by Roxy Reid
“I’ll go help Mary with the drinks,” he says and leaves the table.
I look at Joe and Dean. “He kisses me all the time.”
“Well, yeah. ‘Cause he’s in love,” Joe says reasonably.
I’m about to protest when I remember, duh, we’re supposed to be pretending to be in love. So instead, I smile weakly and change the subject. “Joe. I hear I’m not supposed to ask why you and Mary aren’t married yet.”
Joe groans and puts his head on the table while Dean bursts out laughing. The night moves on, but I can’t quite shake what Joe said about Sean.
He kisses you because he’s in love.
17
Grace
Do you know any good books on bondage? It came up in one of my counseling sessions the other day, and I realized I should know more about the subject.
—Grace Blackwood, text message sent to Sean Bronson, two and a half years into their friendship
It’s almost midnight when we finally leave the pub. The night is cold as we walk, and Sean loops his arm around my shoulders, rubbing my arm. He’s got a kind of loose-limbed grace. I lean into him as we talk.
“I like your friends,” I say as we walk back to his mom’s place.
“They like you,” he says. We’re both a little tipsy, him more than me. “Mary says you’re perfect for me, and I’m a proper eejit if I let you get away.”
After talking with his friends all night, his accent is thicker than normal, and I smile.
“What did you say?” I ask, expecting him to relay some witty comeback.
Instead, he says, “I told her that’s what the ring is for.”
Oh. I don’t know why that hurts so much. Maybe because I want it to be true. Do I want it to be true? Do I really want Sean to be in love with me? To want to marry me? Marriage is forever if I do it right. If I do it wrong … I think of my parents, cold and silent across a dinner table from each other for twenty-five years.
Suddenly, this romantic walk under the stars, with Sean telling me he wants to keep me, is too much. Way too much, but also not nearly enough.
“Race you back to the house,” I say, and I take off running.
“Ah, come on, woman,” Sean calls with good-natured frustration.
I don’t stop running. I run and run all the way home.
My legs are sore and my breath is ragged when I reach Sean’s house, but I’ll take the exhaustion any day over all these feelings.
I hear Sean’s footsteps behind me. He’s jogging and cursing. I feel his hands on my waist, and suddenly, I’m sitting on the wall in front of his mom’s house, facing him. It’s one of the taller parts of the wall, so I’m almost eye-level with him. Sean’s breathing heavily. Me too.
We should probably sign up for a gym membership, I think, and then he kisses me, and I stop thinking.
His lips are hot and magic. I want to unbutton his shirt and let him take me here under the stars, with the wild scent of the fields around us. But if Sean doesn’t normally kiss in public, I’m guessing fucking in front of his mother’s house is off-limits.
He kisses you because he’s in love. I shove the voice out of my head.
Sean’s lips wander over my jaw, over my eyelids. I sigh at the gentleness even as my sex tightens, ready for something a whole lot less gentle.
“Don’t run from me,” he teases. “I can’t keep up.”
Only it doesn’t sound like he’s teasing. It sounds like he’s gearing up to talk about something neither one of us is ready to talk about.
“Make love to me,” I say instead. “Out here under the stars.”
“And let Mrs. O’Connell see? Don’t be daft.”
“But I need you,” I protest, suddenly desperate. “And if we’re in your house—”
“We’ll have to be very, very quiet.” He nips at my lip, and I gasp. “Can you do that for me, love?”
I nod. I’d agree to almost anything at this point. He helps me off the wall and leads me inside and back to his bedroom. It’s a short walk, but he keeps his hand on the back of my neck, rubbing that spot he knows I like. It’s like he’s worried that if he stops touching me, I’ll stop wanting him.
As if.
