by June Gray
I stared at the digital numbers on the clock, seething. When I could no longer keep it in, I sat up and shook his shoulder. “Wake up.”
He stirred and immediately took in his surroundings. “What? What is it?”
Trying to take advantage of his inebriated state, I said, “Tell me what happened in Korea.”
He rolled onto his back with a sigh, covered his eyes with one arm, and groaned. He was quiet for so long, I thought he’d fallen asleep, but he finally gave a deep sigh and said, “I was cornered in an alley and assaulted by a group of men.”
“What? Why?”
He shrugged. “Money. Maybe because I looked like a big, dumb American.”
“Were you badly hurt?”
“Bad enough to be hospitalized,” he said with anger in his voice.
“Where? How?” I couldn’t find words beyond those breathless questions. How had I not known that Henry had been so badly hurt? Wouldn’t I have felt it in some way?
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Elsie. Please,” he said. “I told you what happened, don’t make me relive the entire night again.”
I couldn’t sleep afterward, imagining Henry being attacked and unable to defend himself, and when my alarm rang at six, I decided that it was just as well because my sleep would no doubt have been riddled with ugly, violent images anyway.
2
A week after Thanksgiving, Henry and I finally had time to put up our Christmas decorations. Since it was our first Christmas together, we went to the store and bought a fake seven-foot tree with twinkle lights already installed. Henry wanted a real tree but for the same reason I disliked receiving fresh flowers, I preferred a tree that would last and didn’t need to be replaced year after year.
After we hung the ornaments, we turned off the living-room lights and, with our hot cider in warm mugs, sat on the couch basking in the cheery display.
“You’re being really quiet,” I said, blowing into my mug.
He dropped a few Hot Tamales candies in his cider, something he and Jason had learned to do back in high school, and stirred it with a teaspoon. He popped a candy in his mouth and chewed for a few moments before saying, “It’s nothing.”
I squeezed his thigh. “No, tell me.”
He chewed some more. “My parents never bought a real tree. They always just threw up that white fake Christmas tree and called it good. I hated it. It was so . . . phony. I always told myself that once I had a house of my own, I would finally get a real tree. Maybe then Christmas would feel real.”
The faraway expression on his face as he stared at our impostor tree hurt my heart, making me feel like the most selfish person in the world. Hell, I could be such a self-absorbed jerk sometimes. “Then we’ll return the tree,” I said, my mind made up. “You’ll get your real tree.”
He shook his head. “Hell no. That monstrosity was a motherfucker to strap onto the Volvo.”
“But I want you to have your fresh tree.”
He waved the idea away. “It’s okay. Maybe next year.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I murmured into my mug, unable to quell the feeling that I was the world’s worst wife.
—
The next workday was busy but felt like nothing was getting accomplished. Every time I sat down and began a project, I’d get interrupted without fail and have to solve another problem or put out another fire. The freelancer Conor had hired was not much help either, all ego and no common sense. By eleven, I was already reaching for the bottle of Advil I kept in the top drawer of my desk.
During lunch, I managed to talk Kari into helping me with a personal project that took the entire lunch hour and then some. Thankfully Conor was out of the office for the rest of the day and didn’t see us sneaking back to our desks with pine needles still stuck in our hair.
That night, I sat in the darkened living room with a bottle of hard cider and greeted Henry with forced nonchalance when he walked in the door.
“Why is it so dark in here?” he asked, flipping on the switch, filling the room with white light.
I watched his face, waiting until the moment his eyes landed on the tree at the far side of the room. The corner of his mouth twitched as his gaze swung down to me.
“What did you do? That’s not our tree.”
I took a casual sip of my drink. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The smile on his face grew. “That’s . . . a real tree.” He walked over and touched it for confirmation.
“Oh, is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
He whirled around and took slow, deliberate steps toward the couch. “Did you get me a real tree?” he asked, taking the bottle from my hand and placing it on the coffee table.
I gave up the pretense. “I want you to have the Christmas you’ve always wanted.”
He grabbed my hands and pulled me up off the couch and into his arms. “How did you do this?”
“My friend Kari helped me during our lunch break. She has a pickup truck, so we took the fake tree back and got a new one at the place by the gas station.”
He glanced at the tree again, which was already decorated with string lights and ornaments. “You did this? For me?”
“Of course,” I said, beaming. “I would only place a tree corpse in our living room for you.”
Henry, still smelling like the gym, suddenly scooped me up in his arms and lifted me off the floor. “This is . . . really sweet,” he said against my hair. “Thank you.”
“You’re so welcome,” I said. “And oh, Kari said this gives her a free pass on a future speeding or parking ticket.”
He chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“We should make some popcorn so we can thread it and put it on the tree,” I suggested, enjoying the way his face was lit up. “But you should probably take a shower first, buddy.”
Halfway up the stairs, he paused and gave me the largest, most boyish smile I had ever seen. I knew in that moment that I would do anything in my power to keep that smile where it belonged.
