Pretending He's Mine

by Mia Sosa

  She places her hands at her hips. “What’s up? That’s my question.” She waggles her eyebrows and lifts her chin in the direction of the bedroom where Ashley and I are staying. “Trouble in paradise?”

  There’s no mistaking the hopeful gleam in her eyes and the happy curve of her lips. Think, Julian. Think. Why would I be out here if Ashley and I aren’t fighting?

  “No, not at all,” I say, my gaze jumping around the room. A print copy of The Hollywood Observer saves me. Pointing to it on the coffee table, I explain, “I . . . uh . . . I wanted to read a bit.” After lifting the paper, I rise and stretch. “The light was bothering her. I guess I fell asleep.”

  Hearing this, Lydia drops her shoulders and her smile slips. “Oh, okay. I’m going to make some tea. Want some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Well, good night, then.”

  “Good night,” I reply.

  And then she just stands there, waiting for me to go into the bedroom, which I do—reluctantly, I might add—because what else can I do?

  I open the door softly and tiptoe in. Not surprisingly, it’s dark in here. The moon’s glow coming through the window casts shadows in the sparsely decorated room. I squint to make out the shapes of the furniture and hear the bedsheets rustle. Still as a statue, my eyes survey the scene, adjusting to the dimness of my surroundings. My gaze travels over the bed, registering that one of Ashley’s arms—the source of the rustling—is hidden under the covers. My heart gallops in my chest, and my breath quickens. She’s not doing what I think she’s doing, is she? No fucking way. This must be a continuation of my dirty dream.

  In a fog, I take a step back, ready to bolt out of the room, and reach behind me for the doorknob. Then it happens. With her other arm stretched behind her and her eyes squeezed tight, Ashley lifts her head off the pillow, shudders, and releases the softest of gasps. “Julian.”

  Damn, damn, damn. Not a dream at all. She’s thinking about me and getting herself off. I buckle from the pleasure and pain of witnessing it. Of their own volition, my lips part, depriving me of time to filter my words. “Oh, fuck, that’s hot.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ashley

  MY EYES FLY open, and Julian’s frozen form greets me.

  No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening.

  I cover my mouth with my hands. “Oh God.” The burning around my ears, face, and neck must be the precursor to going up in flames. What to do? What to do? My brain jumps out of my body and yells at me: Get the hell out of here, Ashley! Right. I spring out of bed and dash to the bathroom, mumbling, “I’m going to be sick.”

  Inside, I pace the span of the small space, the cold tile serving as a temporary reprieve from the five-alarm fire scorching the rest of my body. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. I know what I’ll see there: a woman with a flushed face whose chest is heaving and whose hair is plastered to her neck. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

  A soft knock on the door makes me jump like a scared cat.

  “Ash, are you okay in there?”

  His voice is tender with concern. Or is that pity? I drop my head against the door and groan.

  “Ash, talk to me,” he says, his voice now laced with worry. “I’m sorry about . . . interrupting. I didn’t realize what was going on until it was too late.”

  “Stop. I don’t think I can ever talk to you again. There’s no recovering from this, Julian. I might as well pack my bags and catch a flight somewhere far away. I hear Iceland’s nice.”

  The sound of his chuckle comes through the door clearly.

  “It’s not funny, jerk.”

  He clears his throat. “Sorry. Can you . . . can you just open the door, so we can talk?”

  I suppose I can’t stay in here forever, but I’d like to. I’d really like to. Blowing out a breath that puffs out my cheeks, I swing the door open and face the wall of Julian blocking my way. “We’ll pretend this never happened.”

  He steps back and nods. “Okay.”

  I raise a finger at him. “No jokes. No comments. No innuendos. Got it?”

  He holds up his hands and continues to back away. “Okay, okay. I didn’t see or hear anything.”

  I busy myself by fluffing the pillows and straightening the comforter. “Just out of curiosity, what didn’t you see or hear?”

  He shakes his head. “What? I just told you I didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “But you did see or hear something.”

