Ten
I tell myself it was just a weird fluke, when we get to the place. Probably it will never happen again, no matter what he asks me for. I was just still thrown by the thought of his innocent pocket being invaded by my horny fingers. And how ruffled he was by that – like a nineteenth-century wallflower being scandalized by a rake.
Which sounds bonkers, even just this little while later.
I mean, who gets turned on by things like that?
It’s weird, it feels weird, I don’t know what I was thinking. And so it should be easy to not think it. And even more so now, with all of this to pay attention to. Because the place is even better than it looked on the website. We drive in through an arch of twisted branches and leaves and a wrought-iron sign that bears the name of the estate this used to be, before it became a series of lodges for various organizations and corporations to hire. H OLLOW G ROVE , it says.
And everything beyond is just as perfect for a cottagecore Pinterest board as this suggests. There are actual heather-covered hills all draped in mist, rolling away from us as we crawl in. Then eventually this gives way to ever-thickening trees, until finally that’s all we can see.
Just a tunnel of leaves and branches and mossy undergrowth, still full and lush from the summer almost past, but so close to bursting into autumn you can feel it. Everything is just trembling on the edge, ready to go golden and red and brown and layer the ground.
And then there’s the lake.
It has no name; it was made for this place. But it looks as if it’s been here since the dawn of time. The surface of it stretches away into a tree-lined distance, gleaming like a new coin in the low sun, dotted by birds who break upward into the low grey sky when we drive past.
Even though we’re driving so slowly it could count as not moving at all. And I don’t think it’s just because Beck takes the speed limit and subtracts twenty. I think it’s because he’s just as delighted by all of this as I am. I look away from the scenery to say something to him, and stop short when I see his face.
His dark eyes are all bright and enormous; there is a curl of pleasure on his lips. And now I notice something else about him: he gets these dimples when he smiles. These curving dimples that soften the granitelike slabs of his cheeks.
Though a lot of his face is like that, now I’m really seeing it. He has that heavy jaw, that strong chin, that thick moustache. But his lower lip is a gentle, plump curve. It’s almost a pout.
And then there’s his brow.
It’s so prominent and macho-looking that it forms a ridge, just above the bridge of his nose. But of course it’s above those big, expressive eyes. The ones that sometimes look dark enough to pass for ink and sometimes light enough that they could be melted chocolate, and always, always lay on me with such care.
And I don’t know if it’s all these contrasts.
Or if it’s just that I’m looking more. Or seeing more.
But it strikes me, then and there.
He’s handsome . Very, very handsome, to the point where it should have really been more obvious to me before right now. Because I saw all of those things about his face, I registered every single one, yet somehow none of them came into focus until this moment. As if I was afraid to let them, somehow. I thought he was fake; I believed all of his dorkiness and his sweetness could never be real. And even if those things were real, they weren’t things I found sexy. Nobody finds those things sexy.
It’s the reason they don’t understand he’s gorgeous.
They buy that he’s real right away, but don’t enjoy the purchase.
But I do. Oh god, I do so much that I find myself not wanting to get out of the car when he comes around and opens the door for me. Because now I’m thinking about the fact that he’s a big guy. Bigger even than I initially thought. On the information sheet he gave me, he listed his height as six feet five. Which is pretty much the highest number I’ve ever known someone in real life be. The second closest was a whole two inches under that, and even then I am sure the guy was lying, now that I know what actually tall looks like.
And that is very hard on my suddenly wide-awake libido.
Especially so, when he’s not just big height-wise.
He’s also built like a bear.
A big, hairy bear, who could probably just scoop me up with one giant hand, and then toss me like a tennis ball. And just as I’m processing that, he clocks me teetering in my agonizing heels, and says – ‘You know, you can wear flats if you want. That might be another way to seem not so cool while being fake married to a big dingus like me.’
None of which I can say no to, because I thought stuff like that was a great idea. I agreed, and now I’ve got to seem like it’s not a big deal to do it. Despite how much it feels like one, right at this moment. He’s going to be fucking massive, my brain whispers, in this weird hushed voice.
