Nothing has changed.
He’s done what he’s done, and I’ve realized what I’ve realized.
But I still want him to fuck me hard.
Trevor is really looking at me now. I see his eyes take in my strained face, the throbbing pulse in my throat, the way my nipples have tightened beneath my thin blouse.
Something changes on his face, and he steps into me so I’m trapped between him and the wall behind me. His chest brushes against my breasts, and I gasp.
“I’m your husband,” he murmurs, his eyes caressing me hotly, possessively.
I whimper softly because the aching pressure between my legs is more than I can handle. It feels like Trevor is fucking me with only his eyes.
He grabs my wrist again and raises it, but this time he holds it up against the wall, stretching my arm up and to the side. Then he does the same with the other arm so I’m spread out against the wall, my blouse pulled taut against my breasts, which are rising and falling quickly with my breaths.
“I’m your husband,” he says again, his voice just as erotic as his gaze.
I close my eyes, no longer trying to fight what my body wants so badly.
See, it’s not just my body that wants it.
“Say it,” he says against my ear.
I whimper again.
“Say it.” He’s tilted his head now, and his tongue flicks out against my pulse point, making me jerk in pleasure.
“You’re my husband,” I whisper.
He holds his body very still, his head tucked down, his hands still over my wrists. He’s close enough that I can feel the bulge in his trousers. He’s just as aroused as I am. “Tell me what you want, baby.”
I don’t want to want this, but I do. I want it so badly I can barely breathe around the wanting.
“You need to tell me what you want,” he rasps, so tense he’s almost shaking with it. “I can’t do this right now unless you ask me to.”
I understand.
Of course I understand.
He’s not taking this from me.
He needs to give it instead.
So I tell him the truth. “I want you to fuck me, Trevor.”
He groans low in his throat and then leans into a hard kiss. For a minute he holds me in place against the wall, and I’m helpless against his lean strength. Then he releases my wrists, and I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on tight as his tongue slides against mine.
Soon I’m so needy that I’m clawing at his jacket, hating all the layers of fabric between my hands and his skin. He hikes up my skirt, and I wrap one leg around his thighs. I grind myself against him, moaning into his mouth at the friction.
He finally breaks the kiss and yanks open my blouse. He pulls one of my breasts out of the cup of my bra and teases the nipple with his tongue. I arch up into him, digging my fingernails into the back of his neck.
Both of us are too far gone for much foreplay. When he straightens up again, I reach for his belt and hurriedly unfasten his pants and pull out his erection. He moves my legs so they’re on either side of his, and then he bends his knees slightly and positions himself at my entrance.
“Wrap your legs around me, baby,” he says as he lifts me up by my bottom. I do as he says. He’s hard and hot and big, and soon he’s all the way inside me. He braces me against the wall as he starts to push.
He can’t make full thrusts in this position, but it doesn’t matter. I cling to him with my arms and my legs, rocking my pelvis toward him. He’s grunting with the effort, and I’m making matching sounds as my body gets jarred against the wall. My clit is getting indirect friction, and the discomfort of the position only turns me on even more.
We’re raw and desperate and animalistic and starving for each other. I need him to take me just like this. I never want him to stop.
My climax is coming implausibly soon. I’m making loud, choppy sounds as the pleasure tightens.
Trevor is grunting and panting against my ear. I know he’s close too.
“Say it again,” he rasps.
I’m almost sobbing with my impending orgasm, but I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“Say it.”
“You’re my... my husband.” My whole body is starting to shake.
He groans with what sounds like pleasure. “Again.”
“You’re my husband.”
“Again.”
I’m coming now, and I’m choking on the words as my body explodes with pleasure. “You’re... my husband.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. Fuck, baby, yes.” He’s giving a few final, clumsy pushes against me, and his face is contorting as he lets himself go. “I’m... your... husband.” He comes inside me on the last words.
It feels like he’s claimed me in some sort of primal way.
I’m still whimpering as he finally pulls back his hips and lets me slide my feet to the floor. I can’t stand up, so I hold on to the front of his jacket.
There’s no way for me to begin processing what just happened between us. I can’t even catch my breath.
My body is throbbing with heat and with deep satisfaction. It’s gotten exactly what it wants.
But I haven’t.
I don’t even know what I want.
Trevor is dripping with sweat beneath his clothes and breathing hoarsely. He tilts his head forward and leans his forehead against mine. “Melissa.”
For just a moment I freeze, my heart and mind and body all waiting to hear what he’s going to say.
Then I remember that, even if he says it, I’m not sure I can believe it.
I unclench my fingers, flatten my hands against his chest, and push him away. I don’t use much force, but he backs up immediately.
His mouth twists as he takes a deep breath.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I say.
“It doesn’t?”
“What could it change?”
“I... I don’t know. You wanted this though. You wanted me.”
I stare at him for several seconds.
He’s right, and both of us know it.
But sex is sex, and what’s wrong between us has always been a lot deeper.
I can say something cruel to him now. Part of me wants to prove that he’s not in control of me.
