Chapter Seventeen
Lyndsey
When I wake up every morning, the first thing I feel is a chill.
I love my apartment but it is old, the windows are thin and no amount of blankets seem to keep the early morning chill away.
It is something I’ve grown to appreciate though, at least if I wake up cold there is no chance of me rolling over and falling back asleep.
My apartment gave me my independence from my family so it will always be my pride and joy, even with the windows and the fact it takes the water a long time to heat up for scalding temperatures for my shower.
My mom always said once I was over throwing my tantrum and realised my life was better the way it was that she would welcome me with open arms. My tantrum has been going on nine years now and I’m no closer to running home with my tail between my legs.
Granted, if I was thrown out on to the street by my landlord my childhood home wouldn’t be in the first ten places I would try and crash at.
My childhood bedroom was warm and light for the darkness that was hidden inside its walls, the door that locked from the outside, the closet with rows of frilly knee-length dresses and cardigans that I hated wearing.
My youth wasn’t traumatic for an outsider looking in.
I had food and a roof over my head, clothes on my back, two parents and a brother.
A perfect nuclear family. But if you peeked through the cracks, you would see a little girl who just wanted to feel loved, even if it meant losing that safety and security.
It was never safe for me anyway, not really.
There was always a threat, either my brother was mad and I was his outlet or my parents were putting me over their knee to teach me how to be a good sin-free little girl.
Then when I needed their safety the most, I got nothing but disgust and hatred from the people who were supposed to love me unconditionally.
I thank every star in the sky I was able to save money from my weekend job over my teenage years so when they told me I could no longer stay in their house I had a bit to fall back on.
It wasn’t enough for a deposit but it was close.
My old boss, Mr Jenkins, let me sleep on a cot in the back room for a few months until he got me in touch with a friend of his who was letting out an apartment.
Apparently the woman who lived there before me found a millionaire to marry and was breaking her lease.
Good for her and even better for me. Since that day I have had my own space.
A space that I could find my own safety in; it would never be the same as my childhood home and that is a blessing in itself. My cold bedroom is my sanctuary.
Which is why I’m confused as hell to wake up feeling warm. I’m hot. Surrounded by the comfort and warmth that I’ve only heard about in movies. The need to bury myself further into the heat is staggering, it’s a compulsion pulling me further into the sheets.
Then just as sleep is about to overtake me again, I’m jolted by memories of where I actually am. Texas. Aiden’s bedroom. Aiden’s bed. Snuggled into Aiden’s side. He is the warmth. I’m not in my solace. I’m laid up in bed next to my husband for the foreseeable future. Perfect.
Remember the plan, Lyndsey.
I huff to myself, knowing this is what I signed up for, but still feeling unprepared.
I’ve heard of bedbugs but Aiden is a cuddle bug.
This giant hockey player of a man is wrapped around me like my own personal weighted blanket.
His chest is tight to my back with one arm thrown over my waist splaying his hand over my abdomen.
My natural instinct is to suck in my gut, or elbow him in his, but I refrain.
Plus, who cares if Aiden feels my stomach?
He isn’t like my ex-girlfriends, I don’t need to impress him because he isn’t mine to keep.
Still, I think it would be best for me to slip out of his grasp before he’s up.
He will probably be like the cat who got the cream to see me wrapped in his arms. He would give me that annoyingly handsome smirk and make some joke about being his wife.
That’s the last thing I need – that and I don’t think I’m ready to hear his morning voice again.
I try to glide out of the bed. Try being the key word.
The minute I attempt to lift his tree-trunk arm, he tightens his grip.
Aiden presses his hand harder against my stomach, pulling me tighter than I thought was possible.
Then he tucks his legs in behind mine. That’s when I feel it.
Hard and unmistakable against the curve of my ass.
Aiden’s hips grind ever so slightly against mine, the friction of the clothes between us must bring him some kind of relief because he grunts softly against the back of my neck.
That sound sends lightning through my body.
Shit. I can’t wake him now. If he wakes up there will be awkward apologies and conversations I’m not ready to have without coffee.
But I sure as shit can’t stay here while he rubs himself against me.
I wish I could say it’s because I’m grossed out, that the idea of him fucking me makes me feel nauseous.
But that would be a lie. Despite what I think of Aiden – a notorious flirt, unchained by responsibility, and overall an overgrown himbo – I can’t hate it.
I hate that I like it. I should hate it, I should roll over and slap him awake because how dare he force me to share a bed with him just to grind on me like a teenager?
Instead I feel like a teenager myself, I’m hungry for it.
I must not have control of my body, I’ll blame the fact I have only just woken up as an excuse as to why I find myself pushing my ass harder against him.
Why I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning when his head moves into the space where my neck meets my shoulder.
The size of him is so different, this is the first time I’ve ever woken up with a man clinging to me.
I’m not used to waking up next to anyone, truth be told.
I slink out before the sun rises, or I kick them out before dawn is even a mirage.
Feeling every inch, and I mean every inch, pressed tight to my body is overwhelming.
The heat of him alone is seeping into my bones but with every breath he takes I feel the muscles under his skin flex against the satin of my pyjamas.
I knew he was big. Aiden is over six foot, no idea the exact measurements, but taller than Liam and shorter than Edge.
It is easier to compare the team to each other rather than the riff-raff one might find on a night out in Seattle.
The Spears players are a league of their own and, somehow, I ended up married to their leader with his dick rubbing against me in his childhood bed. What has my life become?
