I’m at a loss. My family produced happy-go-lucky kids. We don’t have a history of anything outside the norm. Tree reminds me so much of my brothers and me when we were little. Independent and athletic. While Tin
der is—”
“Other great things. And not even a pinch less treasured than his brother,” I completed for her curtly. “Different kids require different sets of rules and techniques. You were blessed with two healthy children. That’s more than so many women dare to dream of.”
Me, for example.
I hadn’t told Kill but getting my period despite having unprotected sex with him for a couple of months unraveled me from the inside.
It shouldn’t have. Two months meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.
I read somewhere that it takes between eight to eleven months for the average couple to get pregnant if they actively try. But other couples weren’t on a deadline. I knew if I failed to give him heirs, Cillian would get them elsewhere.
The thought made me want to throw up.
“You’re right.” Joelle straightened her spine. “You’re so right. I need to stop this self-pity. Tinder’s a great kid, you know? A little behind on the letters and numbers, but he can paint like nobody’s business. And he is so imaginative!”
The light in her eyes was back, and that was when I realized I’d never seen it on in the first place.
“Tell you what. I’m about to read them a few stories while the cookies bake. Why don’t you stick around? Spend some time with us?”
“You think it’s a good idea?” She seemed uncertain. “They don’t seem to like me all that much.”
“You’re their mother.” I snorted. “They’re bound to adore you unconditionally.”
“I come from a family where parenting is done by others. I’m not very good with kids,” Joelle admitted hoarsely.
“You’re better than you think you are,” I assured her.
“How do you know?”
“Because you made them.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon together. By the time I got out of the Arrowsmiths’ house, I knew I was in deep trouble.
As much as I hated Andrew Arrowsmith for what he did—and was still doing—to my husband, I couldn’t help but like his family.
Ultimately, I was going to hurt them.
For now, I tried to heal them.
Three months had passed since Persephone moved in.