My One Week Husband Read online

  Tryst.

  So this is how it goes.

  We’ll be spinning a fable. Playing pretend. Indulging in a tryst.

  We are giving ourselves permission to be these other selves.

  “I thought about you too. Wondered if you’d wear a dress on the train.” I regard the line of her hem, how it shows off her creamy thighs, her bare skin. “Imagined having my hands in those gorgeous red locks of yours. Have I told you how stunning your hair is?”

  She trembles, flicking some of the strands. “Do you like it?”

  “It turns me on. The way it falls down your shoulders. The way I think about gathering it in my hands.” I pause, taking a beat, locking my gaze with hers before I add roughly, “Tugging on it.”

  “You could do that,” she whispers, her voice all feathery.

  The train rumbles along the tracks.

  The lights are dim. The car is quiet. Barely anyone is in this carriage. Twilight falls outside. Paris is well and truly behind us, falling away as we leave the city.

  A quick glance around tells me the nearest passengers are several rows away. “I thought about you at work today. It’s a wonder I didn’t take my cock in my hand as I pictured you,” I say, throwing down the fucking gauntlet.

  Her eyes widen; her breath hitches. “Did you think about what you would do to me on the train?”

  Hello, fantasy.

  “There are so many things I want to do to you on this train,” I rasp out, wrapping my hand tighter around her thigh.

  Her chest rises and falls.

  Her shoulders shudder.

  Her cheeks flush.

  And we’re pretending.

  But we’re not pretending at all.

  Not one bit.

  9

  Scarlett

  I imagine this is who we are. We are newlyweds escaping from Paris, getting away for a week. A week where we won’t even leave the bedroom. Satin sheets will be tangled, hands and bodies will collide, and fantasies will play out over and over again in a hotel room.

  There is no question that right now I am this woman. This woman who’s incredibly turned on by her new husband.

  So turned on she can’t even wait.

  I don’t want to wait.

  I want to indulge in every single second with him.

  With my pretend lover on the train in the dark.

  I invite him to continue traveling. Continue taking that sensual journey up my thigh. I spread my legs a little more, giving him more room to roam, but mostly giving him the signal to keep going.

  That’s exactly what he does. His hand glides up my thigh, the fabric of my dress sliding along with it, revealing more of my skin.

  His fingers are on a slow, tantalizing course for my hot, wet center.

  He’s mere inches away. I push my back against the seat, my head pressing into the cushion, my chest arching.

  We’re doing this. Oh dear God, we’re doing this.

  A noise climbs up my throat, dances across my lips. It falls across them. But it’s louder than I would like.

  He leans closer, his nose against my neck. “Darling, can you be quiet if I take you there right now? If I take you there right here on the train, can you be quiet? I don’t want anyone else to hear you.”

  Can I be quiet?

  The question means so much more. The question is about so much more than silence and skills.

  What he’s really asking is . . . Can I touch you?

  Can I get you off?

  Can I make you come on the train when we’re ten minutes away from our stop?

  I have no plans to say no.

  I turn toward him, my cheek against his stubbled jaw. Then I pull back the slightest bit, my lips nearly grazing his. “Quiet me with your lips,” I tell him, uttering a seductive command.

  One that gives him all the permission he could ever seek.

  But I don’t stop there. I’m playing my part. And it feels so good to be this woman.

  It’s freeing.

  I shed my daytime self, sliding into a woman I no longer let myself be. A naughty, hungry woman. “Remember what you did to me at the restaurant the other night? I was too noisy. And you kept me quiet by kissing me ferociously. The only thing that kept me quiet enough was your lips,” I say, inventing a story.

  “Dear God,” he rumbles, sounding filthy, sounding aroused. “I remember that perfectly. I was like iron in my trousers the whole time. I wanted to fuck you.” He picks up the narrative, telling the tale of our lust so seamlessly. “Wanted to take you out of that restaurant, steal around the corner to that little passage, push you up against the wall, put your leg around my waist, and fuck you hard right there.”

  My body is on fire. My brain is electric. I ache for him. “I wanted that too. I wanted that raw roughness, and I loved everything you gave me. How you made me be quiet.” I lick my lips. “With your mouth.”

  He slides his nose along my neck again, reaching my ear, licking the shell. “I’m going to do that again right now, love.”

  All my fantasies of my business partner, of us together, are coming true as he kisses me for the first time. On the train. After dark. In between here and there.

  He’s sweet at first, his lips brushing over mine, his tongue flicking open the seam of my lips.

  It’s tender and lush.

  It’s passionate and lingering.

