CHAPTER 38 Ainsley Bradley
Open Communication
When he pulls out of me, his cum oozes out behind him, a new sensation I haven’t experienced yet.
I’m still coming down from the high of that orgasm when he moves.
I’m expecting him to get up so we can both go clean up, but instead he moves to the side of me.
He reaches down and slips his finger into me, and he hisses as he feels how extra wet I am now that I have his cum paired with my own.
He rubs slow, lazy circles around my clit, spreading his cum out as he leans over and sucks my nipple back into his mouth, and then he pushes his finger inside of me, as if he’s trying to push all that cum back in.
Holy hell. It’s hotter than I expected it to be.
It’s like he’s marking me as his, as if there was ever any question.
He’s leaving a part of himself behind for my body to absorb so he’s literally a part of me.
I’ve never thought of it that way until this very moment, but somehow it’s sweet and sexy in a sort of caveman kind of way.
I like it more than I thought I might. In fact, I kind of love it. I kind of love that we share this new intimacy.
I want it to be something that’s just between the two of us, but there’s a reminder sleeping in a room down the hall that he’s had sex with other women. Probably a lot of them, truthfully. And at least one other time, he didn’t use a condom.
I was living with him when he had a physical a few weeks ago, so we didn’t really need to have the awkward chat about whether it’s safe to do this or not. He may be a bad boy, but deep down, I know he cares about me, and I know he’d never put me in harm’s way.
So I revel in what we just did as he pumps his finger into me, as he sucks my nipple, as he pushes me into my second orgasm in a matter of minutes.
It’s stronger. More intense.
There’s nothing fake about this, that’s for damn sure.
My legs squeeze together, clamping shut over his fingers, but he rides it out with me, his finger continuing to pump as my hips jerk all over the place, his mouth firmly latched onto my nipple until my quakes start to slow.
I must fall asleep after that. Two intense orgasms in a row, and I’m freaking spent.
I wake in his bed, and a glance at the clock tells me it’s been an hour. I use the bathroom, slip into my pajamas, and sleep soundly until morning, when I’m awakened by the sounds of a baby crying through the monitor.
I’m about to leap out of bed when I hear the door to Jack’s room open, and then I hear Dex.
“Shh, Jack. Shh. Let’s let Ains sleep, okay? I kept her up past her bedtime, and she’s wrecked.”
I can’t help the smile playing at my lips as I listen to Dex. I think I might swoon a little as I listen to him narrate what he’s doing—just like I always do.
“I’ll pick you up and then we can find you some clothes for today, okay, little buddy? Let’s check the dresser drawers.”
I try to picture him holding the baby. He’s gotten better about it, and he may even have Jack on one hip with one arm tied up as he uses his other hand to open and close the dresser drawers.
“How about a green shirt and black shorts? Green is my favorite color, but don’t tell anyone. It’s supposed to be red since I play for the Aces. Don’t want anyone thinking I’m secretly throwing games to the Packers or the Jets now, do we?”
I giggle. So his favorite color is green. Duly noted.
I listen to him as he changes the diaper and then the clothes, and Jack listens to his daddy, too. The crying stopped long ago, and it might be the single cutest thing I’ve ever witnessed—and it was all over a baby monitor.
I get up once I hear them leave Jack’s room, and I use the restroom and brush my teeth before I head out to join them. I find Dex on the couch feeding Jack a bottle.
“Good morning,” he says, and I smile as I look at him and the baby and think about the sweet little life we’ve created here.
If only that feeling could last a little longer.
The next night, he’s back at his VIP lounge until three in the morning again. And the morning after that, more pictures emerge of him rubbing…elbows with big-name celebrities, mostly women and all with rather large…assets.
I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous. I’m not jealous.
I’m not jealous my husband has gorgeous women pressed up against him for the entire world to see.
Oh, hell. Who am I trying to fool? Of course I’m jealous.
He’s out doing what he calls “work,” and I’m home alone with the baby.
That’s my work since he’s paying me to do it, but it’s starting to feel strange to act like his wife on one hand and be a nanny on the other.
Either I’m a stepmother or a nanny, but I’m riding this strange line where I’m both.
And I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do other than ride it out. I signed a contract, and this is what I agreed to. I guess I need to figure out my end goal.
Do I want to go to this lounge with him—a lounge he hasn’t actually invited me to—and act like his wife? Yes. I’d love to.
But I also love being with Jack. I love raising him, and hearing his sweet baby giggles, and taking care of him. And talking about any of this with Dex—that whole open communication thing we talked about—feels like I’d just be complaining even if that’s not the place it’s coming from.
What if Dex and I are meant to make it the distance? Will he always just assume I’ll be the one to shoulder the majority of the responsibilities with Jack since that’s how it started for us?
That’s not what I want out of a husband.
I want to split responsibilities. I realize that’s harder when he’s in season, but I’d love more of hearing him tell Jack to let me sleep in through the baby monitor and less of the apologies every Wednesday morning before he heads out the door to another day of practice.
I finally get the nerve to bring it up on a Monday afternoon.
It’s the week before the first regular game of the season, an away game for the Vegas Aces, and he has both Monday and Tuesday off this week with a little bit of homework. He’s studying something on his iPad when I walk into the family room after I get Jack down for his nap.
“Can we talk?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond right away, instead looking down at his tablet, but he glances up a moment later. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve been struggling with some things, and in the interest of open communication, I wanted to talk to you about them.”
His brows pinch together. “Is everything okay?”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s just…I don’t like seeing the pictures every Wednesday morning of you with these other women at your lounge when we’re supposed to be married.”
“Then don’t look at them.” He says it simply, but to me, it’s anything but simple. He lifts a shoulder.
“You look like you want to be with them.”
“I don’t,” he says, and I want to believe him. “It’s just part of running this thing for my dad. They’re big spenders, and I’m trying to get them to spend. That’s all. You know who I’m coming home to.”
“Yeah, but they don’t,” I point out.
“So?”
“So if the whole point of this fake marriage was so I have my big revenge when I head to the reunion in a couple weeks, what good is it when my husband is constantly being photographed with other women?” I ask.
He presses his lips together. “So what do you want?”
“I want to come with you to the lounge. Let it be me you’re photographed with.”
I spot something that flashes in his eyes, but it comes and goes so quickly that I can’t quite put my finger on what it was.
“What about Jack?” he asks.
“You always manage to find someone to watch him when we need it. What if it was a charity event instead of the lounge? Wouldn’t you find a way then?”
“Yeah,” he mutters.
“There’s more I want to say. I know I’m just the nanny, but sometimes the line between stepmother and nanny gets blurred, and I’m worried if we make it out of this contract that you’ll always expect me to pick up the slack.”
His brows crash together, and this time it’s in anger. “Just the nanny? Are you fucking kidding me?”
I shrug.
“First of all, how can you think that after everything we’ve shared? And second, what do you mean if we make it out? And third, what the fuck do you mean by slack?” He’s yelling, and I guess I pressed a button I hadn’t meant to press.
It’s his insecurities mingling with mine.
“I’m just trying to communicate what I’m feeling,” I say softly.
He blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry. I know you are. And I’m feeling pulled in ten different directions. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I just thought our arrangement was working.”
“It was—back when it was an arrangement. But we’ve crossed lines, and I just want to be clear where my place is in all of that,” I say.
He presses his lips together again and nods. “Give me some time to think about it, okay?”
I nod because what choice do I really have? But the truth is that I don’t really want to give him time to think about it. Now I’m worried he’ll overthink it, and I’ll end up in a worse place than where we started.