Part-Time Lover

by Lauren Blakely

  But the vicious truth whispers in my ear. I’m envious in some terrible way that she’s held on to him for so long.

  She returns and sits next to me. “I needed to do that.”

  “You didn’t have to do that for me,” I say coolly.

  “I did it for me.” She tilts her head, takes my hand. “I don’t love him.”

  I laugh lightly. “Good.”

  What I mean is that’s fucking great.

  “I want you to know that.”

  That’s more than great. It’s perfect, and I do my best to keep a stoic face while inside I’m pumping a fist in victory. I’m so fucking happy she’s over him. This, right here, is the definition of happiness.

  “Okay,” I say calmly, since letting on how much this knowledge thrills me might push her away.

  “I’m not holding on to him. I need you to know that. I held on to the bottle because it was a gift from my blog readers.”

  Ohhhh.

  “The plot thickens,” I say playfully, since her response makes precisely the kind of sense I want it to make. Selfishly, I like her explanation a lot—her past is well and truly her past. “You weren’t ever holding on to something from him, then. You were holding on to something from people you miss having a connection with. You should reconnect with them.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  I grab her hand, looping my fingers through hers. Our rings touch. As I gaze at our joined hands, our metal connecting, I remember doing the same with Emma. Holding the hand of my first wife nine years ago, did I feel the same with her as I do in this moment?

  I loved Emma. I don’t question that. But did I feel like this? This sort of unexpected awareness of the way a person affects you, deep in your body, far into your mind?

  I feel like I could talk to Elise about anything. I never had that with Emma.

  “You do know I’m over Emma, right? It was years ago, but still. In case you were wondering.” I need her to know there’s no competition from the past—no ghost, no poignant memory. “I don’t have baggage.”

  “You do seem remarkably baggage-free,” she says with a smile. “But is being baggage-free your baggage?”

  I shake my head. “If you’re asking if I’m tied to my single lifestyle or have some über-commitment to being a playboy, I’m sure Griffin would say yes —”

  “Why on earth would Griffin say yes?”

  “Oh, I used to tell him my dream was to become a kept man of some gorgeous, brilliant older woman.”

  She smacks me. “You’re terrible. Preying on older women.”

  I kiss her shoulder. “I can’t resist them.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Are you truly attracted to me because I’m four years older than you?”

  “Umm . . .”

  “Seriously?”

  “No. That’s not it, but I think you’re fascinating. You intrigue me. I like that you’re not focused on the same things a twenty-five-year-old is focused on. You’re building a stellar international business, you’re taking care of yourself, and you’re looking out for friends. You have all this rich life experience, and yeah, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find it attractive. So sue me.”

  She pushes a hand against my chest. “Fine, then I like that you’re younger than me.”

  “Oh yeah? You like boy toys?”

  She scoffs. “Not in the least. I like it because it means you’re more thoughtful.”

  “It does?”

  She nods. “You’re pretty damn thoughtful, Christian, and that’s incredibly attractive.”

  I yank her closer. Maybe because of her compliments, possibly because we’ve moved past a wall, I say what I wanted to say a little while ago. “That was really intense against the door, wasn’t it?”

  She trembles. Like a muscle memory from sex moves through her. “It was crazy intense,” she whispers. “We barely said a word to each other at the club.”

  “I think I sort of attacked you. In my defense, you sent that photo in your black lace, and I did give you fair warning.”

  She drags a hand down my shirt, unbuttoning it. “I liked being attacked like that. I liked the intensity of it.”

  “It wasn’t too much for you?” I ask as she spreads open my shirt, and I push off the sleeves.

  “I was wound up for you all day. As I walked around, I felt this tightening in my body, like a jack-in-the-box, wanting to see you.”

  Lust climbs up my legs, weaves through my chest as I undo the wrap on her dress, letting the fabric fall apart. “I felt it too. What is that all about? It was like a crazy drumbeat.” I tap my chest. “Right here.”

  She nods, and there’s a savage look in her eyes, a fierceness. “Once I saw you, it was like an explosion. Like we detonated. I don’t think I’ve ever had sex that intense before.”

  The caveman in me thumps his fists. “I haven’t either. But when I see you, Elise, I want to take you.” I cup her jaw, holding her close. “I want to take you hard, and relentlessly, and I want to get so fucking close to you that you let go of everything.”

  She shivers. “When you fuck me like that, I feel consumed.”

  “Does that scare you?”

  She nods. “But I don’t want to stop it.” She shoves down my jeans and takes my length in her hand. I ache with desire, with this torrent of need that grows stronger each time I see her.

  “So if I respect your boundaries and your walls, you’ll let me keep fucking you like that? Like the world is on fire?”

  Her eyes blaze with lust. “I do want to be consumed.”

  Something passes between us, something that feels deeper than the way I felt on our bizarre wedding night.

  I know what it is for me. I know what it isn’t for her.

  And I know I have to keep a close watch on our arrangement, making sure I can make her feel safe while I also help her lose herself. Because that’s what I see in her—I see a woman who wants so much, who craves so deeply, but who’s terrified of what that hunger might do.

