Chapter 1 Aurora #2
“It’s only been eighteen months,” I snap. “After he gets established at work, it will be different.”
“I’m not just talking about the eighteen months you’ve been married, Aurora, and you know it.”
Despite his even, calm tone, the words still make me flinch. I’m twenty-three years old, yet he still has the power to make me feel like a scolded child. I grit my teeth and push through the shame.
“With all due respect, I am an adult, and my decisions no longer require your input. I don’t need it or want it.”
The last time we had a disagreement like this was when Brady proposed, and it went much the same way.
Uncle Wade expressed his disapproval, and I told him that his opinion didn’t matter; I was going to do what I wanted, regardless.
This time, though, I hold back the reminder that he’s just my father’s brother and not my father.
The memory of the hurt that flashed over his face is enough to have me biting my tongue as I brace myself for his retort.
Thankfully, before our conversation escalates into an argument, the timer on the stove goes off and releases me from the uncomfortably charged silence stretching between us. I crane my neck so I can look out the window, and sure enough, Brady’s car is pulling in.
“I’m going to have to let you go. I’m sorry for snapping at you. I know you’re only looking out for me.”
He sighs. “You don’t have to apologize for saying no, Aurora. I always want you to stand up for yourself, though I do wish you’d show the same tenacity when it comes to conversations with your husband.”
My jaw drops, and I lower my voice to a whisper as I hear the garage door open.
“I didn’t ask for your judgment.”
“It’s not judgment, Aurora.”
“Auri, what’s burning?” Brady’s voice calls from the mudroom, and it startles me into action.
“Sorry, Uncle Wade. Love you. Bye.”
I hang up, drop my phone to the counter, and rush to the oven. I’m pulling the lasagna out just as my husband steps into the kitchen. I set the dish on the stove and turn to him with a smile.
“Sorry. Some of the cheese dripped, but it’s not burnt,” I say before he can ask again, then I cross the floor and let him wrap me in a hug. “Welcome home.”
Brady presses a kiss to my head before pulling away.
“I’m sure it will be amazing. I’m going to go change.”
He leaves me to plate up our dinner while he changes out of his suit. Brady started at the tech startup company just before we got engaged, and he’s already been promoted twice. If he stays on this trajectory, he could be a junior partner in the next three years.
He comes back into the kitchen as I’m filling water glasses, and he tells me about his day as we eat. When he asks about my day, it’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him about my phone call with Uncle Wade. I almost do, but for some reason, I stop myself.
I turned the job offer down. There’s no point in bringing it up, especially if it will increase the tension between the two most important men in my life.
I miss the days when they got along. Back when Brady was just my friend and Uncle Wade was just my uncle.
Back when things were easier. When the path forward was clearer, and I didn’t feel so. ..tethered.
“Are we in the window?”
I blink out of my thoughts and look back at Brady. “Hmm?”
“Are we in the window? You ovulate this weekend, right?”
“Oh. Right.” I take a sip of my water, then nod. “Yeah, we should be in the window.”
“Great.” He grins at me as he stands. “I’ll clear the table. You go get ready.”
I nod again, then head into our bedroom without a word.
I brush my teeth and strip out of my clothes, but instead of climbing into bed like usual, I go a little further. Just entertaining my uncle’s proposal has left me feeling guilty, like I’ve betrayed my husband in some way, and this is the least I can do to make up for it.
I cover my skin with scented lotion, tear the tags off the silk nightgown he bought me for my birthday, and then pull it over my head.
I swipe some red-tinted balm over my lips and give my cheeks a pinch to bring out a natural-looking blush.
I fluff my hair, adjust my bangs, then survey myself in the mirror.
I look pretty—sexy, even—and it has my mouth curving into a genuine smile.
I don’t feel sexy often, if ever. Most days, my hands and clothes are covered in dirt from being in the garden.
Most nights, being intimate with Brady is a clinical responsibility.
It’s like getting your car’s oil changed or visiting the gynecologist. Sexy isn’t useful or practical or necessary.
But right now, I have to admit it feels good.
I glide my hands down my sides then back up, the smooth silk feeling sensual under my palms. My eyes flutter shut when my fingertips brush the underside of my breasts. My nipples harden, and I ghost my thumbs over the sensitive peaks.
Yes. This definitely feels good.
My pulse quickens as I run my hand back down my torso, stopping at my pelvis and teasing the band of my panties beneath the fabric of the lingerie.
In my mind, the fingers that slowly inch lower belong to someone else, and my inhale is shaky as I press on my clit.
The touch is delicate and soft, so very gentle, but it’s not my touch.
It’s not Brady’s either.
That realization has my eyes flying open just as the bedroom doorknob twists, and my hands jerk to my sides. I whip around and face him as he steps into the bathroom.
His eyes heat as he drags them over me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen that look on his face.
“You look hot.”
My cheeks warm with a mixture of shame and arousal.
“Thought I’d try something new for you.”