As if it’s in awe.
And I’m allowed to feel that awe now.
I can thirst all I like over everything about him. Starting with the idea that he could definitely overpower me with that enormous body. Only of course he would probably ask me before he did it. He would tell me something like, Say the word and I’ll ravish you in any way you want.
Then I get this wave of fucking excitement, like I’m three feet deep into a filthy fuck. Hell, I’m not even sure a filthy fuck has ever done that to me. Yet this nothingness is doing it now – and just as he reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a little box. ‘Oh, before I forget,’ he says.
And I know what it is.
Wedding rings, obviously.
No, I can’t , I almost tell him. But of course I have to. There is nothing else I can do except stand there, as he gets two way too pretty platinum bands out, and puts one on his finger. Then he just goes to take my hand to put the other on me.
In fact he only stops when he sees my hand is a little bunched fist.
‘If you want to change your mind, you can, you know,’ he says.
And he sounds so worried, I can’t tell him I have. I just force my hand to lay flat, and let him take it. I feel the softness of his fingertips sliding over my knuckles. And I see the size of his hand, enormous around mine. Then the slow slide of that cool band, so real it makes my heart stutter.
I look up at him, thinking, This is what it would really be like .
Only when I do, it doesn’t feel stifling, uncomfortable, bad.
It makes me want to say I do.
And I’m only saved by that fucking asshole emerging from the lodge. Or not saved, exactly, because just as he does Beck leans down, and whispers in my ear. ‘Is it okay if I hold your hand?’ he asks – which should not be sexy, objectively, I know it shouldn’t be; rationally I understand that he’s just trying to sell a sham, and maybe also needing some moral support.
Neither of which are hot.
It just registers as hot to me, anyway.
Partly, I think, because of the soft heat of his breath against the side of my throat, and the low caramel rumble of his voice sliding into my addled mind, and the sense of his big body casting a shadow so deep over me it’s like day turned to night. But also just for the very idea of the asking. The deep caring of that, the casual, easy respect running through it – like nothing I’ve ever known in my whole life.
It’s honestly all I can do to stick to something more reasonable, like a casual nod. And then he does it, and oh fuck . His whole hand swallows mine up, without even trying to do so. It just happens, because apparently his massive bear paw can make even my chubby fist into something tiny. I can’t see one millimetre of me, once he’s closed fingers around mine.
All of which is exciting enough on its own.
But then there’s also the gentleness of it.
Like he’s a beast, and he knows he is, and so wants to make extra sure that he doesn’t accidentally maul me. He wants to just softly cradle my hand, so I don’t end up crushed. He wants to take care. And oh, that contrast is electrifying . It sings through me, more strongly than actual sex has.
What the fuck is going on with me , I want to yell. But I can’t, because here comes the biggest asshole on the planet to poke holes in the pretend relationship I have to convince him me and Beck are in. And oh, he seems extra asshole-y today. He’s wearing shorts. With a polo shirt. I swear, he looks even more like a man who just got fired from his position as a coach at an American high school for bullying the kids.
I can practically see the whistle around his neck.
Plus he’s brought someone with him.
The cutest little bean, with these bright, bouncy blond curls, and eyes so big and blue you can just tell she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into with this meathead. ‘Oh, hey, it’s so nice to meet you guys, my name is Tammy,’ she says. And I just want to scream run at her, like some side character at the start of a zombie movie.
I have to get murdered, but you, heroine of this movie, can still save yourself , I think, just as Doug cuts her dead like she never said anything at all. ‘So you made it, bow-tie. And here was me thinking you’d pull out, the way you probably never have in the good way. Amirite?’ he barks out. Then he slaps Beck on his shoulder, several times. As if that was a great joke that Beck is supposed to be in on.
Instead of being rude and nonsensical and infuriating.
I already want to fucking kill him.
It takes almost everything I have to not answer why would he have to, when I fucking love taking his big loads nightly? Because of course that would not be convincing for the level of staid, sensible married we are supposed to be. Or appropriate as something to say to his work colleague.
