Chapter Eighteen
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I checked in right at four o’clock, though reception tried to give me a hard time. Anton made the reservation for Mr. and Mrs. Smith, as we agreed, but stupidly used his own credit card. Since the name and address on my ID matched the card—Mr. and Mrs. Richie of 1101 E. Columbine Place—the girl at the desk let me check in, but I’m pretty sure she shouldn’t have. When I leave, I’m going to slip her a nice tip.
My husband is predictable. He won’t leave work until exactly five, and with traffic, he’ll be lucky to show up by six thirty at the earliest. This gives me plenty of time to get ready.
Once I get into the room, I shower and shave, making sure to fill the air with a bold citrus perfume. Something I would never, ever wear. I put on a lot of makeup—also out of the ordinary. I don’t know if it will matter once he gets a look at me, but I’ll feel silly wearing over-the-top lingerie if I don’t dress my face up too. I add a wig borrowed from a friend who works in a costume shop on Colfax. My profile picture on Unmatched made my hair look darker, and if I’m trying to embody Anton’s hookup, I’m taking it all the way. Briefly, I consider removing my wedding ring and paw print necklace, but quickly decide they’re staying on. Finally, I slip into the lingerie that looks and feels like a suggestion of sex. The room is a little cold, and my nipples stand out against the sheer fabric, adding to the overall effect.
Anton better drool.
At exactly six thirty, with nothing much left to do, I send him an Unmatched message saying how excited I am. Just in case whatever morals he has left are giving him second thoughts. I haven’t really considered what I’ll do if he actually stayed home, but I guess I’ll worry about that if it happens. I put on some music using the bedside Bluetooth speaker, draw the curtains, and turn the lights way down—just enough to illuminate my figure on the bed. He won’t see much detail until we’re close. We’ve barely spoken the last two days at home—I was too busy seething, and I guess he was preoccupied fantasizing about tits . But I’ve been careful. I don’t think he’s suspicious at all, and I want to keep it that way till the last possible second.
I can’t wait to see the look on his face once he knows he’s fucked.
There’s a sound in the hall, and my whole body tenses. I force myself back into a leisurely position, but it’s hard with my back to the door and my lace-framed ass pretty much presented on a silver platter.
He’s out there for sure. I hear him fumbling with his key.
This is it .
I try to remember to breathe.
The door opens with a click and a rush of cool air. And though he doesn’t say anything when he enters, I can tell I’m no longer alone. He lets the door slam shut behind him, and when he locks it, the sound of the deadbolt seems to echo through the hotel. For a moment, I panic, doubting it’s really Anton behind me, wondering if I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life and set up this whole crazy scenario with a stranger after all. What if I’m the one who’s here cheating?
But then he clears his throat, and I pick up the familiar scent of his clean, earthy cologne.
I exhale. And now it’s all I can do not to turn around and hurl the lamp at him across the room. I didn’t realize until this moment how much I was hoping he wouldn’t show up.
“Hello.” His voice is low and gravelly. And...was there a hint of surprise? My fingers tighten along the edge of the sheet. He can’t know it’s me. I’ve planned everything too perfectly. We’ve been married seven years, but I don’t have any identifying marks, and it’s too dark for him to really see.
“Hello,” I whisper in my practiced faux-southern accent. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I don’t turn around. My heart pounds. I keep expecting him to figure it out, switch the lights on and yell at me, or just leave, but he does none of these things.
“Wow,” he breathes. “You are . . .”
His voice comes closer. He’s clearly taking in every inch of me, but he trails off midsentence.
“I’m ready,” I say through my teeth.
Behind me, he hesitates. Then I hear him remove his shoes and shirt, and unbuckle his pants. As they fall to the floor, I can picture his figure, tall and powerful, abs rippling down to his narrow hips. All taut, lean muscle from working out like it’s his second job. And then, of course, there’s the rest of him, also standing tall, I have no doubt. Just as robust, and big enough to make anyone gasp. I say a silent, insincere apology to all the legit Unmatched girls he didn’t connect with. Sorry, bitches, this one’s still mine.
He’s close enough now I hear him swallow, but he doesn’t speak.
Is he actually nervous? Jackass.
The bed dips behind me, and I suck in a breath. I sense the heat of his hand near my hip, but he doesn’t make contact. Not yet. Just hovering. “Can I...?”
My throat tightens. For a second, I can’t speak. That’s my husband. Always such a fucking gentleman.
“Please,” I whisper, realizing too late that I forgot the accent. I quickly add, “I need you.”
Half a second later, his hands are all over me. Gripping my flesh. He takes a fistful of my ass and squeezes hard, then runs his other hand down the length of my thigh, gently parting my legs on the way back up. His fingers drift toward my center, which I realize with a sudden flash of mortification, is growing moist. I clench my thighs—I don’t mean to, it just happens—blocking him from going any further, from making that discovery through the open middle of my panties.