  I suspect she wants to be the woman she was before. The one who wore her heart on her sleeve, wrote her bliss for the world, and shared herself with one person, believing she was the only one.

  That part of her still lives, but she won’t let it come out.

  Maybe she will with me.

  I move her against me, her back to my front, so we’re side to side. I glide my hands around to her breasts, fondling them as I slide inside her easily. She moans, a low, sensual sound that vibrates between us. She leans her head back against me, her dark hair spilling over my shoulder. Her top leg hooks over my thigh, and she opens wider as I move inside.

  It’s that kind of slow, luxurious lovemaking session that feels like it could go all night long. As the minutes tick by and pleasure twines between us, my skin hot and slick against her and her breath coming harder and faster, I can feel her give herself to me.

  This is the part of her she tries to extinguish. She’s come out tonight, and she’s surrendering to me, and it’s fucking beautiful to feel.

  It’s not that our sex is particularly kinky or particularly rough. It’s not that we’re doing anything dirty or risqué. We’re not screwing on the metro, or sneaking a quickie on the Pont des Arts, nor are we christening every surface in the house.

  We’re in her bed, which may be precisely why everything about this moment feels more intimate. I’m in a private place, belonging to a most private woman, and she wants me to pleasure her in a way that erases the world beyond the windows.

  I don’t need to blindfold or tie her up to do that. All I need is this white-hot desire that flows between us.

  She turns her face toward me. I bring my lips to hers and kiss her as I move in and out. There is little that’s artful about this kiss, but it feels like drowning, like falling under. I can’t get enough of her lips, her taste, her breath.

  She sighs against my mouth, and I swear it’s as if her body melts into me. She’s a liquid woman, all silvery-hot desire,
and it wraps around me, making me hotter, making me harder.

  And she takes freely. With no remorse, she soaks up all the bliss I want to give her in this luxurious, decadent indulgence. She comes once more, and it’s a beautiful thing, the way her ecstasy moves over her body. She shudders and cries out, and it sounds like something inside her is breaking free.

  When she comes down, she mumbles something about how it’s my turn. I nip at her ear. “That would imply I’m done with you.”

  I flip her to her knees and push her down to her elbows. She turns around and watches me, and it’s the most erotic, sensual thing to see her look at me like that. Pleasure rattles through my body, and it’s mingled with all these new sensations, deeper emotions, and a fervent wish to make this arrangement last a little bit longer.

  I bend closer, pulling her against me, covering her. She comes again, calling out incoherent words of rapture, and finally, I let go too, my world turning white hot and electric.

  A few minutes later, we’re sated and tangled together. She puts her hands on my chest and looks me in the eye. “Thank you.”

  I laugh. “Why are you thanking me?”

  “For understanding what I need. For giving it to me. Even if I didn’t know what I needed.”

  “I like giving you what you need. You should stop worrying so much about people wondering if you like me. I know the truth. I know you do.”

  “I do.”

  But that’s the trouble. I have to keep it on this level. This I like you level. If I let loose the truth, I might lose her. I need her to feel safe with me, and safety means keeping myself at an arm’s length.

  The problem is I don’t want an arm’s length between us anymore.

  I’ve fallen for the woman I made a deal with.

  That’s why I touched her like a starving man at the club, but this potent need didn’t start tonight. It ignited when she proposed this arrangement. It took root when I saw what she’d be willing to do for me and for Erik. Marrying her in my hometown only sealed the deal, and all the emotions that raced through me that night in Copenhagen, the ones that seemed strange and foreign then, are crystal clear now.

  The falling is complete. It’s here. It’s happened, and now I’m in love with the woman in my arms.

  But this woman needs me to be the kind of man who doesn’t fall so easily. And I need her to save my brother’s hopes and dreams.

  I segue to something else entirely as I press a soft kiss to her neck. “Mmm. You smell good. You should write about other smells you like. If you don’t write about perfume, write about other scents.”

  “Maybe I will,” she says, snuggling closer to me.

  With her soft and malleable in my arms, it doesn’t feel like there are any boundaries.

  But there are. There most definitely are.

  28

  Elise

  Today . . .

  * * *

  Stop and Smell the Days blog

  * * *

  July 5: Apricot flowers

  * * *

  My lovelies . . .

  * * *

  We must dispel a long-standing myth about tulips. There are some people who believe they aren’t fragrant. Isn’t that bananas? But we scentsual women know the truth.

  Tulips are beguiling. They draw us in with their color, almost tricking us into thinking they won’t overwhelm our noses. But once we lean in and inhale them, we know the truth. They are fragrant in their own way. The tulip wants you to get a little closer, to understand its soft honey notes, to uncover a hint of apricot. It’s sweeter, softer, more floral, but with a touch of sex appeal.

  That’s the tulip for you. Don’t let its pinwheel of colors seduce you into thinking it’s a one-trick flower. It has so much more to it.

