My Fake Husband

by Black, Natasha L.

  I wouldn’t fall for him. My sister had warned me, and as much as I didn’t like her pointing out my crush on him, I was a grown woman and knew he was being a helpful friend. A helpful friend with a killer body and a great sense of humor and intense greenish-blue eyes full of mischief and passion. A grin that made me want to do filthy—no, enough of that train of thought. He was attractive. That didn’t mean I couldn’t control myself.

  Still, after my bath, when I settled down to read, I couldn’t get my mind off Damon. My future husband.

  I wasn’t thinking about making pancakes for him or who would be taking out the trash. I thought about those abs, his shoulders, how he had looked in his basketball uniform back in school, and how he had that Little League shirt from the team he coached along with Brody, and it was so tight around his biceps and his shoulders. The flex of his arm and back as he threw a ball effortlessly to the outfield. No matter how much I tried to concentrate on the book I was reading, I couldn’t keep him off my mind. I threw the library book aside and gave up.

  Because a fantasy of Damon formed behind my eyes. Auburn hair in the sunlight, his eyes bright and intense on me. He drops his baseball mitt and strides across the field to where I sit with my mom and his in the stands. He takes my hand, leads me away from the crowd. People stare after us, but I don’t bother to turn around. He doesn’t even say a word to me. But I know exactly where we’re going and why. He opens the door to his truck, and I climb in. We drive off to the falls, to the spot where the couples always went parking in high school. We roll down the windows to hear the crash of the water, to feel the cool spray mist our faces and arms.

  We turn to each other. He touches my face, meets my eyes just for an instant. Then his mouth is on mine, consuming me, a hungry kiss that leaves me breathless. His tongue surges into my mouth, and his hands slide through my hair, anchoring my face to his, so I can barely get a breath. His stubble scrapes my chin and cheek, a sound surprises me, and then I realize I’ve moaned. I’ve moaned out loud from kissing him. I must sound like the horniest, most inexperienced girl he’s ever met, but it doesn’t slow him down.

  The next thing I know, he’s peeled my t-shirt off and fastened his mouth to my nipple through the lace of my bra. His hot mouth feels amazing, and I moan again and can’t figure out what to do with my hands. I weave them into his hair, arch against him, and he sucks harder, making my nipple go tight and hard, my breasts ache with arousal. I know I’m wet between my legs already, and I want him to know it too. I feel this desire for him to run his fingers through my slick folds and feel how turned on he has made me.

  I fumble for the button on my shorts. His hands cover mine and rip the fabric in his urgency to get them off. I work his tight shirt off over his head and marvel at the muscles, the cut lines it concealed. I run my hands all over his chest and stomach, but I have to stop because my breath and heartbeat stutter. Damon’s putting his hands on me, easing me down onto the bench seat, looming over me, crowding me. His fingers dip between my thighs and I watch him, the sly grin that steals across his handsome face when he feels the proof of my arousal.

  “You want me, don’t you, baby?” he asks. I grind into his fingers, and he stops teasing me with gentle strokes, starts parting my slickness and thrusts a finger into my pussy. I clamp tight around the invasion, thinking how good it feels and how I want something thicker, like his cock inside me. He pumps that finger, rubs in just the right place, slides in another long finger and thrusts, letting me ride his hand. I’m gasping, panting, whimpering for him. Begging him for more.

  He impales me with two fingers while he catches my nipple in his mouth and sucks, dragging his teeth lightly along the tip until I come, shaking and clinging to him in the confines of his truck cab.

  Then he’s on top of me, letting me pull down his shorts, telling me it’s okay, I can touch him wherever I want. I’ve wanted this so long that I think I may pass out. I’m hyperventilating. I ask him to kiss me, and he does, a slow, sensual kiss full of promise. My breath heaves in and out. I kiss him back, desperate. My hands flatten on his muscular back, and I bury my head in his neck as he nudges my thighs open, notches his cock at the slit of my sex.

  “Please,” I whisper to him. “Please, Damon.”

