Chapter 9 – Maura
MAURA
My husband stands on the other side of the elevator, his eyes fixed on the buttons on the wall. The space between us isn’t chilly or cold, or even awkward. It’s tentative, like neither of us are sure how the other one hopes this will go.
It’s been like this since the wedding. The short, almost businesslike ceremony seemed to set the tone for our marriage thus far.
James has been polite and thoughtful, making sure my glass of sparkling cider was always full and staying at my side while we circulated through our guests.
He’s barely touched me since our kiss at the altar.
It was a nice kiss—longer than I expected. More than I expected. It’s probably just my nerves making me imagine the butterflies in my stomach is a spark between us, but I felt it.
Tonight, I’m going to find out how far that spark can stretch.
James is still wearing his tuxedo, but my stylist sped me back to my hotel room so I could change into my third bridal outfit.
I like this one best; a long ivory silk skirt paired with a white knit top that hugs my torso.
I wonder if James likes how I look in it—if he even thinks about the things I wear.
I glance over at him again, and wonder if we’re really doing this. He must be thinking along the same lines, because he asks, “Do you still want to spend tonight with me?”
“Yes. I mean, I’m ovulating, and we have the contract.”
“But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He turns to look at me, his gaze intense. “You can change your mind. We don’t have to do this tonight.”
“I want to, though. It just…it feels right.” James is my husband now, after all. I don’t want to go to bed without consummating our marriage. It would feel like we left something unfinished.
He nods. “Good. It’s what I want, too.”
My heart flutters. Does he mean he wants to fulfil the contract and try for a baby? Or does that mean he wants me? It feels foolish to wish for the latter, but I can’t help it. It’s not so crazy to hope your husband is attracted to you.
The elevator doors open to the penthouse apartment. James ushers me forward, his hand pressing lightly on my lower back. “Welcome home,” he says.
I look around, wide-eyed. I didn’t spend too much time imagining what James’s apartment would look like, but it probably would have been something like the room in front of me.
There’s a wide, open living room with high ceilings, and a lofted opening above to the second floor.
The furnishing is elegant and sparse, lots of pale grays and chromes.
Through the windows, the city buildings sparkle.
“Your father had your things sent over last night,” James says. “My staff unpacked. If there’s anything you can’t find, my housekeeper has an itemized list.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
He leads me from the living room into the kitchen, where there’s more gray and plenty of high-end appliances.
Then, we walk into his home office, featuring even more gray.
The pattern continues through the two guest rooms, the dining room, and the linen closet.
I’m starting to feel like I stumbled into an old sitcom, before they started filming in color.
Finally, he leads me up a staircase to the second floor, to the room I’m most interested in seeing. “This is your studio.”
He opens the door and I’m greeted by the familiar scent of fresh paint.
It immediately sets me at ease, even though the paint is on the walls and not a canvas.
I walk inside, taking in the space. It’s beautiful, with the plywood still against the walls, the beginning of a series of shelves, I think.
The space is large, easily twice the size of my old bedroom.
Windows look out on the city below. I can already imagine hanging plants in front of them, adding a natural contrast to the urban sprawl.
“The contractors are still finishing it,” James says. “You should be able to move in and work by mid-week, though. If you have any requests, I can ask—”
“It’s perfect,” I say, interrupting him. “Really. The best wedding present I could ask for.”
He smiles. It’s small, but I can tell he’s pleased. “Good. Your room is right next door.”
“Not our room?” I raise my brows.
“I thought you’d prefer to have your own space.”
I grin. “You thought right. Thank you.” Maybe one day, I’ll want to share a room with my husband, but we’re far, far away from that happening.
As soon as I walk inside my room, I can tell James talked to my housekeeper—or rather, my father’s housekeeper, now. The room is too tailored to me to have been designed any other way. It’s thoughtful of James, or of whatever employee of his designed my room.
There’s a king-sized bed with a plush, pale blue comforter and plenty of pillows.
The bookshelves are already full of my books from back home.
A plush navy armchair sits in the corner, the perfect place to curl up and read.
