My One Week Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  “When were you first able to play it the way you wanted to play it?”

  “I was ten.” I bring my hands to my forehead and rub my temples, calling up the memory. “I played it for my parents. I said I was going to do a concert for them after dinner.” I laugh as something like happiness surges over me at the images of my home flickering before my eyes.

  “Were they thrilled to hear it?”

  “Yes, but they wanted me to eat first. Patience, I suppose. That’s what they were teaching me.”

  “Did it work?”

  With a grin that can’t be contained, I shake my head. “I could barely last through dinner. I gobbled down the chicken, left the rest of my plate on the table, and ran to the living room, tugging them along. Made them sit down. Then I raised my violin, and I played it,” I say, my voice distant as I linger in that faraway memory.

  When I meet Scarlett’s gaze, her green eyes are simply enrapt. Like I’m a storyteller, and I’m enchanting her with a tale.

  Well, hell, bloody fucking hell, I’m enchanting myself with these memories that I haven’t let see the light of day in my own mind.

  “They must have been so delighted. They must have been beside themselves with pride,” she says, like there’s a lump in her throat.

  I don’t mind the emotion in her tone. It’s not pity. It’s not judgment. It’s appreciation.

  Somehow that’s the permission I need to keep going. “I also loved Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9,” I say, then I hum a few notes of that. “Another complicated one. I played that in London when I was seventeen.”

  “Amazing,” she says, then makes a rolling gesture with her hands. “More, more. Tell me more.”

  The ball is rolling, the avalanche building. Notes and chords swell in my mind, racing to reach the front of it, to earn her attention. “Brahms’s Violin Sonata No. 3. So melancholy, but full of sweetness too. God, so much sweetness,” I say, and this time I raise my hands as I hum, picking up an imaginary instrument, slowly, languidly stroking an unseen bow across the strings. My eyes fall shut as I imagine playing that sonata for this woman.

  Maybe I’m the one enrapt.

  No. There is no maybe about it. I am enrapt. I’m back in time, but I’m also here in this moment, telling her this story while reliving it too.

  “That’s beautiful,” she says in a reverent whisper.

  “I’ll play it for you.”

  She blinks, her expression shifting to shock.

  Quickly, I dispel the idea that I might play it. I don’t play for anyone. “I meant on your phone. We’ll find a recording. It’s an incredible piece,” I say, then I hum a few more notes.

  “I hardly know any classical music, but now I want to,” she says.

  “Then you should start with the Brahms. It reminds me of you,” I say.

  She tilts her chin in curiosity. “Why’s that?”

  Stepping closer, I run my knuckles over her cheek. “Because even when it’s sad, it’s sweet.”

  “Is that me?”

  I dust a kiss to her forehead. “Yes. You’re as sweet as Brahms, and as complicated.”

  She sighs wistfully, but contentedly. When I pull back, she tosses another question at me. “What was it like? To possess that talent? How did it make you feel? I can’t even imagine having an ability like that.”

  Her questions don’t pierce me like I’d expect. Instead, it’s as if she has a key, turns it easily in a lock, and swings a door inside me wide open. The chance to talk about music is blissful relief. I feel unlocked. Freed. “It was like life; it was like love. It was . . .” I reach for another word, but there aren’t words to do it justice. I set my hands on her shoulders, curling them tightly around her. “It was like a possession.”

  “The music possessed you,” she says, her voice full of wonder. “And a part of your soul.”

  I nod, feeling understood. “I was compelled,” I say, then I laugh. “Can you picture me? Six years old, obsessed with the violin?”

  “I can’t see you as six, Daniel.” She laughs.

  “Ten?”

  She shakes her head again. “It’s hard for me to see you as anyone but who you are now.”

  “How about fifteen? Can you see me as a fifteen-year-old, driven to play the violin at all hours? Standing in my room in my pajamas, staring out the window at the stars, playing Bach?”