  When I beg, he kisses my shoulder and drives into me in one deep thrust. He goes so much deeper than I could have imagined, his cock so big and brutal, but tender and impossibly sexy at the same time. I feel myself open for him, and I part my legs more just to hold all of him. I like it so much that I start telling him every dirty thing I’m thinking. Then I’m coming again, unbelievably fast and clenching around him, throwing my head back. I can feel a whisper of cool spray from the falls waft in the open window and mist my heated skin. I hold on to him so hard, and I know I can’t do anything but let the frightening pulse of ecstasy take me over, make me thrash and whine as I climax.

  When he feels me start to come, Damon grips my hip and drives in harder, deeper, taking all of me, burning away any memory I had of any man before him. I watch his face, the concentration, the way his lips are drawn back over his teeth, the primal way he leans his forehead against mine. “You can let go,” I tell him. Then he does, he lets go and comes with a fierce burst of heat inside me. I arch my back, greedy for it. Our stomachs touch, our chests, his hand on my hip and his forehead on mine. Then he kisses me, frantic and lush. My arms go around his neck and we hold each other, messy and sweaty and spent. He rolls onto his back and maneuvers me so I can lie on top of him, in his arms. I pillow my cheek on his chest and drift off to sleep in the sweet, summer heat.

  When the fantasy is over, and I’ve come down from my climax, I add an item to my list of things to do. Talk to rat bastard landlord about purchasing the building. Hire plumber. Schedule wedding. Apply for loan. Quit masturbating about future husband.

  8

  Damon

  “I thought I came over for chicken and noodles, not for you to give me hell,” I said.

  “Come on,” my sister laughed, “you opened yourself up for this one. It’s like you’re begging to be teased.”

  “I am not asking to be teased. I’m doing a favor for a friend of the family. Mom, back me up here. You and Mrs. Owens have been best friends for years. So we’re practically family.”

  “If you want me to support the intermarriage of family, you’re barking up the wrong tree, son,” she said, dishing up supper.

  “That’s not what I meant. You know, I really thought my family would be supportive of this. I know it’s a weird way to get married, and it’s not a real marriage anyway. It’s to get her collateral so she can buy her shop and get it fixed up. It’s really an indictment of the banking system in our country that would rather lend money to a married woman than a single one.”

  “You’re a feminist now, bro?” Laura chuckled.

  “I’m in favor of equal treatment, yes.”

  “Is that why you wouldn’t let that girl on your baseball team last year?” my dad chimed in.

  “Thanks, Dad. So helpful. And, no, I didn’t think it was safe or appropriate for her to be the only girl on a bus full of prepubescent boys, and when I suggested her mom drive her to the games, they started talking about discrimination. It was a problem. Thankfully, Brody found her that girls’ travel team out of Overton and got her a tryout.”

  “So your fit about women’s rights is a new thing,” Laura said, “that maybe has something to do with how you look at Trixie and always have. Don’t think we haven’t seen the way you stare at her whenever she walks into a room. Last Fourth of July at the Owens’ house, I thought you were gonna fall out of your lawn chair when she brought out the potato salad in her bathing suit.”

  “She was wearing shorts with it,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, you remember a lot of details for a guy who wasn’t looking,” Laura teased. “So don’t pretend this is a totally generous impulse with nothing in it for you.”

  “There is nothing romantic about this,�
� I protested and started shoveling in noodles in order to stop the conversation.

  “You know, my wife is right,” Brody said, “You just overshot a little. I told you to go ahead and ask the girl out. Not marry her.”

  I rolled my eyes and took another big bite, not loving this topic of discussion around the dinner table. It annoyed me that there was truth to what they were saying. I kind of wondered what I’d gotten myself into, and if I was signing up for heartbreak and pining over my wife, who would be right there in my house but just out of reach.

  9

  Trixie

  It only took a week to make arrangements and get a license. My family thought it was nuts, and Damon’s family made it pretty clear with their jokes that they didn’t think it was a marriage in name only. The fact that Laura insisted on throwing me a bridal shower—just Nicole and Michelle and her and Rachel from the diner—seemed to underline that idea. We had three kinds of pie and then I opened presents that were all see-through mesh nighties or push-up bras with matching garter belts in red and black lace.