When I walk over to the white wood dresser, I find that the top drawer contains my socks and underwear.
Everything I own was moved seamlessly into my new home, without me even lifting my finger.
It’s all wonderful, except for the most important part.
The art.
Paintings in clinical white and silver, soulless blocks of color that remind me of being in the hospital. When I look at them, it’s like a robot screaming down an empty hallway—no heart, no soul, no humanity.
“What do you think?” James says from behind me.
“It’s nice,” I say, turning to smile at him. When James gives me a penetrating look, I laugh. “Okay, the art is bad. I’ll fix that, though. The rest of it looks nice.”
“Good.” He pauses. “I’ll let you decide if you’d rather be here, or in my room.”
It takes me a second to understand what he means. He wants to know where we’ll be consummating our marriage.
“Your room, please.” I’d rather have my room to retreat to after, especially if things don’t go well.
He leads to a room across the hall. James’s bedroom is the warmest room in the house, the most lived-in. A small pile of books sits on his bedside table, a bookmark shoved in the top one.
On the wall, there are a few framed photos. One features a glamorous-looking couple with dated hairstyles, clearly his parents. The woman has long dark hair and pale blue eyes, and something about the shape of her face makes my breath catch.
She looks like someone I've met before.
No—that's impossible. James's mother died years ago. But there's something hauntingly familiar about her elegant features, the warmth in her smile. I remember she was an actress. That must be it. I've probably seen pictures of her in magazines.
Still, I can't shake the strange prickle of recognition. Like a memory hovering just out of reach.
Another photo shows James standing next to Nate at a hockey rink, each of them a decade younger. Neither of them are smiling, but they still look happy. There are more photos, small memories my husband felt were worthy of remembering. I’ll take a closer look at them later.
That’s the end of the personal touches, though.
The comforter on his king-sized bed is, as expected, gray.
I can see through the door of his walk-in closet that his clothes are professionally pressed and color-coded.
Obviously, the cleaning staff comes through daily, making sure each hanger is set an exacting two inches apart.
When I turn back to James, he’s shrugging off his tuxedo jacket.
My heart speeds up as I see the way his dress shirt clings to his well-honed muscles.
He loosens his tie next, tugging it off and laying it neatly over the chair next to his bed.
He’s careful with his clothes, like each piece of fabric might break instead of just wrinkle.
We’re really doing this. When he’s finished undressing, he’s going to become my husband in that last, most intimate way, and I have no freaking idea how it’s going to feel.
I’ve only had sex a couple of times. Both experiences were brief, messy, and emotionless.
I didn’t even get close to the pleasure I’ve read about and seen in films. Hell, I didn’t even get close to the pleasure I get from myself and my vibrator.
I know that it’s possible to have incredible, mind-blowing sex—I just don’t know if it’s possible for me.
I swallow, remembering what Cat said earlier. It doesn’t have to be good right away. If the chemistry’s not there with James, it could still get better over time.
James takes off his watch, setting it on his bedside table and looking over at me.
His eyes travel over me, from my face down over my breast, stomach, hips.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I swear my heart-rate triples.
Instinctively, I think back to the last time I took my medication—just a few hours ago. I should be safe.
Should.
When his eyes meet mine again, his pupils are wide and dark.
“I want to see you, Maura.” His voice sounds low and husky. “Do you want me to help you undress?”
He saunters over to me in slow, measured steps. My heart pounds with both excitement and nerves, knowing that we’ve hit the first hurdle of the night.
I’m not ready for him to see my surgical scar yet—maybe ever.
I’m sure at some point it’ll be unavoidable, but I plan for that day to come as far in the future as possible.
Maybe after the first decade, I’ll consider it.
It’s just, once people know about my condition, that’s all they see.
They treat me like some fragile, pitiful thing, instead of like a person.
I’ve hidden my scar from every man I’ve been with.
It’s part of the reason I’ve had so little sexual experience.
When I tell men I want to keep my shirt on, they push.
They demand explanations or try to convince me to change my mind.
One guy even tried to pull the shirt off without permission.
I sent them all home, no second chances.