—
The next morning Conor wandered down our row of cubicles with a stack of manila folders in his hand. He stopped when he caught a glimpse of me and turned around deliberately to give me a second look.
“Top o’ the mornin’,” I said, tipping my imaginary hat, even as I felt the first stirrings of a headache.
He rolled his eyes at my lame joke then regarded me quietly. “You feeling okay?”
“Do I look that horrible?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“No. You’re just frowning, like you’re really mad at your computer.”
I shook my head, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No, just a headache.”
He rumpled his dark eyebrows, which were the same auburn as the stylishly messy hair on his head. “Does that happen often?”
“No more than usual.” I waved his concern away. “Everybody gets headaches.”
“No they don’t,” he said. “I almost never get headaches. When I do it’s because something’s off.”
I sneaked a peek at his face and saw that he actually looked genuinely concerned. I supposed that was his charm, his way of making it seem as if you’re the most important person in the world, at least for that moment. And for my part, I felt like I needed to ease his mind. “I think it might be my eyes. I’ve been meaning to see an optometrist one of these days.”
“Yes, definitely do that,” he said. “Go today. You can have the afternoon off.”
“I can’t,” I said, gesturing with my hands at the mess in front of me. Somewhere underneath the folders, notes, and papers was my desk, I was sure of it. “I have a ton of work.”
“Email it to me and I’ll get it done,” he said. He smacked the top of the cubicle wall and pointed at me. “Then it’s settled. You are seeing an optometrist today.”
He started to
walk away, his attention somewhere else. My fleeting time in the warmth of his regard was now over. “Thank you,” I called out, reaching for my phone to search for an optometrist nearby.
He didn’t turn around. He just threw a wave over his shoulders and continued on his way.
—
Later that day, I went home and logged onto the company server to look over the work that Conor had done. True to his word, he had completed my list of tasks. I was struck then by how lucky I was to have a boss who not only cared for his employees but helped out with the workload whenever necessary.
I left the home office when I heard the shower turn off in our bathroom, and walked to the bedroom with the new pair of glasses in my hand.
Henry was naked when he came out of the bathroom, affording me ample view of his muscled body before slipping into his favorite pajama pants. He kissed me on the cheek, patting my butt through my pencil skirt. “You had a meeting with a bigwig today?”
“Yeah, this morning. How did you know?”
“You always wear that skirt with a nice shirt or sweater when you’re meeting with a client.”
I laughed. Even after all this time, he still surprised me with how observant he was. “True. I didn’t think the company would appreciate me wearing jeans to a meeting.”
He gave me a sliding look that warmed every inch of skin from my face to my feet. “You underestimate the power of your jeans,” he said, his voice taking on a husky quality. “Or maybe just what’s underneath them.”
“You are a hornball today, aren’t you?” One glance down at the bulge forming in his pants confirmed as much.
He grinned without shame, advancing toward me with one eyebrow raised. He grabbed me around the waist and pressed a kiss to my neck, tickling me with his five-o’clock scruff.
I squirmed out of his grasp. “I want to show you my new glasses.” I sat down on the bed and slipped them on, feeling a tad insecure. “Turns out I’m a little nearsighted, which was causing the headaches.”
Henry said nothing, only stared at me with a dumbfounded expression on his handsome face.
“What?”
“Stand up,” he said. I went to kick off my heels when he said, “No, keep those on.”
I stood up, putting my hands on my hips. I raised my eyebrows in question.
“Hold these,” he said, coming closer and handing me a pile of law enforcement books from his bedside table. “Hold them like you’re about to put them back onto the shelves.”
“Oh my God,” I said, laughing. “You have a librarian fetish!”
He grinned and cocked his head. “I didn’t. Until now.” He came closer and his blue eyes flew all over my face, making me flush with his intensity. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you are even sexier with those on. Can you frown and pretend I’m returning my books a week late?”
I laughed and smacked the pile of books against his chest. “You are one strange man.”
He gripped me by the elbows and pulled my body against his. “Go on, Mrs. Logan,” he said huskily. “Recite the Dewey Decimal System for me.”
The laughter died in my throat when I felt his hard length against my abdomen. He reached between us and plucked the books out of my hand, flinging them onto the bed.
Without warning, he bent down and swept me up in his arms, walking out of our bedroom at a fast clip. He entered the office and deposited me in front of the large bookcase that took up nearly the entire wall.
“I was wondering if you could help me find a book,” he said, his eyes glittering with mischief.
I acted along. This was not the first time we’d played pretend. “What can I help you find?” I asked, adjusting my glasses.
“I was looking for a book called . . .” He looked up at the top shelf and said, “Adaptive Web Design.”
“Ah, I believe I know where that is,” I said, turning around and reaching up to retrieve the book, standing on tiptoe and lifting one foot back.
Immediately I felt his hot palms land on the back of my thighs. I continued to stretch as his hands slid upward and under the hem of my skirt.
“Now, I don’t think that’s appropriate library behavior,” I said in a prim tone.