  He places his hands on his hips. “And you told me not to comment about it.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  I scurry under the comforter and burrow like the woodland creature I’d like to be. The mattress dips, but Julian’s body isn’t anywhere near mine. I throw back a corner of the cover and peer at him. He’s sitting with his back to me, a hand gripping the back of his neck.

  “Why’d you come in, anyway? I thought you were going to sleep on the couch. There’s a bathroom out there, so it didn’t occur to me that you’d need to come . . .”

  My voice trails off. Good God, Ashley, you’re making it sound as if you planned a night of masturbating to visions of him in your head.

  “Lydia,” he says, as if her name alone explains everything.

  “Lydia?”

  “She found me out there and wondered if we were squabbling. I told her I was reading and must have fallen asleep.”

  “Oh.” Okay, sure, it’s not every day your teenage crush finds you calling out his name in the throes of a fantastic self-induced orgasm, but what’s done is done, and I can’t change what happened. Mortifying, yes. World-changing? No. But dammit, my cheeks are still blazing. “I’ll survive.” I laugh nervously. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me come before, right?”

  “Would any of this be easier to handle if I told you I’ve done it, too?” he asks over his shoulder.

  “Masturbated? You, a man, masturbates. That’s hardly earth-shattering information.”

  He twists his body to turn to me, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “No, I meant I’ve thought about you while I touch myself.”

  Oh. Oh God. My belly flutters wildly, and a rush of warmth travels between my legs. I do believe we’ve entered the foreplay stage of these proceedings, and I am here for it. “Yes, that helps. Thanks for sharing.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Thanks for sharing? What is wrong with you today?

  He doesn’t respond, but he does jump up and draw in a loud, ragged breath. Now that his hands are gripping the back of his neck, his profile reveals the impressive boner straining against his sweats.

  Fuck me.

  No, seriously, Julian, fuck me.

  But he won’t want to, right? Because the man has willpower the likes of which I’ll never possess. Nevertheless, let’s have a little fun with this, shall we? Anything to help me set aside my own embarrassment. I slide my back up against the headboard and whisper. “Show me.”

  He snaps his head in my direction. “Show you what?” His voice is strained, tight because he’s trying to control his arousal and achy because he isn’t succeeding.

  “Show me how you think of me and touch yourself. It’s only fair. I showed you mine, now show me yours.”

  He rubs at his brows and paces the room, not hiding either the guarded look in his eyes or the hard set of his jaw. “You can’t be serious.” He leans over and swipes up a T-shirt from the open suitcase by the rocking chair. “I’m going to take a walk.”

  His hand is on the doorknob when I say, “I really wish you’d stay. Think of it this way. You wouldn’t be touching me, if that’s your concern. You’d be doing what you just admitted you’ve done before. This time it would be in front of me. That’s the only difference.”

  He tightens his hold on his shirt and the doorknob. “That’s a big difference.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  My quip causes him to spin around, and I sag against the headboard when a flicker of a smile passes across his face. He’d never do
it, but for a few seconds, it was fun—and arousing—to imagine that he would.

  “Jesus, Ashley, you really are something, you know that?”

  “I know.” I slide down onto the mattress and stab at my pillow to find my spot. “But seriously, just come back to bed. I can forget about being caught in the act if you can.”

  A beat of silence follows, and then he drops his shoulders, his expression dazed and wary. “Okay.”

  I turn on my side, hoping to give him a moment to collect himself, and when the mattress dips, I scooch forward to avoid any chance our bodies will brush against each other as he settles in. I don’t detect any movement under the comforter, so I gather he’s decided sleeping on top of the bedding is safer.

  “Good night, Julian.” I twist my head and say over my shoulder, “Oh, and if you need to take care of . . . well, you know, I won’t be offended.” Then I turn over and smile into my pillow.

  “Shut up, Ash.”

  He speaks in a low and gruff voice, his vocal foreplay skills in play. I blow out long, even breaths, both to control my reaction to him and to lull myself to sleep. The slow, insistent ticking of the clock above the dresser helps to relax me, and minutes later my droopy eyelids close. Not long after, Julian lets out a frustrated sigh and shifts. I listen for more signs of his distress, preparing to ask if everything’s okay, when a soft hiss fills the air and the mattress vibrates under me at a steady pace.