He locks the bedroom door behind us and then turns and strips off my sweater. He doesn’t bother to turn on the light, and I find I don’t want him to. Normally, I like seeing him, but tonight, I need the anonymity of the dark. The way the moon glows outside the window is almost unrealistically beautiful. I get his shirt off, and then he falls to his knees. He takes off my shoes carefully. He gently slips off my skirt. Then he spreads his hands over my ass and, just as gently, bites at my sex through my tights.
I let out a surprised whimper.
“Naughty girl,” he scolds. “You promised me you could be quiet.”
“Then come up here and keep me quiet,” I taunt.
He rises fluidly and nudges me back to the bed. He strips the rest of his clothes off, and I sigh with relief at the sight of his cock, big and hard for me.
Come on, Sean. Get over here and help me stop thinking.
I go to take off my wedding ring, but Sean stops me with his hand.
“Leave it on,” he says. His voice is low and rough.
My stomach flips. The idea is thrilling and terrifying. It’s like he’s asking me to admit that maybe our marriage isn’t as much of a lie as we both keep saying. Like maybe, the things we do while wearing these rings are as real as the things we do when the rings are tossed on a bedside table and we’re busy making love to each other.
Or maybe he’s just got some fantasy about fucking a married woman, I tell myself.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I’m asking you to.”
He kneels over me and strips my tights off with smooth, confident movements. Then comes my bra. Then my panties. Before I know it, I’m lying naked under him, wearing nothing but my wedding band.
Sean starts stroking my sex, quickly finding the rhythm I like. We’ve done this often enough that I’ve already given him all the keys to my pleasure points. He knows how to drive me wild. He knows how to slow me down and leave me hovering, tortured, on edge. He knows how to slowly drug me with pleasure so that I forget to worry about anything but him.
Still, I try to fight back. “You think I’ll do something just because you ask?”
He toys with my clit, and I moan. He covers my mouth to muffle the sound. I don’t know why that’s sexy, but it is.
“I think that, right now, you want to keep me happy,” he says, stroking me with one hand while he keeps me quiet with the other.
He sucks on my earlobe, and my hips twist helplessly. Then he slowly trails his hand away from my sex, just far enough away to let me know he’s in charge tonight.
“Wear the ring,” he says in my ear, and I nod, too far gone to care.
We spend hours kissing and stroking each other in the moonlight. After a while, Sean gets tired of only being able to use one hand, so he grabs one of my big silk scarves and ties it over my mouth to keep me quiet. I shudder at the sensuality of it.
Then he goes down on me.
He makes me come, then come again, then one more time for good measure. He’s greedy for me, and with the silk over my mouth to remind me of the need for silence, I can’t argue. All the while, I’m aware of the gold ring on my left hand—the one that matches the ring on his. It could be my imagination, but I feel like he’s using his left hand more. Maybe for once, he doesn’t want me to forget that we’re married.
We’re married.
We keep calling it a fake marriage, but in the eyes of the law, we’re married. In the eyes of our friends and family, we’re married. Our colleagues think we’re married. The public thinks we’re married. The only people who don’t think we’re married are us.
The way he’s making love to me, I have a heavy, breathless, terrifying feeling that maybe, just maybe, Sean wants to change that, too.
Sean moves away from me to put a
condom on. As sated and pleasured as I am, I still feel my heartbeat pick up. Yes. God, yes. Finally.
Sean covers me again. I part my legs eagerly, but he doesn’t slide inside me. Instead, he unwinds the scarf from my mouth, his hands shaking.
“I need to kiss you, Grace. I need to kiss you. But you’re going to have to be quiet.”
All I have time to do is sigh in acquiescence, and then his lips are on mine. He’s not careful or skilled anymore. He’s messy and powerful and desperate. I can’t help it. I moan into his mouth.
I fumble for his cock, and he helps me guide him in. I’m so sensitive after all the times he’s made me come tonight that it almost hurts, but it’s a good kind of hurt, and soon enough, I’m coming again. He covers my mouth with his hand, thrusting into me over and over again.
