My Fake Husband

by Black, Natasha L.

  “You can have this room. Do whatever you want to it to make it comfortable for you. Welcome home, Trix.” I smiled at his use of the nickname and although I wanted to hug him, it felt awkward and impossible.

  “Thanks. I’ll go around to my house and pick up some of my stuff tomorrow. My parents will let me store the rest in their garage so I can rent the place out for a few months. If you need me out before then, I could stay with my folks. It’s just, if I’m not using the house, the rent would cover the mortgage payment,” I said.

  “It’s a good idea. Relax. I don’t need you out of here.”

  “Okay, thank you. Um, good night,” I faltered.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “Night,” and headed down the hall. I shut the door and set down the overnight bag I’d brought with me. I wanted to put on my pink pajamas and curl up and sleep. I didn’t even want a shower. I felt weird showering in the room right next to his bedroom. It was a one-bathroom house. What if he had to pee? I could not cope with him being in the bathroom while I showered. I just couldn’t. I’d put on the new jammies and stay in my room tonight. Then tomorrow we could work out a schedule for the bathroom.

  I kicked off my shoes, sinking my bare toes into the soft carpet. Then I took the clip and pins out of my hair, feeling relief at the looseness at my scalp when my hair fell across my shoulders. I reached back and unzipped my dress part of the way before it got hung up. I tried to slide it back up an inch so I could try again, or to pull it down with force, but neither worked. It was in the middle of my back, hard to reach, and way too high for me to be able to wriggle out of the dress as it was. I needed it unzipped all the way. In desperation, I grabbed a wire hanger from the closet and tried to hook it through the zipper before realizing that was impossible. I tried to shrug the cap sleeves off my shoulders so I could turn the dress around to see what I was doing, but I only succeeded in trapping my arms in unforgiving satin.

  Son of a bitch. I was stuck in my wedding dress. I sighed and marched out into the hall, stopping to knock on Damon’s door.

  “Um, it’s me. Sorry to bother you. I need a little help here,” I said tightly.

  He swung open the door wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts. I swallowed and reminded myself not to drool and that under no circumstances would I allow myself to masturbate about him or this moment ever.

  “My, um, zipper got stuck. Could you help?”

  “I’ll do my best. I’m used to saving kittens from trees, but I can probably manage a zipper,” he said good-naturedly. I turned around.

  He swept my dark hair over one shoulder so it was out of his way, and I tried not to bite my lip from the light caress. Damon trailed one finger down my spine to the spot where the zipper was stuck.

  “I see the problem. It’s caught on the material. Just let me give it a little tug.”

  “Be gentle. I mean, don’t rip the fabric if you can help it,” I stammered, my voice too high.

  “Don’t worry, Trix, I’m always gentle. Unless you don’t want me to be,” his low voice was smoky and suggestive and made my knees go weak.

  He gripped the narrow zipper pull in two fingers and tugged first down and then up. Then he touched the place where the fabric parted above it and I felt the small, deft movements of his fingers as he loosened the fabric from the zipper teeth and it slid smoothly down, the backs of his fingers brushing my sensitive skin. I had to stay still, not showing him how his touch affected me.

  I held the front of the dress up and turned and thanked him, then shuffled back to my room in a hurry.

  10

  Damon

  Goddamn the inventor of the zipper. Things were going fine until she asked me to help her take off her dress. The dress she picked out because it was my favorite color. The way that deep plum-colored satin clung to her curves, molded to her body like it was made for her was almost too much for me. Then I had to unfasten it. I would’ve thought it was a trick, a clumsy attempt at seduction, but the zipper was actually stuck from eating away at the material beside it, and also I didn’t think Trixie was the kind to try and seduce a man. Not even her legal husband.

  It took every bit of my self-control to keep from ripping the dress off her. Even that kiss at the wedding had affected me, left me shaken by how much I felt it and how much it meant. When she turned around, holding her dress up to cover herself, Trixie had thanked me. I could tell she was breathing hard, and my fingers brushed her shoulder as she turned around. She practically bolted off down the hall.