  “Very funny,” I’d said, “we’re getting hitched so I can get a bank loan. No funny business.”

  “Right,” Laura had said, “so wear these under your work clothes to feel fabulous if that’s the way you’re playing it.”

  “I don’t think I want to clean up water damage in a garter belt,” I said ruefully.

  “You’ve never tried it, so don’t knock it,” Michelle piped up.

  My dear friend Michelle had gotten me a massage candle and strawberry-flavored personal lubricant. Michelle didn’t listen worth a shit. Nicole had produced the only non-horrible gift—a set of creamy pink satin pajamas I’d actually wear.

  “Just so you’re not walking around in your Tigger t-shirt and Winnie the Pooh flannel pants at home. You need a pair of grown-up pajamas.”

  “Thank you. Although I like my flannel pants,” I said.

  It had been a long night and I’d ended up drinking tequila with my pie. Not to mention the fact that my mother had decided to invite me over for breakfast the next morning with my booze headache so she could tell me about the birds and the bees.

  “Please stop talking, Mom. I don’t need a pop-up book,” I groaned, leaning my forehead on my hand.

  “That smart mouth won’t do you any good when Damon Vance wants you to fulfill your wedding vows. Here’s what you do—”

  “Mom, I know!” I said.

  “I know you think you know, but those rated-R movies make it look a lot nicer than it is in real life,” she cautioned, “you’re going to want to be on the pill if you don’t want to get pregnant. Even though you realize I want a grandbaby to rock in my arms more than I want anything in this life on Earth…” she trailed off. “But if you’re serious about this ridiculous plan, you’ll need to get a prescription for birth control from your doctor. There are also other things—acts—that men enjoy that won’t get you in the family way.”

  “Jesus Christ on a cracker, Mother, stop! I’ve had sex. I know how it works and where all the parts go. Please stop. Don’t describe acts and don’t tell me anything about sex with my father; my ears are going to bleed!” I blurted, unable to take it any longer.

  She burst out laughing, “You owe me twenty-five dollars, George,” she called into the living room. “Your father bet me that you wouldn’t last past the rated-R movies part.” She slapped her knee and kept laughing.

  “You set me up,” I groaned.

  “Let a woman have a little fun, child. I don’t get to see you in a wedding gown walking down the aisle at the church to marry a man you intend to spend the rest of your life with. I didn’t even get invited to the bridal shower, even though I’ve been wanting to try Michelle’s peach margaritas for years. At least let me get what joy I can out of this situation,” she said. “You know I’ve wanted to set you up with Damon for years now. It’s just that you were so serious about your business and he was so busy chasing every piece of ass that walked by.”

  “Mom, if you can avoid mentioning piece of ass in a sentence about my future husband, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Look, you know he’s got a healthy appetite for sex. Don’t waste that. He cares about you enough to want to help you out like this. You can capitalize on that and reel him in. I have some issues of Cosmo you should look through if you need to brush up on—”

  “Acts men enjoy? No thanks, Mom,” I sighed. “This has been—pretty traumatizing. Thanks for the scrambled eggs.”

  I kissed her cheek and left, horrified and amused at the same time, which pretty much summed up my relationship with my mom.

  Kiera flew in for the wedding to be my Matron of Honor, so she was the one who fixed my hair and makeup. She kept watching the same TikTok over again while she twisted my hair just so and pinned it with a pretty silver hairclip shaped like a feather.

  “Okay, you look perfect. I mean, since you refused to get a real wedding dress.”

  “This is a real wedding dress. It’s a dress that covers my body during my wedding,” I said, practically pouting.

  Truth was, I loved my dress and this was my excuse to buy it off my wish list. It came from a cutesy vintage style website with fit and flare dresses that worked with my curves. I didn’t have an Ann Taylor Loft/J Crew body type—not tall and willowy. So this adorable dress with capped sleeves, a scoop neck, and cinched waist above the full skirt made me feel beautiful and stylish in my way. Instead of a veil, I had a comb with a net whimsy on it that Kiera secured.

