Better Than Beginnings: A Better Than Good Short Story Collection (Better Than Stories Book 5)

by Lane Hayes

  And that was where the “hate” part came in. Every time I walked into this room, my stomach ached, and I broke into a nervous sweat courtesy of the dragon behind the glass desk. Marsha was Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada times ten. No joke. I eyed her black Balmain jacket and her oversized reading glasses with envy as I approached. Maybe I should invest in some chic faux eyewear. I wondered if Matty would notice if I wore a pair of blue readers…and nothing else. The thought made me smile, and just like that, I could breathe.

  Yes, Marsha was my boss and she could be a freaking nightmare sometimes, but at the end of the day, I went home to Matt. My real life…my anchor, my love. I put up with a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t because she signed my paycheck. And to some degree, because I respected her. She might not win any congeniality awards, but she was an innovative fashion editor with futuristic insights and a creative genius. I’d learned more from her than I wanted to admit some days. Hell, I wanted to be her one day. The nicer version.

  “You’re late…again.” Marsha glanced up from her computer screen and pointed at one of the leather chairs facing her desk. “Sit.”

  I obeyed and bit my tongue before I unleashed a stream of consciousness commentary about the weather, the traffic, or the exquisite beading on her designer duds. Marsha had zero patience for excuses, pleasantries, or trite flattery. Geez, she was no fun.

  “You wanted to see me,” I prodded when her laser stare went on a beat too long.

  “Yes. I have a far more important meeting in ten minutes, so I must keep this brief.” Marsha pulled her glasses from her nose and toyed with the stem, then set them on her keyboard. “You’ve been here for a number of years, isn’t that correct?”

  Oh fuck. I was kind of, sort of kidding when I told Matty this might be the end of me. This was real. I was actually about to get fired. I twisted my wedding ring anxiously and nodded. “Uh…yes.”

  “You’ve worked your way up the proverbial corporate ladder. It’s commendable,” she said in a flat voice. “And you’re still relatively young.”

  “Thanks.” I think.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four…and fabulous,” I blurted. If I was going down, I might as well do it in style.

  Marsha raised her brows. The corner of her mouth quirked in a hint of amusement. Maybe. “Naturally.”

  She did that staring thing again. I shifted in my chair and tried not to blink. After what felt like fifteen minutes but was probably closer to ten seconds, I finally gave up.

  “Marsha, was there something you wanted to—”

  “We’re moving a team to New York City, and I’d like you to head the department as artistic director.”

  It was my turn to gape. Artistic director. New York City. Holy shit.

  “Um…wow. I-I don’t know what to say,” I stammered.

  “Yes, I hope. In spite of your occasional issues with the clock, you’re well-informed, talented, experienced, and unafraid to take chances. You’re the best and most qualified candidate for the position by far.”

  “Thank you. I’m…I’m honored. When and how and—”

  “The division will open this summer. You’d travel between DC and New York City to oversee hiring and set up your own team. The goal is to be operational by October.”

  “October,” I repeated in a daze.

  “Yes. It’s a big move with a large monetary incentive,” she said, rattling off an astronomical sum that was literally almost twice my current salary.

  “Oh. Wow. Um…that’s amazing. But I need to talk to my husband and—”

  “By all means.” Marsha waved dismissively, then stood and skirted her desk. “Just don’t take too long.”

  The rest of the day passed in a blur. I honestly didn’t know how I got through the four-hour photo shoot that afternoon. I kept my eyes on my clipboard and stayed in the shadows as much as possible. I left just as the photographer wrapped up and let my assistant take over, which wasn’t like me at all. I loved chatting with the behind-the-scenes artists. Not only did they have interesting stories, but they usually had the best dirt. I knew myself too well, though. I couldn’t keep anything inside for long when I was overwhelmed, and I couldn’t take a chance that I’d blab my news before I talked to Matt.