  “Now I can see it, because you’re painting the picture vividly. How old were you when you played in St. Petersburg?”

  “Sixteen. I played with the symphony orchestra. I was the guest solo violinist,” I say, thrilled to share these stories at last, grateful she’s indulging me.

  “Were you ever scared? Playing in front of crowds like that?”

  That night in St. Petersburg flashes in my mind, clear and bright. The looming concert hall, the bright lights, the stage. “My parents were there,” I say, the memory rising up in full force like Poseidon plunging out of the sea. “They sat in the front row. I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t. I did it without fear.”

  “Maybe that’s another reason why you were so good at it. You were fearless. You played fearlessly,” she says, her tone intense and full of understanding. Like she’s absorbing all my stories, seeing them, holding them in her hands, feeling the weight.

  “Yes. I think I was. That’s one of the things I had going for me. I played fearlessly. And when I went onstage, I had no notion of stage fright. It felt like where I was supposed to be. Maybe because it was my whole life.”

  “You still are fearless, Daniel. Even if you don’t play like you used to.” She reaches for my arm, slides her hand down it, and squeezes my forearm. “You go after deals fearlessly. You go after business that way. You approach life that way.”

  I huff. “But do I? I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure that’s true, Scarlett,” I say, like I’m baring part of my soul. I don’t know that I would have said this to her a few days ago. I don’t know that I would have let down my guard to this degree. Because I don’t know if I’m truly living a fearless life like I did when I was younger, when everything was possible, when everything was love.

  “You were fearless for your friend,” she says, gripping my arm harder, like she’s giving me some of her own courage. “Don’t you remember? You were fearless for Cole. You knew Sage would be right for him. So you engineered it. You brought them together. You made their romance happen. You were determined because you knew it would be good for him.”

  I raise a hand, brush it along her hair, grateful that she’s not wearing a wig today. She’s simply Scarlett here with me, her chestnut-brown hair glinting gold in the sun, her clothes the simple but sexy ones she wears, the shoes on her feet silver flats. “You helped,” I say. “Don’t go all revisionist and claim you aren’t a matchmaker too.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I was involved. Yes, I gave my seal of approval. Yes, I had a feeling it was what Cole needed. But you came to me with it. You had the idea. I was simply your biggest cheerleader. Because I loved what you wanted to do for your friend.” She taps my chest. “But you made it happen.”

  I grab her hand, bring her fingers to my lips, and kiss them. When I let go, I ask a question that tugs at my mind now and then. “Does it bother you that I was part of that? Part of a threesome with them?”

  She tosses her head back and laughs. “No. Not in the least. I don’t care. I understand exactly why you did it then, and why you and Cole engaged in them. Why would I be bothered?”

  I give a shrug, a little unsure. “Maybe it makes me seem like a hedonist. Maybe you don’t like that.”

  She laughs, a confident sound. “You are a bit of a hedonist. But there’s nothing wrong with that. It was something you and Cole did, and now he’s with her.” She pauses, then narrows her brow. “Wait. This isn’t where you change your mind and tell me you want to have a threesome with me after all?”

  I laugh, deep in my body, far into my heart. “I still don’t want to share you
with anyone. Not a man. Not a woman. I want all of you for all of me. And I can’t stand the thought of another person touching you,” I say, jealousy flaring in my chest in a nanosecond. “So riddle me that. I’ve certainly never felt that way about anyone else.”

  Her smile lights her face. Seems to light the whole damn city. Pretty sure I just told her that I’m falling for her.

  But I also know that falling is dangerous.

  I’ve got to reel it in. To be careful.

  I’d do well to remember that I destroy the things I love.

  That’s why I can’t let myself love her. I can’t let myself fall harder.

  Enough talk for today. I drape an arm around her, drop a kiss onto her cheek, then squeeze her shoulder. “Come now, Mrs. Brahms. Let’s go take some pictures by the sea.”