  This morning, I snipped some from my garden, brought them into my sun-drenched kitchen, and filled a pewter pitcher with water. I set the tulips in it and thought of why I sought them out today in the first place.

  That brought a warmth to my heart.

  By the way, it’s so nice to see you again. I’ve missed you all. I hope some of you can see me waving to you.

  * * *

  Yours in noses,

  A Scentsual Woman

  29

  Christian

  In the morning, I find her in the kitchen, wearing a camisole and knickers. She’s putting a plate of breakfast food together. There are no eggs in sight. “It looks great. Even without eggs.”

  “Oh, are you an eggs-or-bust person?”

  “Eggs are everything.”

  She gestures to her purse, perched on her kitchen chair. “There’s a market around the corner. Let me go get you some.”

  I step to her, cup her cheeks, and kiss her forehead. “No.”

  “But I don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind going without. It’s just eggs.”

  “It’s only around the corner.”

  And I fall a little deeper because she wants to make me eggs. I’m so fucked. But if I let her get the eggs, I’ll be fucked royally. Yep, I have to chicken scratch a line in the sand. My new border comes from chickens. “Fruit and bread is perfect,” I tell her.

  Over blueberries, a baguette, and a steaming cup of coffee, she takes out her iPad, a sheepish grin on her face. She taps on the screen then slides it over to me.

  I read, and with each line about tulips, my grin grows. When I finish, I glance at the orange flowers on the table. “Happy?”

  She nods, and there’s almost a childlike glee in her smile. I did this for her. I brought this feeling to her. “Very much so.”

  After we eat, I help her clean up, then I nod to the door. “I should go.”

  I don’t want to go. But I have to.

  “Do you have to?”

  My heart lurches toward her. I half wish she’d make this easier. The expiration date is so fucking far away, and I’m going to have to lie to her about how I feel for more than two months. “Don’t you need to bury yourself in work today?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Do you want to bury yourself in me today instead?”

  Like I’m resisting that.

  I throw in the towel, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her up the stairs, two steps at a time.

  * * *

  Later that week, I meet her after work at a brasserie. We grab a table on the pavement, under the awning.

  “Does this mean we’re on a new schedule? Since it’s not Friday or Saturday night?” I take a drink of my beer as a ragtag group of street violinists on the corner serenades us.

  “Hmm. It seems we have graduated to a more multi-tiered arrangement.”

  “I knew I could wear you down.”

  Laughing, she raises her wineglass, and gives me flirty eyes over the rim. “Was that your plan when you flashed me your parts way back when?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve been waging a war of attrition ever since you got the Christian Ellison full monty treatment.”

  She takes a drink of her wine. She hums as she sets it down, looking away, seemingly lost in thought. “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if I’d found my way to The Jane?”

  I take a swallow as I contemplate. “I’ve thought about that scenario many times. And I know the answer.”

  She arches a brow. “Do tell.”

  “We’d have had spectacular, wall-thumping sex that night, and I would’ve never seen you again.”

  “Why?”

  I lean forward. “Because you weren’t ready.”

  She laughs, but it’s an awkward, uncomfortable sound. “I wasn’t ready?”

  I shake my head. “Not for me to unleash my brilliant wit, effervescent charm, or full suite of bedroom services.”

  “And how do you know I wasn’t ready for the full Christian?”

  “Because I had to wear you down a whole year later. That’s how I know.”

  She raises her glass. “Well then, I really ought to drink to your persistence.”

  I wiggle an eyebrow an
d clink my bottle to her glass in a toast.

  After a drink, she sets down her wine. “But I still think I might have given in sooner, rather than making you wait.”

  I scoff. “Doubtful. You loved every second of making me wait.”

  She grins. “Fine, let’s pretend we met, had spectacular sex, and you courted me for a whole year in Paris. And the entire time I was secretly delighted with your pursuits.”

  “You were?” I like her story. I like it a lot.

  “I was,” she says with a smile, and I catalog this slice of an evening as yet another moment when I want to tell her how she makes me feel. But I don’t. “And that will be our marriage cover story if anyone asks.”

  “It’s a good story.”

  “So’s the real one,” she says, and she’s making this harder by the second.

  When we finish, she says she wants to head to a shopping street not far from where we are in Saint Vincent De Paul.

  “Of course you want to shop.”

  She taps my shoulder. “I want to get something for your mother. What does she like? What is she passionate about?”

  “Besides the prospect of grandchildren?”

  She rolls her eyes. “First, a marriage of convenience. Next, she’ll want grandchildren of convenience.”

  “If she could get them, she would. But truth be told, she likes egg cups.”

  Elise laughs. “That’s where your love of eggs comes from.”

  I hold up my hands, shaking my head. “I have no need for egg cups. I just like the food.”

  Like she has a radar in her, she zigs and zags through the streets till she finds a store that sells, among other things, quirky little egg cups. She picks one that’s blue with a chicken design, and later that evening back at her house, she wraps it up in sky-blue tissue paper with a silver bow. The finished product looks like something you would see in a department store, and my mother is going to love it.

  I wish Elise wasn’t such a perfect temporary wife.