“I’m not complaining.” He shrugs out of his shirt and pants, his penis already hard as he bares himself to me. “You can leave it on if you want.”
I take a few calming breaths before following him to the bed. I lie down, and he crawls on top of me. His kiss is rough, the stubble on his chin and upper lip scratching my skin as he drags his mouth to my shoulder. I’ll have a rash again.
“Try to come this time. It’s supposed to help.”
“It’s not like I can just make myself come.”
My husband pushes up onto his arms and looks down at me. “I read that it’s mostly mental for women. Can’t you just, like, think about coming?”
“Brady,” I say on an awkward laugh. “You want me to manifest an orgasm?”
He grins. “Sure.”
My brow furrows.
“Maybe you could...um...” I wiggle beneath him, heat rushing to my cheeks once more. “Maybe you could touch me? It might help.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He takes off my panties and settles between my legs. “Damn, Auri, you’re already wet.”
He sounds so pleased with himself as he presses more scratchy kisses to my inner thigh. I close my eyes and push down the guilt. He’s right. I am already wet, but no matter how badly I wish it were, it’s not because of him.
I try to stay present, try not to admit it to myself, but when Brady licks up my labia, swirling his tongue around my sensitive spot, it’s not his mouth I’m picturing. Not his tongue or lips.
I try, I swear I do, but it’s not him I see at all.
A voice inside me scolds that this is wrong—I shouldn’t be picturing someone else when I’m with my husband—but I already welcomed the fantasy into my marital bed. I’ve opened Pandora’s box, and I can’t figure out how to close it again.
I grip my breasts and picture a different pair of hands.
I move my hips and picture rubbing myself on a different mouth.
And when I come, it’s not my husband’s head I imagine clamped between my thighs.
“Hell yeah, Auri.”
Brady’s deep, rumbling voice has my breath catching in my chest, shame washing over me, tensing my muscles. He lets out a celebratory whoop as my chest heaves, whispers of panic causing my stomach to flip.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” He notches himself at my entrance and pushes in swiftly. He drops onto his forearms and moves to take my lips, but I turn my head, so he buries his face into my shoulder instead. “God, yes, you’re so wet for me.”
He pumps as I attempt to breathe through my anxiety. I dig my fingers into his back, keep my mouth locked shut, and focus my stare at the ceiling. I don’t trust myself to close my eyes again. I don’t trust myself to do anything other than lie here until he’s finished.
When Brady groans his release, I let loose a slow, shaky exhale and plaster on a smile.
“That’s the one.” He pulls out and plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek, then slaps my ass as he stands from the bed. “That’s the one. I know it.”
I don’t move as he picks up his discarded shirt and wipes off his softening penis. When he smiles at me, I make myself smile back. I’m happy. I should be happy.
He checks his watch. “Fifteen minutes. You have to stay still for fifteen minutes. Let gravity do its thing.”
I give him a thumbs-up. “Fifteen minutes. Got it.”
“And I didn’t miss tip-off!” Brady claps his hands once, bounces his eyebrows, then hurries out of the room.
I listen intently for the television. When sounds of sportscasters and bouncing basketballs filter down the hall, I sit up quietly and rush into the bathroom.
Once I’ve peed, I clamp my eyes shut and fight back the sting of tears.
My shame for what I’ve just done mixes with the sense of foreboding summoned by Brady’s words.
That’s the one.
I should be happy. Excited, even. This could be what we’ve been wanting. What I should be wanting. I should be excited, but I’m not. Not even a little bit.
In fact, I’m dreading it.
And not only am I so very not excited about a possible pregnancy, but the only time I’ve managed a real orgasm with my husband was because I was pretending he was someone else.
Not the man I’m supposed to love and spend the rest of my life with.
Not the man who wants to be the father of my children.
He deserves better. I’m a terrible wife.
The more I think about it, the more I start to spiral. Fear creeps in, seizing my body. My skin stretches and itches. My fingers tremble. My chest tightens as my breathing grows shallow. I begin second-guessing every decision I’ve ever made.
How did I get here? Is here where I want to be? Am I who I want to be?
Is any of this what I want?
It’s about compromise, is all. We’ve only been married for eighteen months. It will get better. Marriage is all about compromise. I’m happy. I am. It will get better.
I have to beat back the memory of Uncle Wade’s voice. What has Brady compromised?
No. I shake my head and attempt to take slow, deep breaths.
Brady loves me. He’s always loved me. I love him.
I love him. I love him. I know I do.
It will get better.
I sit on the side of the tub and drop my head between my knees. I do my best to calm myself, but the walls continue to close in. The house, my life, this marriage—it all shrinks around me. Confining me. Trapping me. Suffocating me.
I love him. He loves me. I’m happy.
I’m suffocating.
Before I can overthink it, I sit upright and rush for the first lifeline that comes to mind. The first and only ray of hope in the thick, impenetrable darkness. I grab my phone, open a text thread, and send a message to my uncle.
Me
I’ll do it. When do you leave?