  We walk toward the water. I take out my phone and snap endless shots of the two of us. Pictures of us, the Mediterranean behind us, Marseille in front of us, and the world at our feet. Someday I’ll look at these and remember the day when I was the happiest.

  I make myself a promise not to destroy this moment.

  23

  Scarlett

  This is risky.

  But spending more time with an unavailable man I’m falling hard for is a risk I’m willing to take.

  When we return to our room that evening, I grab a bottle of Cassis rosé, pour two glasses, and raise mine in a toast. “To acquisitions,” I say, since it’s looking more and more like we’re going to make an offer on this chain.

  He clinks his glass to mine. “To mergers,” he says in his deliciously seductive voice that sends a thrill down my spine.

  We both drink, then I set my glass down. He does the same before looping an arm around my waist. “Now let me taste the wine on your lips.”

  I oblige, lifting my chin, offering my mouth.

  He takes it, a greedy man, but a tender lover too. He kisses me slow and deep, sliding his tongue over my lips, opening my mouth, exploring me. His kiss is hungry, insistent, but never too much. I love that he can be rough when I beg for it, and gentle when I need sweetness. Right now, I crave this tender side of Daniel.

  I loop my hands into his hair, feeling the soft strands, arching against him, seeking closeness.

  We break the kiss, and I’m already turned on, wildly aroused. “Will you undress me? Spread me out on the bed and take me?”

  I want to add make love to me, but I won’t dare use those words.

  “I will,” he says, a husky promise.

  His fingers travel to my blouse, unbuttoning it slowly, like a seduction. The hair on my arms stands on end. Pleasure sweeps over me, and every part of my body sings for him.

  He pushes my shirt down, letting it fall to the floor. My skirt goes next, and I step out of it—out of my flats too. I’m wearing only black lace panties and a bra, but he’s still fully clothed. “I think I better get to work on you,” I say.

  “Be my guest,” he says, and I like that we can trade off.

  Soon, he’s down to his boxer briefs, and I push them off, then reach for his shaft and squeeze it, savoring the hot, hard feel of him in my palm.

  He closes his eyes, groaning my name. “Scarlett.”

  “I love the way my name sounds on your lips,” I whisper, because it sounds like desire. Like passion. Like lust.

  He opens his eyes. “I want you so much.”

  He pushes my hand off of his cock, unhooks my bra, slides my panties off, then glides his hand between my legs. He moans as he feels how silky I am for him, how wet.

  “You’re dripping,” he says, his lips curving into a wicked grin.

  “And you do that to me,” I say.

  We make our way to the bedroom, where I reach for a condom on the nightstand. I hand it to him, then lie flat on my back and raise my arms over my head, pressing them into the headboard as I part my legs wide.

  Naked. On display. For him.

  He groans his appreciation.

  He kneels between my thighs, his eyes roaming over my body. “I love how you give yourself to me,” he says, his tone like gravel and lust.

  That’s exactly what I’m doing. I am giving myself to him.

  He rolls on the condom then rubs the head of his cock between my legs, and I arch up, crying out in pleasure from that first touch. My skin crackles with longing.

  He rubs against me, making me moan, making me groan, drawing even more desire out of me, teasing me. Then he bends closer, bracing himself on his forearms, his chest close to mine. “I’m going to tease you, love,” he says, driving me wild, and I love the madness.

  “I’m not above begging you to fuck me.”

  He reaches a hand down, grips his cock, and presses the head against me once again, toying with my entrance, running his length up and down my wetness till I can’t take it.

  “Fuck me. Please fuck me now,” I pant out.

  “As you wish,” he says, and he slides into me, sinking deep, and I nearly cry from the pleasure. Bliss rains down all over my body. Pressing my palms harder against the headboard, I arch my chest, thrusting my hips against him. He goes deeper and deeper, plunging into me. Our bodies move, and time seems to melt away. All that’s left is this feeling, this intense connection with him.