When you date women, there are always expectations from straight people that there has to be some kind of gender role in the relationship.
There is always someone who thinks they are well meaning asking, “Who is the man in the relationship?” They have this fascination with wanting to know how two women can have sex, as if porn isn’t available to them to figure that out.
It’s never that straightforward. I have never been a cuddler, so I haven’t ever figured out if I like to be the big spoon or the little spoon.
Right now though, small spoon feels pretty damn good.
I like feeling protected, it’s a new feeling, but it’s nice all the same.
Having Aiden wrapped around me is exhilarating.
I remember it was my plan to slip out of his arms but I can’t bring myself to do it.
I like feeling him. My husband hard against me.
It’s a thrill. One I never imagined to have.
Then he moans against me. A bone-deep moan, gutturally washing over my heated skin.
If I thought I was hot before it had nothing on this.
Aiden’s hand tightens against the fabric of my top, fisting the material as he rolls against me.
I know I need to get out. If I don’t, I think I might go too far.
How far would I let it go? I don’t know but I seem to be weak when it comes to him.
He makes me weak and needy and oh-so hot.
Hot and wet. Damn it, I don’t want to admit it to myself but it’s true.
I’m wet at the feeling of my husband’s hand on me, holding me, the idea of his long fingers tangled in my hair instead of my clothes.
The thought of his body thrusting over me with nothing between us except heat and sweat, my hands linked behind his neck as he fucks me hard.
I need to get out of this bed before I do something I can’t come back from.
Like roll over and hitch my leg over his hip.
Get out of the bed, Lyndsey. Now.
No longer worried about if he wakes up, I bolt from the sheets, scrambling for the door of the en suite, not bothering to look back.
Just in case I meet his eyes. My clothes are already half off before I have even locked the door behind me, I need a cold shower so I can think.
I don’t wait for a second before I duck under the water, the cold like bullets against my overheated skin.
Damn you, Aiden Anders, and your stupidly sexy moans.
I can hear them echoing through my head.
The cold water is useless against the onslaught of images my mind is painting.
I have always had an active imagination and now it will be my downfall.
I can see everything so intensely clear.
His tanned skin flushed with desire. His grey eyes piercing through my green ones, until he sees my soul.
I can almost feel his fingers drifting over my skin as I think about how much of my breasts his big hands could hold, the way the snake tattoo around his forearm would ripple under his skin as he plays with me.
I have average breasts but I know he would dwarf them, his trim nails leaving scratch marks where he digs his fingers into my hips.
I can see it all so vividly that he may as well be under the water with me.
My skin becomes flushed, a heat that even the water can’t cool.
I yearn to hear his sounds again. His moans against my thighs before he consumes me.
Against my shoulder as he takes me from behind.
From above me as I get on my knees for him.
I need to hear every sound he can make, I deserve them.
I want to make them mine, keep them for myself so I’ll always have a piece of him.
I want to make him growl and gasp in ways he never has before, in a way he never will again.
I want to ruin my sweet little husband so when he discards me in a few months’ time I’ll take a vital part of him with me and I’ll leave him something in return.
That thought alone is what crosses my mind as my hand slips down my body.
Following the same path as the water trickles over me, my fingertips trace every part of my stomach, feeling where he held me.
I can almost imagine how his stubble would redden my skin as he kissed down my body.
When my hand reaches my pelvis, where I can only imagine Aiden touching, I picture his hands.
I keep my fingers feather-light even though I know he would be more desperate, I want this to build.
I want to take my time so I can paint an everlasting picture.
When my fingers slip through my soaked pussy it’s his hand that is touching me.
It’s his long, callused fingers that strum against my clit, bringing me higher and higher.
The roughness of his fingertips is heaven against my sensitive skin. I want to fist my fingers in his dirty-blond locks, tug until he moans against me. I imagine it all as I push one finger inside.
It kills me to keep my sounds to myself.
I want to scream and call for him, drag him in here with me and make him fix what he caused, but I’m stronger than that.
I’m stronger than anyone gives me credit for so I don’t.
Instead I slip my finger inside myself again, knowing Aiden’s would reach places I can only dream of hitting with my own hands.
Still, it is enough for now. The steady rhythm of the water beating down onto my sensitive breasts combined with my frantic fingers pushes me closer to the edge.
My other hand comes to play with my nipples, twisting and tugging with the strength I know Aiden would have.
If I ever gave in to what is happening between us I know he would snap.
I doubt he would be able to be gentle, he wouldn’t be able to fight the fire that could burn us alive.
That is why I touch myself without him. I keep my movements tight and strong as I picture his tattooed arms instead of my bare ones until I feel myself reach the peak I need.
Hopefully the loud water hides the sounds of my gasp as I orgasm with my husband’s name on my tongue.
I don’t believe in God but if there is one they will have kept him asleep.
Aiden can’t know how he affects me, it would just cause problems neither of us needs.
For now though, I bask in the afterglow of my orgasm, turning up the heat of the water to wash away the chill that still paints my skin.
No longer is it a cold chill though – no, now it is the chill of regret.
Knowing that the image of Aiden might never be enough.
I can come one hundred times at my own hands but I know the truth is, if I let Aiden touch me, the feeling would be unmatched.
The things he would do to me would shatter me apart and I can’t afford that, I need to keep my wits about me.
Even if that means fucking my own fingers every morning until we divorce.