  I called him on my way home, but he didn’t pick up his cell, so I tried his office line instead. When his secretary said he was in a closed-door meeting, I panicked. Now what? I couldn’t call Jay. Peter and he were expecting twins later this month. Transferring stress to a baby daddy was bad karma. I thought about cooking or baking, but I couldn’t stand still.

  So I did what I always did when my stress level reached the danger zone. I went for a run. Not a little run either. I ran for miles. Double-digit miles.

  “Where the hell have you been? And why didn’t you answer your cell?” Matt glowered when I got home a couple of hours later.

  “Water.” I moved past my angry-looking man and hurried to fill a glass from the tap.

  I gulped the contents and refilled it immediately. Then I pulled my sweaty T-shirt over my head and gave my husband a wobbly smile. Matty’s eyes moved down my torso and dipped to my crotch before he met my gaze.

  “How long were you gone?”

  “I don’t know. Two hours?”

  “Without your phone,” he growled.

  Matt rarely got angry, so when he did, it always took me by surprise. And since I knew he wouldn’t stay mad for long once I shared my news, I took a moment to admire his broad shoulders, muscular biceps, and gorgeous blue eyes. He always told me how beautiful I was, but honestly, he was the one who turned heads. Let’s be real, there is something seriously sexy about a tall, athletic, confident man in a suit. He’d taken his jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his white oxford shirt. The end-of-day stubble and slightly wrinkled clothing was hot as fuck. I licked my lips and swallowed hard.

  “It ran out of battery halfway through my run. I need a new phone. I think I want a purple one this time. The one in the commercials is more of a lilac, which is a bit light for me, but I’d give it a try. We should upgrade our watches too. Did I tell you about the rainbow band I saw at that cute shop on Jack and Curt’s street? I should have bought it but…”

  Matt crossed his arms and leaned against the counter, waiting for me to run out of steam. This was what happened when you became an old married couple. You turned into sitcom characters with predictable routines and familiar ways of dealing with wonky situations. I used to equate that kind of domestication to a sure sign of giving up. Now I knew it was part of our secret language. To the casual bystander, this was probably ordinary, boring “married couple” banter. Maybe it was, to a degree. Some evenings read like a script. If this was any ol’ ordinary Wednesday night, Matt would probably ask about dinner. I’d offer to whip up a salad and grill some chicken, or maybe we’d just order takeout. Then I’d shower and he’d change into comfortable sweats and an old T-shirt. We’d sit and chat about our respective days with our feet tangled on the sofa and the hum of whatever sport he wanted to watch playing in the background.

  The funny thing was…this slice of ordinary was filled with magical moments no one but Matty could ever understand. It was the twinkle in his eyes, the casual brush of his hand on my thigh, and the glint of his wedding band. And it was the way he stopped whatever he was doing to flash that crooked smile that made my heart do somersaults. The one that clearly said, “I fucking love you so much” without saying a word.

  Call it ordinary, boring, or blah, but this was my idea of heaven. I signed up for a lifetime of it years before we actually got married, and there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t say a prayer of thanks…because yes, the Catholic in me was strong, and Matthew Sullivan was the best thing that ever happened to me. I wanted a lifetime of these quiet moments and a lifetime of us.

  And just like that, my eyes pricked with unshed tears. My nostrils flared as I choked back a ball of emotion, but Matt knew me too
well. He uncrossed his arms and pulled me against him.

  “Hey. What’s wrong, baby?”

  “Nothing,” I sniffed.

  “Is it your job?”

  “Yeah, I just…”

  When I didn’t finish my sentence, he rocked me gently. “It’s gonna be okay, you know. We got this. I’m on track for partner, and you’ll find something new. And maybe you want to take some time off anyway and—”

  “I got a promotion,” I blurted.

  He went still, then pulled back to give me a “What the fuck?” look…closely related to his signature slightly baffled “I have no idea what comes next” look.

  “Congratulations,” he said, brushing a tear from my cheek. “That’s usually a good thing, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why are you upset?”

  “I’m not. I’m just…” I closed my eyes and sank to the floor in true diva fashion before adding, “overwhelmed.”