  He dips his head and grazes his lips along my neck, fucking me harder, deeper. Soon, pleasure coils in me, commanding every cell. An orgasm overtakes my entire body as I come quickly, hard and fast.

  When I open my eyes, I laugh lightly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “It just kind of seized me. I wasn’t expecting to come so quickly.”

  His eyes go feral. “Then let’s make you come again.”

  “Put me on my hands and knees,” I say.

  His eyes narrow, glinting with lust as he pulls out, grabs my hips, and flips me into a new position, the first one we fucked in. He enters me from behind, going deep into my pussy again, filling me once more.

  He grabs my hips, digging his fingers in. I want to be marked again. Because this time feels like a whole new time. He’s fucked me gently, he’s fucked me tenderly, and now he can fuck me rough, hard, brutally. He can own my body.

  “Daniel, make it hard. Make it hurt,” I say, begging.

  “As you wish,” he says, and before I know it, his hands are gripping my tits, and he’s twisting them, teasing at my nipples, pinching them. He brings his mouth to my ear. “Next time I’m going to get you nipple clamps. I bet you’d love that.”

  I grow wetter from that promise. “I would. Please do.”

  He slams harder into me. “I’ll give it to you.” He pushes a hand on my back, pressing me against the bed so my stomach and my chest are flat on the mattress. He keeps my ass in the air. He goes to town on my body. Rocking, thrusting, slamming into me. His hand slides up into my hair, twisting, tugging, pulling.

  I can’t move.

  I’m pinned by his body.

  But not quite. Not all the way.

  The trouble is my hands are free, my arms stretched in front of me.

  I want to be owned completely. Taken all the way. “Daniel,” I whisper. “Grab my wrists. Don’t let me move.”

  A growl rumbles from him as he lets go of my hair, clasps my wrists, and pushes them hard into the mattress, holding me down. His other hand slams on my shoulder blade, jams it down to the bed.

  Yes.

  I’m his prisoner.

  Caged in by sex, by desire, by wild, wanton lust.

  His hands hold me savagely as his cock devastates me.

  He pounds into me, ruining me, fucking me ruthlessly as I cry and moan and ask for more, more, more.

  “So filthy, my wife,” he rasps.

  That’s all I need.

  An orgasm roars through my body, raging, burning, blasting everything in its path, leaving only punishing pleasure in its wake.

  In our wake, since he’s right there with me, grunting like an animal as he unleashes his climax too.

  My
world spirals into bliss, into something ecstatic that feels like the truest risk of all—falling into love.

  But surely it’s a chance we can take together.

  That’s what I tell myself. Even though I fear it’s a lie.

  24

  Scarlett

  I have a confession.

  “This is my first time in Lyon,” I tell my traveling companion the next day.

  Daniel’s eyes grow to the size of beach balls. He blinks, jerking his head back. “Woman, how is that even possible?”

  I shrug with a smile. “I don’t know. I guess I should blame it on Paris, right? It was too enticing to leave.”

  “Naturally, Paris should always take the blame,” he says as we leave the inn in Lyon and make our way across the cobblestones, heading to the nearby Rhône river that cuts through the city. “But still . . . how is it that you never found your way here?”

  I glance around, soaking in the architecture, the winding streets, the gorgeous hills. “Now that I’m here, I’m asking myself that same question, because I already adore Lyon. I think I’ve fallen in love with this city at first sight,” I say as we walk across one of the smaller bridges, a red iron latticework one curving over the Rhône, near a steepled church set into a high hillside.

  The inn is perched up on the hillside too, overlooking the river. This place needs a little work, some sprucing up here and there, a bit of new decor, so my tablet has been kept quite busy with notes here on the fifth day of our trip. But it’s good to find things to work on. A plan helps me to focus on the practical—vitally important when the impractical side of me is spinning wildly out of control the more time I spend with this man.

  Yet I don’t want to stop spending time with him. Don’t want to stop exploring with him.