Unfortunately, this is the same way I’ve shut him down countless times at home, and he hesitates. Quickly, I arch back, grinding against his hand. He responds with enthusiasm, hardly missing a beat. His fingers change direction, tracing the edge of the lace encircling my hips and waist. His other hand runs along my back, snaking around to explore my newly designated F-cups. One of his thumbs brushes over the tip of my nipple, and we both shudder.
“You can’t be real,” he whispers, and my mouth tightens into a bitter smirk.
He traces his lips along my arm, my chest, focused solely on my body in the dim light. But I can tell by the trajectory that his mouth is seeking mine, and that seems like a bad idea. I try to turn away, avoid him again, but this time his grip tightens in a way that’s commanding, unfamiliar. He slips one powerful hand around to grip the back of my neck and holds my head still, so all I can do is brace myself for his lips.
And they burn.
Scorching against my flesh, he traces kisses along my jaw, sampling every inch until he zeroes in and closes his mouth over mine. His tongue plunges past my lips, and despite every hurt swirling through my head, I find myself opening to him, tasting and sucking him like I don’t want to let him go.
He inhales deeply, then pauses. And I can tell something’s wrong. His hands are no longer moving; his whole body has frozen. Something’s finally occurred to him, and my charade falls away like an unused wedding veil. Our lips part. I raise my gaze, meeting his eyes for the first time since he entered the room, and somehow I manage to speak.
“Hello, Anton.”
One moment, he’s holding me in a heated embrace against his nude body. The next, he nearly throws me across the bed in his effort to get away. I land face down on the blankets, and by the time I sit back up, he’s backed into a chair across the room, his discarded shirt clutched over his groin.
My instinct is to cover myself too. To reach for my clothes or one of the robes hanging in the hotel closet. But I resist. I’ve never understood female superhero attire. Wonder Woman. Xena. Even Sailor Moon. Fighting battles with their legs and breasts barely covered, wielding little more than swords or wands, defending the world from injustice while standing nearly nude.
Except now I think I get it. Now I understand the power of the costume.
Straightening, I thrust my chest out, kneeling on the bed as I reach up to remove the itchy wig. I pull a few pins, toss it aside, and let my own light blonde hair spill down over my shoulders.
I take a deep breath and meet his gaze again. I’m not sure what kind of reaction I thought I’d get. Defiance? Repentance? A cocky fuck you ? The look on his face isn’t any of those things.
When I peer closely, it almost looks like he’s hurt.
We stay this way for several moments. Awkward seconds tick by, my chest just as tight as his fists. I wasn’t prepared for whatever this is I’m feeling, and I guess he wasn’t either since neither of us seem to have the first clue what to say.
What is there to say now?
“Lydia,” he finally whispers, and that one word is so loaded with emotion it nearly knocks me down.
I look away, clearing my throat. “I’ve got a lawyer,” I lie. “I think you’d better...”
Of course this is where the words trickle away. Where my semi-nude superhero confidence crumples. He’d better what? I came here ready to look him in the eye and throw him out, put an end to the last ten years of whatever we had. But the warmth of his embrace still lingers on my skin, keeping me from speaking all the words I’ve been practicing in my head.
I want a divorce. I want you gone.
I want you to hold me again?
Anton growls. He rises, throws down the shirt, and comes to stand by the bed, hovering naked over me. Suddenly I wish it was five minutes ago—no, maybe five years. I wish this was a game we decided to play back in that blizzard and everything didn’t feel so much like the end.
“I’d better what?” he says, low and stern in a way he’s never spoken to me. He’s always so deferential, ready to listen and support. Find the quickest way to help. But the way he’s looking at me now—I get the distinct impression he’s not considering what he can give, but what he’d like to take. And I’m surprised when this thought leaves a tingle between my legs.
I shake my head. “I...I think this needs to be over.”
His eyes sear into me. He rakes his gaze over my body, along the curve of my calves and down to my painted toes. He doesn’t move from his position at the edge of the bed, but I find it hard not to squirm as he continues, studying each piece of me like he’s taking inventory. Edging up my thighs, the curve of my hips, even my arms resting in my lap. He pauses on my nearly exposed breasts, lingering on one and then the other with hungry ownership before finally settling on my open lips.
“What if that’s not what I want?”
My skin prickles. I straighten, trying to find the strength to meet his gaze again when the inside of my chest feels like it’s about to go nuclear. I lash my arm out, gesturing around the room. At the generic hotel sixty miles from our house. At his naked, perfect body—still clearly aroused for someone else—and the lingerie I bought so he would think I was her.
“What the fuck do you want? Because it’s obviously not me.”
He doesn’t speak right away; he just stands there staring, every beautiful muscle in his body tensed, eyes blazing. Until finally, he sinks to his knees next to me.
“Lydia. You are all I’ve ever wanted.”