All the time we’ve spent together goes both ways. He knows how to drive me wild, but I know how to drive him crazy, too. I roll so that I’m on top. I bring his hands to my breasts so that he can fondle me like he wants to. Then, I rock against him in teasing, shallow thrusts as I scrape my nails over his nipples. He gives a low, earthy moan, and this time, I’m the one to cover his mouth with my hand. His hips jerk up into me.
“It’s okay,” I whisper in his ear. “I’ve got you. It’s safe to let go.”
I squeeze his cock with my sex.
He throws his head back on the pillow as he comes, bucking up into me. He does his best to stay quiet, but it’s a good thing I’ve got my hand covering his mouth, because I’m driving the poor man crazy, and he can’t take it. He shudders and gasps and moans under me until, finally, he stills.
When psychologists try to study orgasms, they normally have to study women because men’s orgasms happen so quickly that the brain scan can’t track them. All I can think as I stare down at Sean is that that didn’t feel quick at all. I’m so attuned to every move he makes and every expression that flickers across his face that it feels like time has lost all meaning.
Sean lifts my hand off his mouth and gently kisses each of my fingertips. He carefully moves me to the side and sits up so that he can dispose of the condom. He’s barely moved a foot from me, but with the loss of contact, all my worries come rushing back.
What if he’s not actually falling for me? What if he is? What if he leaves?
It’s that last one that makes my lungs ache. What if this thing between us runs its course, and then he picks up and leaves? Moves to a new country, starts a new company, only comes back to see me a few times a year.
He’s done it before.
I can’t even tell myself it would be different if he loved me because Sean obviously loves his family and friends in Ireland but still left them. I wrote a book about how to stay in a relationship, no matter what. Sean built an app telling people when to take their money and run while they still can before everything comes crashing down.
Sean slides back under the sheets with me. He starts to reach for me, but I pretend I don’t see and turn my back to him. I stare at the moon and listen to his breathing. This is the part where we’d normally laugh and tease each other, then put our rings back on and slip back to normal.
It feels like we can’t do that tonight, for more reasons than one.
Sean lays a hand on my back, and I still.
“Grace. About tonight. I know Joe said I was in love with you. I—”
“We sure fooled them,” I say, cutting him off. I force myself to sound cheerful. “We deserve an Oscar. Meryl Streep, who?”
Then I stand up quickly and reach for the big t-shirt I used to wear to bed, back when I still wore pajamas because every night didn’t start with mind-blowing sex.
Sean sits up in bed and tries again. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight, it hurts to breathe.
“Grace, we should talk,” he says.
“Shh. We don’t want to wake Deidre. I’m getting some water. Do you want water? I’ll get you water.” I slip out of the room, closing the door firmly behind me.
What the hell did we just do?
18
Sean
I told Mum I was officially a millionaire, and she started talking about how priests have to take a vow of poverty and how proud she was of you. YOU’RE RUINING THE CURVE, YOU PRICK.
—Sean Bronson, text to his brother when Sean was 27
The next day, Mum announces over breakfast that she and Mary are taking Grace for a girl’s afternoon. Apparently, Mary had already taken the afternoon off for something that got canceled, and Mum was able to switch shifts. I glance at Grace, ready to get her out of this if she looks at all hesitant, but she eagerly agrees. Grace even asks Mum if she wants to spend the morning hanging out, just the two of them.
That’s how I end up eating lunch with Peter, completely separate from Grace for the first time since the start of the book tour. At first, it’s peaceful.
We needed a break from each other, I tell myself.
Last night, I almost told her …
I shove that thought away and focus on Peter. The church rectory kitchen is a dim and depressing thing, but Peter makes a good roast-chicken sandwich. He also makes us tea and sets out a box of dry, chocolate-covered biscuits, known as digestives. Chocolate sounds so much healthier when a company implies it’s a necessary step in digesting tea.