It’s only appropriate for how horny I currently feel.
And unfortunately for me, it only makes me hornier.
Now I’m thinking of him doing just that to me, instead of anything reasonable, like how to extricate us from this hellish conversation. Because Doug is saying that if Beck wants to hand over the reins, he would be only too happy to take over. And Beck is still just looking flummoxed, and only protesting in the politest way possible, and it’s just awful .
I have to jump in. I have to.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Doug, luckily for everyone here no one needs you to take over. My amazing husband is more than ready to run things in an actually competent manner – right after I give him the long, deep, delicious back rub I have planned for him, as soon as we get inside,’ I say. Despite how much I can feel Beck going stiff, and then definitely turning his head to stare at me.
As if he can hardly believe I just did that.
I am going to get a bollocking once I’ve managed to pull him out of earshot, I reckon. And then I do, I get him into the lodge, and he shuts us both inside, and somehow he’s trying not to laugh. He puts a scandalized hand over his mouth. Then finally says, ‘Oh my gosh, I cannot believe you just said that.’
Because he approves, apparently.
And is also adorable .
God, he’s so adorable. He even tells me thank you, and then adds a caveat: ‘But know that said thanks is contingent on you not putting yourself in harm’s way again. I don’t care if he is rotten to me, but I think I might if he was rotten to you. Yeah, I don’t think I would like that at all.’
And honestly I don’t know what is sexier to me.
That I actually feel blazing fury on behalf of a man, and want to defend him at every opportunity. Or that a man wants to protect and defend me. And okay, I know his idea of protect and defend is probably just stern words said later when we’re alone. But the sad fact is that I’ve never even experienced that from someone I’m meant to be with. Usually someone wrongs me, and they laugh. And then when I say I was hurt later on, they defend the person who hurt me.
Even though the person isn’t even there anymore.
So honestly, I feel it’s understandable that this only makes my current issues worse. It’s apparently hot, to know someone cares. It makes me all nuts, in a way I could never have anticipated. And there’s no chance to calm down, either.
He wants to go directly to the bedroom.
The one that he secured specially.
For us.
‘I think you’re going to really like it,’ he says, as he starts trying to usher me up there, before I’ve even taken in the living room. I get a glimpse of one big set of glass double doors at the back, and a couple of green leather couches, and the sense that Caleb Miller is definitely a generous patron.
And then he’s behind me on the equally fancy staircase, and I can’t focus on that. I have to focus on the fact that he keeps urging me on, without actually touching me. His big hands just stir the air around things like my waist and my arms and maybe even my butt. Which shouldn’t be as exciting as actually doing those things.
But somehow is, anyway.
It’s more so, because it’s almost . It hints and suggests and leaves me with the lingering impression of someone trying to hurry me up the stairs for a quickie, even though no quickie is ever going to happen. I get all the anticipation and none of the follow-through, and strongly enough that it leaves me flummoxed.
While he just carries on, unaffected and oblivious.
Of course he does. Nothing is happening. I am just in a bedroom, with a big cheeseball, who is objectively doing the most ordinary things. He shows me the window seat, and the glorious view beyond of forests, and the gleaming lake. In fact, he demonstrates how to sit on it, and enjoy said view.
And then when I just stand there, trying to smile normally, he jumps up, and goes to the bed. ‘Okay, check out the mattress,’ he says, as he presses down. ‘Memory foam, double sprung. And it’s king-size, of course, so even with me being a giant, we should be okay. Though just in case, I got something to put in there.’
Then he reveals this wormlike cushion, between the two spaces.
And he lies down.
He pats the bed next to him.
Like he expects me to just try it out. But even with the giant bed worm, I find I can’t. In fact I think the bed worm makes it worse. It tells me that he is actually thinking about the things we could accidentally do together, in the night. A brush of the hip, a hand on something you shouldn’t touch, the stir of his heated breath against the nape of my neck, oh.
Oh no, oh god, I think.
And I back away.
And lock myself in the nearest bathroom.