  Leaving me rock hard and ready. Since I’d heard her door slam, I figured she wasn’t coming back out. I went into the bathroom and jumped in the shower. Before the water could even hit me, I had my hand wrapped around my shaft, wishing it was her instead.

  Our wedding night was what I thought of. How different it could have been if I’d had my way.

  I unzip the dress, push the sleeves off her shoulders, let the fabric pool around her bare feet, leaving her in nothing but lacy panties and a light blue garter—her something blue riding high on her pale thigh. I stand behind her, slide my hands up her stomach and cup her bare breasts, toy with her sensitive nipples until they make sharp peaks between my fingers. I kiss her shoulder and the curve of her neck, the spot below her ear that I’d touched with my fingertips in the bar and made her shiver.

  “Oh Damon!” she says, breathing hard. “Oh, yes.”

  I like hearing her say my name, hearing her say yes. I decide I want to make her do more of that. I mouth her neck and fondle her nipples. My hands trail down her arms, raising goosebumps in my wake. I take her hands and kiss them. Then I turn her around and kiss her mouth. It’s a full, deep kiss, one that leaves us both shaken from the intensity. I stroke her hair, palm her head and lick the roof of her mouth, coaxing her tongue to war with mine, to taste and to want. I run my hands down her back, around her little waist and flaring over her full hips. I slide my hands inside her lacy panties to cup her generous ass and pull her against me so she can feel my arousal.

  Trixie tips her face up to meet my eyes. Her pupils are dilated, her eyes feverish with desire. She nips at my bottom lip and my hard-on grows painful, straining against my shorts. I jerk them down and go to my knees. I bite the lace on her garter and drag it down her bare leg. Then I hook my fingers in the tiny ribbon sides of her panties and rip them off. She gasps, winds her arms around my neck, panting with excitement as I bear her onto the bed.

  I suck one nipple and then the other before I flip her over on her stomach and raise her hips. I love seeing her like that, her creamy ass, her flushed sex exposed to me. My cock twitches in response to the pretty sight. I slide the wet head of my cock along her slit and she rocks back into me, just like I want her to. Then I plunge forward, filling her, feeding every inch of my long, hard dick into her slick, tight folds. The sounds she makes are filthy and delicious, and the rock of her hips shows me how much she wants more. I buck into her, giving her my all, sliding my hands up her back, around her stomach, plucking at her clit until she cries out and clutches around me, making me come with a final hard pounding thrust, spilling inside her with a roar of my own.

  Our bodies slick with sweat, I turn her over tenderly, kissed her lips. She winds her arms around me, and I hold her for a moment. Then my cock grows hard against her again, and I settle her on top of me. Show her how to ride me good and hard until we both shatter again, her inner muscles throbbing around me, her hair in a tangle across her face. I sit up at the last moment and cover her mouth with mine as my climax pours out into her tight pussy. It shakes me to my core, the greatest sexual pleasure I’ve ever known, with a woman I care for so deeply.

  I leaned my forehead against the shower wall, panting from my climax. I wanted her so much it was making me insane. At least I could take care of the temporary insanity on my own. She’d made it clear that this was business, that we weren’t to blur the lines in that way. Not even when it was all I wanted. She was concerned with her business,
with securing the loan. I wouldn’t make demands on her. Even if I had to take three showers a day.

  It didn’t help that we had fun together. One afternoon I was home early and caught her streaming the second Back to the Future movie. I got some microwave popcorn ready and flopped down on the couch beside her to watch. Pretty soon, we were debating which of the trilogy was the best.

  “They went to the Old West. It’s stupid. They were just cashing in on the franchise at that point. You cannot beat the Power of Love musical sequence when he’s on the skateboard in movie one,” I maintained.

  “How can you even say that?” she said, “Doc is the best character in the series! He deserves his happy ending.”