I felt his large frame looming over me as he pulled on the stretchy material of my skirt, gathering it up and over my ass to reveal my black thong.
“Forget the book, I want something else,” he rasped against my ear then landed a quick slap on one cheek that sent a throbbing ache right to my crotch. I arched my back and pressed my ass into his groin, noting his rock-hard erection in his drawstring pants. His hands traveled up, skimming along my waist and up my arms. He gripped my wrists, holding them above my head, trapping my overheating body against the bookshelves.
“Keep your hands up here,” he said, hooking my fingers onto the highest shelf before his hands moved back down, sliding my thong down my legs. He traced a finger from the base of my spine to the crease of my butt and down to my slick folds. “Are you always so turned on, Mrs. Logan?” he asked, slipping one finger inside me.
I closed my eyes and nodded, squeezing at him.
“Do books turn you on?” he asked.
“No,” I breathed. I twisted around, keeping my hands on the shelf above me. “You do.”
He pulled his pants down, revealing his engorged shaft. I glanced down at it, licked my lips, and swung my gaze back up. His face was dark with desire and his chest was rising and falling. “Do you want me to fuck you right here in the library, Mrs. Logan?”
I spread my legs apart. “Yes, please.”
With that, he grasped my ass and lifted me up, plunging into me with a loud groan. His fingers dug into my skin as he held himself still for a few moments before sliding almost entirely out then entering me again. He moved slowly, torturing me with pleasure and anticipation. Each drawn-out stroke strummed against my sensitive nerve endings, slowly but surely driving me to insanity.
I opened my mouth to speak, to ask him to speed up, but only a sigh escaped when he hit a particularly sensitive part. I could feel his ragged breaths against my cheek, smell our arousal in the air. I pulled myself higher on the bookcase and wrapped my legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“You feel so incredible,” he rasped.
I closed my eyes and imagined my body as a piece of string, stretching, stretching, until I could bear no more. I snapped, throwing my head back as I cried out, my sex pulsing as he continued the languid assault. My orgasm went on and on, one long bout of ecstasy. Just when I was starting to recover, he slipped his hand between us and massaged my clit, sending a jolt of shock and pleasure through my entire body. My head fell onto his shoulder as I came again, my arms trembling from the strain.
Then he sped up, driving into me with force until he climaxed. With several long groans, he pushed up from the floor and speared me with deep little thrusts from his hips.
When he was done, he set me back down on my feet and adjusted my skirt. “Thank you for helping me find that book, Mrs. Logan,” he said between breaths as he kissed my neck. “I’ll be back to return it tomorrow.”
3
As the Go Big website launch neared, the days got longer. One of our designers left for a change of career, and the rest of my five-person team was left to pick up the slack. A week before launch, we stayed at work until late into the night, scrambling to do perfect work, a fact that didn’t escape Conor’s attention. Even with the help of the freelancer—who was nearly useless—Conor stayed each night, taking on any excess work that needed done, even ordering dinner for everyone.
It was on a Tuesday afternoon, a week before Christmas, when Go Big signed off on the project and the website was softly launched, giving us a few days to troubleshoot any problems. The grand opening occurred on Friday and proved a rousing success, impressing even the surliest Go Big executive.
On Saturday night, Conor rented out a bar in downtown Denver for the annual Christmas party. After spending a much-needed day in bed together, Henry and I arrived at the bar at six o’clock to find it had been transformed into someone’s idea of a winter wonderland on crack. Twinkle lights hung in thick tangles from the ceiling, a large Christmas tree with gifts underneath sat in the corner, and the floor was covered in something white and crunchy that was supposed to resemble snow. Off to the side was a long white table covered in staple holiday fare, complete with a large honey ham in the center.
“Hello!” Conor called from across the room. He came over, looking very casual in a black sweater that clung to his frame and a pair of dark jeans. He held out a Santa hat, which Henry accepted. “Merry Christmas.”
“This is my husband, Henry,” I said, waving my hands between the two men. “This is my boss, Conor.”
Two strong, masculine hands shook.
“Nice to meet you, man,” Henry said, perching the hat on his head without an ounce of self-consciousness. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that the website is finally done and I can have my wife back.”
Conor grinned, oozing with effortless charm. “Elsie is a wonder, a godsend. You are one very lucky man.”
Henry beamed down at me and squeezed me to his side. “Don’t I know it.”
My face warmed with discomfort as both men turned to look at me. “I need a drink,” I declared, inexplicably uncomfortable with my husband meeting my charismatic boss.
Conor waved a hand to the bar and nodded to the bartender. “Darius will take care of you.”
When we reached the bar at the other side of the room and sat down, I was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief.
“How old is Conor?” Henry asked as he tried his beer.
I glanced at my boss, who was greeting people at the door. “I think he’s thirty-five?”
“And he built the company on his own?”
I nodded. “His family immigrated from Ireland when he was in his twenties, and he started the company from his basement with a friend. When it got bigger, he bought his friend out and has run it by himself ever since.”