I don’t though. I don’t want to hurt him anymore.
But I also don’t want to hurt myself.
So I say the only thing I know to say. “I’m going to take a bath and go to bed.”
I leave him standing in the entry hall in his loose tie and wrinkled suit.
THE NEXT DAY, TREVOR spends the day with his parents the way he always does on Saturdays, so I have the day free to do what I want and not have to worry about seeing him.
I’m more confused than ever. I shouldn’t have had sex with him yesterday.
I don’t know what to do with myself all day, so I call up my sisters and ask if they want to have lunch.
They both say yes, but I don’t know if it’s because they don’t have any plans or if they’re just worried about me.
Either way, we go to a barbecue place and eat too much.
At first we talk about casual things. Then they start asking a few careful questions. Then finally we get into the topic all of us really wanted to talk about.
I tell them in broad strokes what’s been happening this week with Trevor.
I don’t tell them about having sex last night.
And I don’t tell them about the top-three lists.
Both of them feel private. Just between Trevor and me.
“It all sounds terrible,” Chelsea says when I finish. “I know he was horrible with Pop, but isn’t he sorry about it?”
“I guess.”
“He’s said he’s sorry, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you really can’t forgive him?”
“I... don’t know.”
“Why not?”
And this gets to the heart of the matter. “Because I don’t know if I can
believe him.”
Chelsea looks anxious and unhappy, more upset about Trevor and me than she was about her own breakup a few weeks ago. “What does he say about what happened on Sunday night?”
“He...” I make a face. “He hasn’t said anything. I don’t want to have the conversation.”
“You mean you haven’t even talked about it with him?”
Chelsea’s horrified face makes me feel guilty, and that rouses my defenses. “I’m not obliged to talk to him about anything that’s going to hurt me.”
“But maybe he has a good explanation.”
“I can’t.” I shake my head and keep shaking it. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I know the answer but can’t say it.
Sam has been quiet for most of the conversation, but now she says softly, “Because she’s afraid that she’ll believe him. She’s afraid she’ll want to forgive him.”
“He can obviously talk me into anything,” I admit. “Convince me of anything. I really believed he was... What if I believe him, forgive him, and just fall for the whole thing again.”
“You shouldn’t,” Sam says with a different expression. It’s like she’s made up her mind.
“But Sam—” Chelsea begins.
“Why should she? The man is a disgusting pig who talked about her in an appalling way. Clearly that’s what he thinks of her. Right?”
I’m starting to breathe faster, and my first instinct is to argue. But Sam is right. She always is.
“And if he thinks that about you,” Sam continues, “then obviously he must have been treating you like that all along. Like an object. Just to be used.”
I stare at her blindly.
“Right?” she prompts.
“Well, not really. I mean, he’s always been pretty decent to me. But maybe he was...”
“He was pretending to be decent?” Sam’s voice is razor-sharp. “I’m sure that’s what it was. Because all he’s ever wanted from you is that ad campaign. And he has to keep you wrapped around his finger until it goes through.”
I don’t know why Sam is being so mean. She never has before. But evidently Trevor’s behavior really appalled her. I say, “It’s already gone through for the most part. The ads are in development, and we’ve already paid him for his work.”
Chelsea is frowning, looking between Sam and me.
Sam says, “Oh. Well, then he must want more from you. He must want a buttload of Pop’s money, and he’s hoping to trick you into it.”
I gape at her, astonished by something so ridiculous. Even at my angriest, I’d never once believed such a thing. “There’s no way. I mean, even if he had that in mind, which he doesn’t, we wrote it into the prenup. There’s no way he gets any of Pop’s money. Ever.”
“If there’s nothing else he can get from the marriage, then he obviously wants out. He must be talking to a divorce lawyer as we speak. I mean, why stay married to you at all when he’s gotten what he wants from you and he’s nothing but a manipulative, selfish asshole.”
“He doesn’t seem to want out.” I say the words slowly, thinking them through as I do.
Sam is right. Why the hell would Trevor want to stay married to me if he really cared as little about me as his words to Pop made him sound?
It doesn’t make any sense at all.
When I catch a sly look from Sam, I suddenly realize what she’s doing.
My emotional state is clearly making me slower than usual. I’m usually better at catching on to Sam’s sneaky ways.
“I know what you’re doing,” I tell her, rolling my eyes but not really annoyed. “Acting like you’re set against him just to get me to admit to a few things.”
Chelsea giggled. “I wondered what had gotten into her. She’s never had it in for Trevor like that.”
“But it’s worth thinking about, right?” Sam asks, pushing back a few strands of hair that have slipped out of her braid. “I can’t think of a single reason why Trevor would be sticking out this marriage at this point unless he actually wants to be married to you.”
“You know what he said,” I say in a slightly wobbly voice.
