47. Just Right #2
He opens his eyes, his gaze searing. “So fucking hot. So fucking beautiful.”
I grip him harder, sliding my fingers over the head, spreading a drop of the liquid arousal.
He hisses through his teeth.
“Maeve, do you have any idea…” He just bites off the end of that sentence; maybe he was going to talk about sex? His cock throbs against me and he grits out a command, “Put me inside you fucking now.”
His demand makes me wild with desire, so I comply, then rise up and down on him while we both grunt in unison as he fills me up. We fuck, fast and frenzied.
My first orgasm hits me like a tsunami, but after it crashes over me, he adjusts us, putting me on my back, sliding between my thighs, and then he eases out slowly before thrusting back into me.
He slows the pace, a long, lingering fuck that dangerously feels like making love.
When I look into his eyes, I swear I feel like he’s falling for me.
I close my eyes as that thought hurdles into me. That’s the stuff I can’t let myself think about. That’s too much.
But when I open them again, it’s hard to believe anything else. Still, when we’re done, I have to ask because I have to know, “Was I too much?”
“Too much for what?” he asks incredulously.
“In the way I wanted you?”
He breathes out hard, his gaze more intense now. “That’s just not possible.”
* * *
I snort. Not attractive—not one bit—but I can’t help it as I swipe on blush and ask Asher to repeat himself. “Did you actually just say ‘better optics’?”
He nods, tugging on a Henley. Ever since I jokingly asked him at that coffee shop why Henleys, he’s never stopped wearing them when he’s not working out or dressed in a suit. He has other clothes—polos, pullovers—but every day it’s a Henley. Like it’s just for me.
Like the warm nuts he roasts at night. Like the dinners he cooks. The endless orgasms he gives me. Or really, the words of affirmation he showers on me, which I’m starting to realize might actually be my deepest love language. The one I need the most. The one he excels at.
“Yeah,” he says with a wry smile. “Soraya mentioned it’s better optics to have a plus-one. Bringing my wife to the fundraiser looks better than showing up solo. Which translates to ‘single men give off creepy vibes.’”
I crack up, pointing at him. “Your words, not mine.”
“Question for you,” he says, leaning against his vanity, watching me put on makeup. “Do I creep you out, wife?”
I turn to him, looking so ruggedly handsome in jeans and with a fine dusting of stubble. “I like that. Your stubble.”
“I look like a cowboy, right?”
“Yes, let’s put a cowboy hat on you,” I tease.
“You’d like that.”
“I would. Which translates to—you don’t creep me out at all.”
“Good.”
I go back to swiping on blush when Asher moves behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He brushes my hair to the side and drops a kiss on my neck.
My breath catches, and I go a little existential. “What is it about neck kisses?”
“Maybe you should do a series of mirrors with neck kisses,” he murmurs, caressing me more with those lush lips.
A tremble runs through my whole body.
I glance back at him. “Are you that greedy? You already have my pop art kiss mirrors. Now you want a series of neck kiss art.”
“When it comes to you, Maeve, you know I can never have enough,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in the reflection, intense like the night he came home and took me on the couch. That look right now—more passion than I can try to paint—makes my heart stutter.
I’m getting slightly scared of how far my emotions are running past the expiration date on our arrangement.
I focus on my makeup, but something about this moment feels so right—the two of us, getting ready, doing life together.
And today, we’re stepping into one of our last official acts as fake husband and wife.
That thought makes me a little sad. After I’m dressed in jeans, Converse, and a cute hoodie, we head for the door.
I pause, touching his hand. “This is our last performance,” I say quietly.
His eyes soften, a bit sad. “Do you want to come up with another one?”
There’s a touch of desperation in his voice—like he’s eager to keep this going. Maybe I am too.
“I would. I can…I can come up with something. I can do anything you want,” he says.
But the truth is, we don’t have another performance lined up.
No more shows to act out as husband and wife.
I’ll be done with the mural in a few weeks.
Everything is winding down, just like the hockey season.
Just like our arrangement. Just like these “benefits” that don’t feel like only benefits anymore.
Two words tumble through my brain, over and over. Fake. Real. Real. Fake.
The lines have blurred so much I can hardly tell what I’m feeling, except a little melancholy. Whether we want another “show” or not, this is really our last scheduled performance.