I glance around the kitchen again. “You sure you don’t want a donation to this place? You could fix up the kitchen and …"
Peter’s already shaking his head. “How many times do I have to tell you? Vow of poverty. If you want to help, find a charity working to help the poor and the oppressed and give them your money.”
I snort. “You’re such a fucking saint.”
“No, I just know you. What’s really going on?”
I avoid his eyes and reach for my tea. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Whenever you try and fix someone else’s problems, it’s because something’s going wrong in your own life. Are you still stumped about what to do next with your career?”
I brighten. “No. Actually, I’ve got this great idea. There are still a few kinks to work out, but I’m really excited …"
Peter holds up a hand, and I trail off.
“That’s grand, and I want to hear all about it, but don’t change the subject. What’s wrong, Sean?” His voice is gentle. It’s like he’s not only inviting me to tell him my troubles. He’s somehow telling me everything’s going to be okay.
When did my younger brother become the kind of person people tell my secrets to? Except, the thing that’s troubling me isn’t my secret to tell. Not entirely. Then again, part of his job is to keep his parishioners secrets—the seal of the confessional and all that.
Peter watches me and waits. I run my thumb along the rib of my mug.
“You can’t tell Mum,” I say. “You can’t tell anyone, ever.”
His eyebrows rise, but he nods. He sips his tea, waiting.
I blow out a sigh. “I almost told Grace I loved her last night.”
If possible, his eyebrows creep even higher. “And that’s a problem because …"
“We got married by accident.”
He sets his tea down with a thump, and it sloshes all over the table. “What?”
“We were drunk at a party in Vegas, and then she wanted to see the wedding chapel, and then I bribed an officiant to marry us even though we were dead pissed. They don’t normally do that.”
“You what?”
I wince. Peter, the soothing counselor, is gone. Peter, the long-suffering little brother, is back in full force. He rubs a hand over his face. “Please tell me there is a sensible reason you didn’t get a divorce. Like you realized you were in love and decided to give it a go.”
I wince again. “She’s, er, kind of made her living on convincing people that every romantic relationship can and should be saved.”
“Well, that’s bullshit.”
“I know that, but she makes a pretty good case, and she’s got this book that just ca
me out. If it does well, there’s a TV special after that …"
“And undoubtedly ten more things after that,” Sean cuts in.
I look down at my tea miserably. “No, we’re getting divorced after a decision is made on the television special.”
I take a digestive and dunk it, but I leave it too long, and the biscuit starts crumbling into the tea in a sad, gooey mess. When I look up, Peter’s looking at me skeptically.
“What?” I ask defensively. “I know I shouldn’t have married her, but now that I have, the least I can do is get her out of it with her career intact.”
“Only you went and fell in love with her,” Peter says.
“No, last night was a fluke. Things got intense. I’m not in love with her. I’m not.”
Peter crosses his arms and raises one brow.
I think about Grace, casting about for a way to prove I’m not in love with her. Last night, I was caught up in the moment. She felt perfect and fierce and mine. I felt like I’d die if I ever had to give her up. Now, in the cold light of day, in this shitty, rectory kitchen, I don’t feel like I’ll die if I have to give her up. I just feel like something fundamental will break inside of me. I’ll never be the same person again.
I look at Peter, horrified. “Fucking hell. I’m in love with my wife.”
“There it is,” Peter says and goes back to eating his sandwich.
“What do I do?” I ask. “I tried to tell her last night, and she shut me down. Obviously, she doesn’t love me back. Not like that.”
“Maybe she’s just scared,” Peter says. “Friends to lovers is a tricky thing.”
Then he sees my face.
“I mean lovers in an emotional sense. I really don’t want to know what the two of you are up to in bed. Although, for God’s sake, keep it down while you’re here. You know how sound carries in that house.”
I look innocently at the ceiling, trying not to think about tying Grace up with a silk scarf and working her until she comes, really trying not to think about her covering my mouth with her delicate, capable hand and returning the favor.