  Oh my God. Is he . . . is he jerking off? Does he think I’m sleeping? My chest tightens when I consider the possibility that he knows I’m awake and wants me to hear the evidence of his desire for me. I’m tied in knots, unsure what to do. Face him and watch? Pretend I’m unaware? Jump his bones? The odds are low that he’ll continue if I turn around, so I remain still, squeezing my eyes shut and supplying my own images to accompany the sound of Julian’s heavy breathing: His cock is long and thick and pulsing in his hands. The faint hair at the base of his dick hits the underside of his hand each time he strokes himself from root to tip. With parted lips and eyes at half-mast, he rests his free hand on his stomach and massages it, his muscles contracting against his fingertips.

  Turned on by my own imagination, I moan and clench my pussy, shifting ever so slightly, which causes my pajama top to scrape against my sensitive nipples.

  He freezes, and I press down on my bottom lip, inwardly cursing myself for making noise.

  “What . . . what the fuck am I doing?” he whispers. Several strong beats of my heart later, he speaks again. “Ash? You awake?”

  With my head still turned away from him, I confess. “Yeah, I’m awake.”

  He groans. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Don’t stop touching yourself. It’s okay. I want you to.”

  He doesn’t answer, but after the tenth ticktock of the clock, the bed’s vibrations resume and pick up speed, the soft slap of wet skin and his tortured breathing bouncing off the walls as though they’re being broadcast in surround sound.

  “Oh shit,” he grunts. This time there’s no hiding the tremors coming from his side of the bed. Then a soft string of words follows. “Yes, that’s it, baby. Right there, Ash. Yes. Yes. Fuck. Aaash.”

  The bliss in his voice wraps itself around me, caressing me like strong, confident hands. The throbbing between my legs narrows and settles on my nub, and for a second I wonder if I’m coming, too. Jesus. When the shaking stops, I blink my eyes open and wait. Seconds pass before he eases out of the bed, and then his shadow blankets my side of the room as he creeps to the toilet. The door closes softly. Moments later, water splashes in the sink, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  This is my ghost. Ashley Williamson is dead.

  AS FAR AS I am aware, no book provides guidance on how to face a man the morning after he masturbated next to you. “How’s it going, Handsy?” Nah. Too literal. What about “How’d you sleep, Slickster?” A tad crass, I suppose. I’m not sure what to say or whether to acknowledge what happened, but I’m certain that Julian is close to succumbing to my charms. Pushing him over the edge wouldn’t be all that difficult. The more important question is, should I even try?

  A woman who wants to protect her heart and who knows Julian’s identity begins and ends with his career would tread carefully here. If Julian were faced with a choice between risking his professional ties to Carter and nurturing a relationship with me, I doubt he’d decide in my favor. But does it need to come to that? I’m not entirely convinced it does. Maybe Julian’s fixation on creating separate spheres of his life is a stroke of serendipity, laying the groundwork for a situation where he can be with me and continue to work with Carter. Or maybe I’m so desperate for him I’m coming up with excuses to justify scaling the invisible wall between us.

  I catapult out of the bed when he shuts off the shower, mentally preparing myself to face him. In the meantime, I gather an outfit and clean underwear. With my clothes in my arms and a foot tapping against the floor, I try my hand at a greeting.

  “Hey, it’s no big deal,” I could say. “We both had it coming to us.”

  Heh. While making light of last night’s debacle probably is the safest option, stoking our tension seems more beneficial to me in the long run.

  “Last night was a revelation, and I’d like us to take our relationship to the next level.”

  No, too obvious.

  Julian peeks out, scattering my thoughts as if they were a thousand feathers flying out of a torn pillow.

  Wearing an easy expression and a half smile, he says, “Now we’re even. No jokes. No comments. No innuendos. Got it?”

  I’m amused that he’s thrown my admonition back at me, and it’s only fair that I oblige him. “Got it.”

  His head and torso disappear inside again, and he shuts the door.