We head downstairs, ready to go. Along the way, I curl my fingers into fists, so I can stretch my wrists back and forth. I swear I can feel Asher tense behind me. As I walk, I turn back to look at him. “You stretch before games. I stretch after painting,” I say.
His brow knits, but he gives a tight nod. Like he’s accepting that I’m okay. That he doesn’t need to carry this burden. At least, I hope that’s what he’s thinking. But when we reach the door, he stops. “Hold on. I forgot something.”
He lets go of my hand and trots down the hall, up the stairs, and back to the bedroom. Is he…looking something up again?
But he returns a minute later with his watch, glancing down the hall at the terrace as he snaps it on his wrist. “You like the way I look in watches,” he says by way of explanation.
“You noticed.”
“I notice everything about you.”
I’ll miss that too—the way he sees me. But I shove these wistful feelings inside as, hand in hand, we head for the park.
* * *
“Go deep!” I shout to a group of grade-schoolers who had the audacity to challenge me to a round of frisbee on Crissy Field on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.
A sixth grader named Prahna, who plays soccer, sprints across the field, arms outstretched. “I’ve got it!” she yells, reaching for the orange disc I send soaring through the air. She leaps and snatches it mid-flight.
“You’re better than a Border Collie,” I call out.
“Goals,” she responds with a grin.
We toss the frisbee back and forth a little longer before she slows down, breathless. “I’m hungry. Do they have any gluten-free sandwiches? I can’t eat wheat.”
“Dude, I don’t eat meat,” I say, smacking palms with her. “Different food options for the win.”
We head toward the sandwich boxes in recycled cardboard, joining her parents and the other kids and families.
Some kids are here with their families, and some aren’t—that’s the whole point of this charity.
It’s for underprivileged kids, and not all of them have parents who can always be there for them.
I glance around at the kids digging into sandwiches, a warm feeling settling in. It’s moments like this that remind me why this charity matters—why Asher and my brother are launching it. For sports, but also for support. But then a small tug on my sleeve pulls me from my thoughts.
Another girl, about ten, stands by my side. “Do you know where the restrooms are?”
“Sure, I’ll show you, Lia,” I say, reading her name tag, then walking her toward the facilities. She’s unusually quiet on the way, her eyes downcast.
On the way back, she suddenly blurts out, “I miss my dad. He died last year.”
My breath catches. I crouch down beside her, unsure of what to say at first, but the look in her eyes tells me she just needs someone to understand. “I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “I lost someone important too—my mom and my dad. And you know what? Sometimes I still miss them.”
“You do?” she asks, her voice small.
“Ten years later, I really do.”
“Does it ever stop hurting?”
I pause, thinking about how to answer her. “Yes. But sometimes that hurt comes back out of the blue. When you aren’t expecting it. And it wallops you. But you know what?”
“What?” she asks, eager for an answer.
“The love stays. That part never goes away.”
Lia looks at me, blinking back tears, but straightens her shoulders like she’s trying to be strong. “I feel it sometimes—the love.”
I nod, smiling softly, my throat tightening as I feel that swelling in my heart—that love I believe my mom left for me.
When she passed on to the next life, I believe she gave me all that was left in her heart.
“Good. Hold onto that. It’s what makes us who we are.
It’s a gift, really, to have that much love inside you. ”
She nods. “Thanks.”
Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m too much sometimes—because I have all this love in me with nowhere to go. But maybe it’s not such a bad thing if I can help others unexpectedly, especially in moments like this. I squeeze her hand gently. “And thanks for sharing. It’s good to talk things through.”
She gives me a tiny nod. “I try to stay tough,” she whispers.
“You are tough,” I tell her. “But you don’t always have to be. If you ever want to talk to someone, that’s okay too.”
“Maybe,” she says thoughtfully. “Sometimes I just like to play soccer though.”
“I get that,” I say with a smile. “We all work things out differently. I do it through painting.”
We walk back, the moment settling into my bones. I’ve been where she is—trying to be tough, trying to hold onto something that feels like it’s slipping away. Sometimes, maybe all the time, holding too hard. But maybe holding too hard isn’t a bad thing if you can help others with it.
When we return to the picnic tables, Lia heads off to talk to a counselor, and Asher finds me and introduces me to a few families.
We chat with some board members from the dinner—Marcus, the sports psychologist is here, as well as Terrence, the retired football coach, and Lydia, one of the big donors.
“Are you still folding swan napkins?” Marcus asks.