  Poor Matty. Some days he must seriously wonder how he ended up with me. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and gingerly sat on the floor next to me. He toed off the Italian loafers I bought him last Christmas, then tugged at my leg and untied the laces on my running shoes. I sighed as I laid my head on his shoulder and leaned against the pantry door.

  Matt reached for my left hand and threaded his fingers through mine, kissing my forehead. “What happened?”

  I squeezed his hand and gave him a brief synopsis. “It’s a dream job. Art director for a major fashion publication in New York City. This is what I’ve always wanted, but the timing is…terrible.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because our lives are here. We aren’t idealistic twentysomethings anymore. We have responsibilities and friends and family. Jay and Peter are about to have twins. Our godbabies. Seth’s big art show is coming up next month, and we’re going to Europe with Jack and Curt and…we can’t leave them. We said we’d get serious about buying a house this summer and choosing our surrogate. How can we have a baby and move and…and what about your career? They’re going to ask you to be a partner in the firm soon. I couldn’t ask you to walk away from that and I can’t live without you, so don’t send me away. I beg you!” I slumped across his lap dramatically.

  “Drama queen,” Matt chided with a half laugh. “I’m not going anywhere. Let’s think about this rationally and list the plusses and minuses, so you can make an informed decision and—”

  “No, I don’t want to decide anything. You do it. I’ll ruin our lives.”

  “Oh, brother.” He tickled my side until I sat up and pushed him away. “Come here. Closer.”

  “Any closer and I’ll be on your lap.”

  “That’s where I want you.” He patted his knee, then wrapped his arms around me when I obeyed. “Whether or not you take the job, we should celebrate. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  He set a finger over my lips. “No buts. You’ve worked your ass off. It’s okay to take a minute to congratulate yourself before you make any decisions. I’m proud of you, baby. It must feel pretty damn nice to know Marsha’s been taking notes too.”

  “Thanks. Yes, it’s kind of surreal. I thought that was the end of me. I was about to beg for another chance or maybe an assistant to an assistant gig. That’s how I started anyway.”

  “But she wants you to run the world instead,” Matt replied, brushing the hair from my eyes.

  “New York City, so yes…close enough.”

  “Hmm. We always said we wanted to live there someday.”

  I twisted to face him. “Do you still want that?”

  He ran his fingers along my spine, then cupped my ass through my workout shorts. “I wouldn’t necessarily object.”

  “Spoken like a true lawyer,” I teased, quickly hopping to my feet. “Let’s leave it alone for now. I need a shower, but we can talk more over dinner. What do you feel like? I can make pasta or chicken or…”

  I rambled dinner suggestions as I hooked my thumbs under the elastic of my shorts and boxer briefs and pushed them over my hips. I yanked off my socks and gathered my clothes before setting them on one of the barstools and heading for the fridge. I recited more menu options, highly aware of Matt as he stood and moved behind me. I didn’t have to look up to know his gaze was glued to my ass. And yes, I loved it. I figured it was a matter of seconds till he pounced, but I stuck my booty out to speed the process.

  Matt squeezed my right butt cheek, growling appreciatively as he snaked his arm around my waist. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just considering our dinner options,” I replied, leaning against his chest. “What sounds good to you?”

  He reached between my legs as he nuzzled my neck. “You.”

  I stood on my tiptoes to rub against his half-hard cock while he fondled my balls and pressed kisses on my shoulder. “Any specific part of me?”

  “Yeah. Your ass. Dinner can wait. Bedroom.” Matt stepped back and smacked my butt. “Unless you want to break out the olive oil.”

  “No, thank you. I’m running low. I want to save it for the chicken marsala and”—I covered my mouth and widened my eyes dramatically—“oh, my God. I’ve turned into my mother.”

  Matt snort laughed, then laced his fingers with mine and tugged me toward our room. “Please, don’t say that.”