  Sure. Got it. But he can’t erase my memory, and we have one more night together. The possibilities, Mr. Hart, are endless.

  THE KITCHEN IS already abuzz with activity when Julian and I come in. My father’s marinating meats for this afternoon’s cookout, and Lourdes and Bianca are eating breakfast. I love seeing our two families come together, and I can’t wait to gorge on whatever Dad’s making. To my delight, my aunt Carol is nowhere to be seen.

  Carter and Tori are visiting the town clerk, one of my father’s poker buddies, to pick up their marriage license, and although Carter assured Tori they didn’t need a witness, she insisted on bringing Eva along “just in case.”

  Kimberly bounds down the stairs with my adorable niece and nephew in tow. “Izzy, make sure your cleats are in your bag.”

  My sister rustles around the living room, gathering Izzy’s athletic socks, car keys, and her phone, while Julian and I wait near the front door, watching the storm of activity from a safe place.

  She stops her Tasmanian Devil routine long enough to notice we’re there. “Oh, hey. Where are you headed?”

  “With you. To Izzy’s game, of course. We’d like to cheer her on, too.”

  Kimberly’s eyes go wide. “Oh. Um, okay.” She leans into me. “Just so you know, the team’s in a bit of a Bad News Bears situation, Izzy excepted. This won’t be the World Cup or anything close to it.”

  “Yes, I figured, Kimberly.”

  “And her coach is—”

  “Mom,” Izzy yells from the mudroom. “I can’t find my cleats.” The panic in Izzy’s voice sends Kimberly whirring past us.

  “Good morning, everyone,” my mother says at the top of the stairs. “I’ll be down in a sec to prepare coffee. And don’t you dare leave without me.”

  “Mom, it’s a Keurig,” I shout up to her. “There’s nothing for you to prepare.”

  “Well, shoot. Now I know how cashiers feel about those automated checkout machines at the grocery.”

  “Making coffee’s not your job, though,” Julian points out. “It’s not the same.”

  “Thank you, Julian. You were always quick to make me think a little deeper. Today’s no different.” They exchang
e smiles, a look of affection passing between them.

  Izzy’s cleats accounted for, Kimberly leads the charge out of the house. “We’ll take my Dodge.”

  Julian and I come to an abrupt stop behind her.

  “Do we have to?” I ask in a whiny voice.

  Kimberly grins. “Get in, brat.”

  Julian rounds the minivan and pretends to examine it like it’s a foreign object. He presses a single finger against the windshield. “Is it contagious? If I get in this thing, will I turn into a soccer dad? What’s next? Wearing black socks with sandals?”

  Kimberly rolls her eyes. “Jesus, I didn’t know I’d be driving four children to the game. My own kids are enough, thank you.” She stops in front of me and squeezes my wrist. “And you? What have you done to the real Julian? The one who never cracks a joke.”

  “I upgraded him for the newest version.” I lean toward her and whisper, “This one feels and laughs.”

  “I can hear you,” Julian says, his lips pursed in feigned outrage.

  “I know.”

  He playfully swats my ass. The move is so unexpected, the sound of it registers like an explosion in my ears. Julian, apparently surprised himself, shuffles back, his eyes wide and his expression grim. “Sorr—”

  I cover my mouth with both hands, striking a pinup pose that lifts my ass. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting that.” Then I wink at him. “Do it again.”

  “Hey,” Kimberly bellows. “Watch yourselves around my kids.” Then she asks, “Does anyone know if Lydia’s coming?”

  Shit, I hope not. “She’s probably still sleeping.” I scramble around to the sliding door and motion for Julian and the kids to get inside like we’ve just committed a bank heist and we’re making our getaway. “Let’s go, people. Let’s go.”

  I turn around and watch my mother’s progress. She’s holding the handrail as she descends the steps, her movements slow and careful. Watching her, I feel a fist squeeze my heart, because she’s getting older, and so is my dad. “Mom, everything okay?”

  “Yes, dear,” she shouts back. “Your dad and I were a little too spirited in the bedroom last night, if you know what I mean. Hip’s out of whack, I think.”