  “Uh, false! The DeLorean is the best character, bar none. No argument. The DeLorean makes the series. If it had been a fucking Camaro, nobody would’ve wanted a sequel. It’s the gullwing doors and the overall coolness.”

  “So, you always wanted that car?” she said dubiously.

  “Well, yeah,” I said, “Didn’t you?”

  “No, but I had a little crush on Marty.”

  “Uh, he did the mouse voice in Stuart Little. We had to watch it in grade school. You were crushing on mouse-voice?”

  “He was cute in these movies,” she shrugged.

  “I don’t know if I can even look at you right now,” I said, mock offended.

  She threw a handful of popcorn at me, and I caught a piece in my mouth, crowing my victory.

  We watched the last two movies together. She fell asleep with her cheek against my arm during the third movie, which she had proclaimed was her favorite and yet she nodded off at 7:30 trying to watch it.

  If I let her sleep against me for a while, it was just to be a good friend, obviously. It wasn’t because the fact she felt safe with me made me feel so damn strong, so protective. Like I was a real husband, and she was my real wife. When she stirred, she woke suddenly, realizing what she’d done. She bolted from the couch, staggering and half asleep, talking about needing to make a salad or something for supper.

  “I ate a bowl of popcorn while you were asleep. P.S. I was right about the third movie—total cash grab when the idea was tired.”

  “Then you don’t understand the quality of the third movie. You must be heartless.”

  “You have thought way too much about this,” I teased. “Now go get some real sleep. You’re obviously wiped out.”

  “I will. Hey, thanks for watching with me. It was fun,” she said a little shyly.

  “It was. Let’s do the Die Hard series this weekend when I’m not on call at the station,” I said, feeling weirdly excited about Netflix and no-chill with my own wife.

  11

  Trixie

  Longest two weeks of my life. Sure, things were going fairly well, as long as I didn’t think about the fact that Damon couldn’t so much as pour a glass of juice without a surge of lust nearly knocking me off my feet. He was nothing but kind and respectful and helpful. He’d even lent a hand in cleaning up the back room at the shop. In short, Damon being wonderful wasn’t making me any less attracted to him.

  It was deeply distracting. I’d started making dinner on nights we were home, pasta or a salad, once I’d made a pot roast because my mom insisted I make him a real meat and potatoes supper. I liked sitting at a dinner table with him, hearing about his day and telling him about mine.

  “Brody keeps sending me sex tips, messaging me teen magazine articles about your first time and how not to be nervous. Is Laura doing the same for you?”

  “No, thank God, but my mom offered me some back copies of Cosmo with diagrams in them. Either they legitimately think we don’t understand how tab A goes in slot B, or they’re completely savage.”

  “Savage, no question,” Damon said. “This pot roast is fucking fantastic.”

  “Thanks. My mom’s recipe. I used a bay leaf and everything. It was like I was channeling June Cleaver.”

  “You don’t have to cook for me, you know.”

  “I know. But you’re doing me this tremendous favor. Opening your home to me and letting me use it as collateral. I can cook you some dinner,” I shrugged.

  “It’s nice. Having supper made for me, knowing you’re here when I get home,” he said. My stupid heart turned over and I felt all mushy about it.

  That was how dinner went. Flirting, accidental blunders admitting my lust and concealing it poorly. It was a minefield of meat and potatoes.

  We went to the bank to add my name to the deed on his house and complete the paperwork on the application. On the way in, I stopped him.

  “Something on my tie?” he asked.

  “You’re tie’s perfect. Are you sure you want to do this? This makes it real. What if I can’t pay this for some reason?”

  “Okay, first of all, marrying you was pretty damn real. And I have faith in you. You’ve got a successful business, you’re responsible and loyal, and there’s no doubt in my mind you’ll be fine.”

  I was grateful that he believed in me, and it put my mind at ease a little. We sat together while we waited, and I showed him the email from my landlord who wanted out from under the headache of the building and its need for repairs. He essentially said it was mine if I could afford it, and named a price lower than what I had expected. So I completed the paperwork, optimistic for once.