  “Sorry. I know. Not sexy at all. I can do better,” I said. I grabbed the lube from the drawer next to my side of the bed and folded the duvet over before raising my hands. “I did it again.”

  Matt glanced up from his chore of unbuttoning his oxford shirt. “What did you do? Wait. Whatever it is…do not mention any of our parents or chicken in this room.”

  I chuckled, falling sideways onto the bed and rolling to my stomach.

  “I’m becoming a creature of habit. Practical and ordinary.”

  I propped my hands under my chin to watch the show as my husband shrugged his shirt from his broad shoulders. Matt wasn’t the type to do a striptease, but he really didn’t have to do much to get my motor running. His muscular biceps and toned abs were serious fantasy material. I got on all fours and swayed my hips, so my cock brushed against one of the throw pillows I’d tossed to the end of the bed.

  Matt raised his brows as he unbuckled his belt. “You? I don’t think that’s possible, babe.”

  “Practical people know how much olive oil they have in the cupboard. Note…I did not mention chicken. And they remember how slippery it is. Although it does make your skin feel soft,” I commented idly as I dropped to my elbows again and reaching for the lube. I poured some on my fingers, then massaged my hole and pushed a single digit inside. I might have descended into practicality, but I was still a bit of a ho. I moaned at the sweet pressure and continued in a lower voice. “And ordinary people always shove their comforter aside, so they don’t get lube or cum on it. I’m officially old and tragically boring.”

  I eased a second finger inside my entrance and hummed at the sensation before looking up at Matt, who’d gone quiet. No doubt, he was waiting for me to finish my lame pre-sex chat. Poor guy. He didn’t look irritated, though. He looked…hungry and horny and hopelessly in love with me. And the impressive bulge in his suit pants indicated he wanted me…bad.

  “Come here,” he commanded in a sex-hazed tone as he unzipped and pulled his cock through the opening. “Suck.”

  My mouth watered on cue. I scooted to the edge of the mattress and glanced up at Matty again, then sucked the tip of his wide mushroom head. He grunted in approval when I licked his shaft up one side and down the other. I paid a little attention to his balls as I made my way up his length to swallow him whole.

  I’d been with this man for so long, but I swore this never got old. I had a feeling if we lived to be a hundred, it never would. I loved the way he slid his fingers through my hair and called me “baby.” He complimented my ass, my mouth, and my cock-sucking skills as he traced my spine with his free hand and bent to finger my hole. The
angle pushed his dick to the back of my throat. I gagged slightly, then opened my mouth to accommodate his girth. And Matty never missed a beat. I could completely forget this was the same guy who couldn’t talk about sex without blushing when we’d first met. Those days were long gone. Matt took control now. If he wanted something, he said it. No hesitation. So, when he told me to turn around so he could fuck my tight hole, I obeyed.

  Of course, I teased him a little first. I licked his chest and flicked his right nipple before draping my arms over his shoulders.

  “Want me to fuck you first?” I whispered.

  He bit my chin as he tilted his hips. “No. And you don’t want that either.”

  Nope. I didn’t. We’d tried it a couple of times to switch things up. But I didn’t like topping, and it took forever for Matt to relax so we could get to the good stuff. Still…this whole complacent adult business was worrisome. We were in the bedroom instead of the kitchen, using expensive lube instead of olive oil. We could try something different like…

  “Want to tie me to the bedpost?”

  Matt snickered as he gathered me close, so our erections slid against each other. “Sure, baby. After I fuck you. Turn around and don’t say another word.”

  “Or what?”

  He smacked my ass hard and gestured for me to get moving. Fuck, I loved it when he got bossy. My cock twitched in response as I obeyed, scooting to the edge of the mattress till the backs of my thighs brushed his suit pants. I leaned on my elbows and glanced sideways at the full-length mirror and wow…the sight of my bare-chested husband easing his trousers over his ass before stroking himself as he fingered me was hot as hell. He added lube, lined his cock at my entrance, and pushed. He followed my gaze and grinned at our reflection.