“I know. And it was a crappy thing to say. If someone said it about me, I’d be furious about it too. But why does it have to change everything for you? Why can’t it just be something he said because he was too tired or too emotionally drained to think clearly or so fucking mad at Pop that he was willing to say the worst thing he could think of just to get him to shut up? Why can’t it just have been something dumb he said that doesn’t actually reflect how he feels?”
I don’t have an answer for that, and it scares me. It scares me a lot.
“That’s what I think it was,” Chelsea puts in. “It was bad, but it was regular bad—not destroy-a-relationship bad. Right?”
“If feels worse than regular bad to me.”
“Why?”
I don’t answer.
I can’t answer.
I just don’t know.
Sam pushes aside her mostly empty plate and crosses her arms on the table. “Here’s something to think about. It took you a long time to open up to Trevor, to trust him, to really be in a relationship with him at all. It was hard for you. We all know it, and we all know why. So maybe it’s not really about not being able to forgive him for what he said.”
It feels like she’s about to say something true, something I really want to hear. I take a shaky breath.
Sam continues, “I could be totally wrong. What the hell do I know about relationships? Most of what I know about life is what I’ve read in books. But maybe it’s not that you don’t think you can forgive him. That’s why you’re scared to talk to him. Because you know you can forgive him. Because part of you has already forgiven him. And as soon as you admit that, you’ll have to admit something hard. He’s going to sometimes let you down even when you trust him. And he’s going to occasionally hurt you, even though he might not intend to. You’re looking for it to be perfectly safe to love him, but it’s never going to be that. Because Trevor isn’t some flawless hero out of the pages of a book. He’s a person, and people never always get it right.”
My hands are trembling now, and my face feels like it’s gone pale.
And it’s because Sam has put into words what I’ve somehow known all along but couldn’t articulate to myself.
I’m terrified.
Utterly terrified.
That if I forgive Trevor this time, he’ll end up hurting me again.
“I really think he’s crazy about you,” Chelsea says, reaching over to touch my arm. “I might not be very smart with guys for myself, but I’m pretty good at it for other people.”
“You love him too,” Sam said. “There’s no sense in denying it.”
“I’m not denying it.”
“So then all you need to figure out is if it’s worth it to you to take the risk. It’s always going to be a risk. It’s never going to be perfectly safe. But is it worth it to you? You don’t have to do it. Maybe you’ll decide your life will be better off without him after all. But maybe it’s not. That’s what you need to decide.”
Ten
MY HEAD IS SPINNING as I come home.
The apartment is empty, silent. Trevor is still out. Spending the day with his parents. Living his life without me.
He’ll keep doing so. I can see the days rolling out from this one point. Eight more months of going through this routine, acting like we’re living together but sharing nothing of value. Then he’ll divorce me as agreed upon. I’ll move out, and he’ll move on. He’ll keep growing his business. He’ll keep taking care of his parents. One day he’ll find a woman without issues and hang-ups, a woman who will see who he really is, hold on to him, and never let go. He’ll marry her. They might have kids. He’ll be happy.
And I’ll still be alone.
I hate that future. I hate it. The vision of it roils in my stomach, rises into my throat, makes me want to gag.
Maybe Trevor is
already moving toward that future right now, leaving me behind.
He has nothing to tie him to me except a marriage certificate and the rings both of us wear.
I lift my hand to look at my rings. Just yesterday he held them up to my face, made me see them, made me acknowledge them.
I really have no idea why he’d ever want to still be my husband when I can do nothing but keep falling apart.
On the way home, I stopped and picked up a few groceries, so I put them up and get a bottle of sparkling water before I collapse onto the couch.
I lie there, staring up at the ceiling.
I have no idea how long.
Eventually I hear something in the back of my head but don’t process the source of the sound. It’s like a pounding. Maybe it’s my heart.
It’s not my heart.
I sit up when I realize it’s the front door.
Who could be knocking on my door?
The only way to find out is to answer it, so I haul myself off the couch and hurry over to open the door.
I blink.
It’s Chuck, the building’s weekend doorman.
I frown in confusion. “Hey, Chuck.”
“Hi, Ms. Greyson,” he says with a grin. “These came for you.” He hands me a bouquet of pink tulips.
They’re not a florist delivery. At least I’ve never seen a delivery like them. They’re not a fancy arrangement in a vase. They’re tied off casually and wrapped in paper. They look like the tulips Trevor bought me on Sunday from the street market. I accept them, holding them delicately like they’re a bomb that might blow up in my face. “I would have come down for them.”
“I know, Ms. Greyson,” Chuck says. “But it’s the end of my shift and I figured I’d save you the trip.” He’s still smiling like he has some sort of hot secret.
I have no idea how to understand any of this, so I thank him.
He leaves, and I close the door slowly, carrying the flowers over to the sink. I’ll need to put them in a vase.
I stare down at the tulips again.
Then I realize there’s a folded slip of paper tucked under the string.
I pull it out and lay the flowers on the counter.
It’s not a printed florist card. It’s a handwritten note. The writing is Trevor’s. I’d know it anywhere.
Part-Time Husband (Trophy Husbands, #1) Page 16