  The next afternoon, I was on my knees applying caulk beneath a waterlogged baseboard when I got a call from the bank that my loan was approved. I whooped, and then I texted Nicole and Michelle. They sent back the dancing emoji of joy. I finished up early, booked the plumber, and went to the grocery store. I bought steak and a little ice cream cake for a celebration dinner and picked up a bottle of champagne at the liquor store.

  When Damon got home from his shift at the station, I had dinner waiting. I had washed and dried my hair, also taking the trouble to put on makeup. I’d even put on my purple dress for a sense of ceremony. When he walked in, he gave a low whistle.

  “You look amazing. What have I done to deserve this?”

  “You’re my hero. I say that unironically, too, because you married me and with all your worldly goods to me endowed. I got the loan!”

  He ran over and grabbed me in a bear hug and spun me around.

  “I’m so proud of you. You’re right. We should celebrate. Let me take a quick shower and clean up. You deserve a date who doesn’t look like he just pulled a twelve at the fire department.”

  He kissed my cheek as he put me down. I felt flustered and giggly. I put the supper on our plates and lit a candle on the table. I turned on music on my phone. When he came down in his wedding suit, the collar of his shirt open, I saw that his hair was still damp from the shower. It made my palms itch to run my fingers through it. I bit my lip.

  “This looks incredible, thank you,” he said, tucking into his dinner with appreciation.

  I talked about which plumber I booked and when he could come, what the estimate was on repairs and how I was going with a cheap but durable laminate flooring for the shop and backroom both, and I planned to install it myself to save money. He offered to help.

  “You’ve done so much already, I can’t let you. But thank you,” I said.

  “What if I want to help? What if I like taking care of you, Trix?” he said, his voice low and beautiful, seeming to coil around me and intoxicate me.

  “I got champagne,” I blurted out and took it out of the refrigerator. “Would you do the honors?”

  He got up and popped the cork, poured it into glasses.

  “To the flower shop,” he said, “to great success.”

  “To my husband,” I said softly, feeling odd and sentimental.

  We clinked our glasses and took a drink. He took my glass and set them both down. He brushed my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You look so beautiful, so happy.” He was looking at me strangely, leaning closer. I spun away, my dress swirling around my legs. I got the ice cream cake from the freezer, brandished it proudly and cut
slices for us as a distraction.

  When we were done eating, I cleared the table, expecting him to go watch TV or something. But he stayed to help. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, “I’ll wash,” he said. “Least I can do after such a great dinner. I should’ve taken you out on the town.”

  “Diner closes at nine,” I quipped.

  “Okay, out on a bigger town than Rockford Falls,” he said ruefully.

  I scooted over and started drying the dishes he washed and putting them away. We didn’t talk much. The playlist on my phone had ended so the music subsided. When he passed me the last pan to dry, I wiped it, trying to concentrate on what I was doing and not the fact I could smell his good cologne which he’d put on after his shower, seemingly just for me. I breathed it in so deep I wished I could’ve snorted it. It was so good.

  I folded the dish towel and hung it on the side of the sink, brushed off my hands and looked around. Damon took my arm and pulled me closer. He crowded me back against the cabinet, his face so close to mine.

  “Tell me to stop,” he breathed. I shook my head, breathless.

  Damon’s hands were on either side of me, gripping the counter, pinning me there. I swayed toward his chest, tipped my chin up for the kiss I was dying for. He lowered his mouth to mine. At the shock of that touch, I jolted, my body becoming unstuck. I wrapped my arms around his neck, touched the ends of his hair, still damp and softer than I’d imagined. His mouth rocked over mine. I gasped, parted my lips and his tongue invaded my mouth, questing, exploring, tasting me. I felt myself start to shake as I kissed him back. One of his hands left the counter and pressed into the small of my back, pressing me closer to him.

  “I wanted to crush this dress, rip it off you the first night,” he said against my lips. I shivered.

  “I wanted you to,” I admitted. “When you unzipped it—” I broke off and he kissed me again and again.