  She handed me a cluster of gardenias wrapped in cream velvet ribbon, the bouquet I’d made that morning. I hugged her impulsively.

  “Thanks for being here.”

  “I’d never miss one of your weddings,” she said and kissed my cheek.

  We sat on a narrow bench until we were called into Courtroom B. Kiera walked in first, and I trailed after her, pretending it was an aisle when it clearly wasn’t, as there was a witness box right behind the judge. I had thought we’d use an office or something that made me feel less like I was facing meth possession charges, but here we were.

  Damon wore a dark suit, a white shirt. Brody stood beside him as best man. When I got close to him and the judge, I faltered. I wasn’t sure where to stand or how. This was why real weddings had rehearsals. I giggled nervously. Damon took my elbow, pulled me forward and over until I faced him. I passed my bouquet to Kiera, pausing only to lift it to my nose and bury my face in it for a moment, drinking in the sweet scent. Then I let Damon take my hands. I met his eyes, then looked away.

  The judge said things and I agreed to them. When it came time for rings, I looked around, realized I hadn’t bought him one. Brody reached in his pocket and handed something to Damon. My cheeks flamed. I was mortified that he was doing so much for me, and I had neglected to make such a simple gesture for him. I met his eyes in a panic.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, and slid a ring on my finger, a narrow yellow gold band with a little diamond solitaire. I gasped at the diamond, at the sweetness of it. I blinked back unexpected tears. We finished the vows and it was time for the kiss to seal the ceremony.

  I drifted closer to Damon, swayed a little on my feet, face tipped up to his. He bent and brushed his lips chastely to mine, polite, and stepped back. I felt dizzy, felt the electric buzz in my veins that the light, almost cursory caress had set loose in me. I had a wild impulse to fling my arms around his neck and pull him in for a real kiss. I even wondered frantically if we should consummate the marriage to make it legal. Then I recalled that was only for a green card, and probably a rom-com rule, not a real one. So I shouldn’t toy with the idea of convincing him we should hook up just once.

  Flummoxed by the kiss and my errant thoughts, I let myself be led away. We all rode together to my parents’ house. We were having a totally unnecessary wedding lunch. My mom and Mrs. Vance had gotten frozen croissants and made chicken salad sandwiches, fruit salad, and a little two-layer white cake that made me want to burst
into tears. It was so sweet of them, and they’d made it nice and elegant in the best way they knew how. There were white candles on the table and a dozen roses from the grocery store. I had a death grip on Damon’s fingers as we walked inside and saw it, the white lace tablecloth that used to be my grandmother’s, and the pretty china with pink flowers around the rim from my parents’ wedding. I swallowed hard.

  “Oh, Mom, it’s so pretty. It’s perfect,” I whispered, my voice watery as I hugged her.

  We sat down and ate, and Damon leaned in, “I like your dress. Is purple your favorite color?”

  “No, it’s yours,” I said simply. He grinned at me.

  “I love the ring. You shouldn’t have.”

  “I wanted to. I don’t ever want you to think your first husband didn’t care, or for your next groom to think he can get away without giving you a nice ring.”

  “So you want bragging rights over my imaginary future husband?”

  “Basically, yeah,” he said. I leaned my cheek against his shoulder for an instant, feeling something perilously close to affection for him.

  My mom took a picture as we cut the cake together, making us pose. I told her it wasn’t a real marriage, but she would have none of it and kept saying what a beautiful couple we made. When we left, we went to Damon’s house. We’d agreed I’d live there for the time being, and he was putting my name on the deed. That way it was legitimately mine to use for collateral. Still, when it came time to walk into his house, I was suddenly nervous.

  Damon, who I half expected to pick me up and carry me over the threshold as a joke, just unlocked the door and led me inside. The old house had been redone, the original wood floors refinished to a warm walnut color. The golden glow of a brass lamp on the table illuminated a stack of library books beside it and his blue couch. A flat-screen hung on the wall over a fireplace. He showed me to the guest room.