  I want to groan and moan and cry out. I want to let him know what he’s doing to my body.

  Nerve endings are sparking. Electricity is flowing.

  Hot, wild breath is caged in my lungs, fighting to escape.

  My pulse surges, beating between my legs. I open them wider, urging him on.

  He heeds the call. Covering my lips with his, kissing me harder, hot and urgent, while his fingers slip under the lace of my panties.

  I melt.

  My brain melts.

  My body melts.

  I want to sink into the delicious, divine feel of his strong, confident fingers as they slide through my wetness.

  My body shudders as he strokes me.

  I want to move and writhe.

  I want to rock my hips into his talented fingers that brush across my arousal, that slide over where I want him most.

  I want to toss my head back and call out his name.

  But I can’t. Because he locks in all my noises with a heady kiss. And because we’re in public. Even though it’s quiet and even though we’re kissing, I need to stay as still as I possibly can.

  I grip his arm hard like I did on the platform. Maybe I was signaling then that this would happen. Maybe I was telegraphing in advance what I wanted.

  I dig my fingers tighter, my nails digging into his skin, and his fingers fly fast, rubbing me harder.

  Our tongues tango; our mouths explore.

  White-hot pinpricks of lust flash before my eyes in neon bursts of pleasure. I slide my other hand around his head, tangling in his hair.

  He kisses me more deeply, and I rock my hips into his hand, riding his palm closer and closer to the cliff.

  Pleasure coils in my body, winds tighter in my belly. My thighs quake; my center quivers. My every molecule pulses, cries out, and bliss sails through me as I surrender to it, then burst in a frenzy of ecstasy.

  He doesn’t even need to thrust his fingers inside me. I’m that aroused, that turned on.

  All I need is him stroking me and then I’m coming in his hand on the train as we pretend we’re newlyweds who can’t keep their hands off each other.

  As I come down from a wild high, he pulls away, lifts his hand, brings his fingers to his lips, and licks off my taste.

  I gasp, loving the way he seals my orgasm in his mouth.

  His wicked blue eyes meet mine, and his are etched with wanton lust as he removes his fingers, dragging one across my bottom lip. “My filthy, beautiful wife tastes so fucking good.”

  And in this moment, that word, all of those words, feels true. I feel filthy and beautiful.

&n
bsp; And I have no idea where we go next.

  10

  Daniel

  We shuffle off the train, step onto the platform, then head into the depot of the train station in Giverny. Crowds are thin, like they were inside the carriage, but now all the passengers are converging into the small area, and there’s little time or space to talk.

  But is now the time to talk anyway?

  I steal a glance at my companion.

  Scarlett runs a finger through her hair.

  Or really, the wig.

  She pushes it off her shoulder, then behind her, flicks it one more time.

  Hmm.

  It’s not like her to fidget. Normally she’s confident, take-charge, and quick with a quip or a quote.

  And always, damn near always, she’s in control.

  Perhaps she’s rattled. The least I can do is remind her I’ve got the details of the trip sorted out. Rooting her in practical matters should help.

  “The car should be here any minute,” I say.

  “Great. Great.”

  “The hotel is only a couple miles away.”

  “Great. That’s great too.”

  “Are you hungry? Want to get a bite to eat when we arrive?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m good. I’m great.”

  And I’m guessing she’s not great.

  As we walk through the station, she blinks a few times, like she’s sorting out her thoughts. Swallowing roughly, she clears her throat then takes her phone from her purse, swiping the screen. “You said earlier that you booked the rooms?” she asks as we stride past the travelers checking the boards for the next train.

  Rooms.

  It’s funny that she says rooms, plural. I’m not sure that now is the moment to correct her on that small detail. Instead, I simply nod and say yes. “It’s taken care of.”

  She flashes her most professional smile, but she doesn’t quite send it my direction. She shoots it diagonally to me, like she can’t quite meet my eyes or hold my gaze.

  She returns to her phone, checking messages, as she often does. “Great. Fantastic. Terrific,” she says, and the trifecta of adjectives is not lost on me. She speaks in threes when she’s rattled, something she rarely is, making the triple talk all the more telling.

  She’s clearly endeavoring to reset.

  But is she simply trying to slide back to who we were, or is she attempting to sweep the last several minutes under the rug?

  We head down the steps outside, and I scan the street for the gleaming black town car I ordered.

  I need a few minutes to regroup too, and figure out what’s next. Not just where we go from here, but how we interact with each other, because her nervous, out-of-sight-out-of-mind reaction isn’t what I expected.

  But then, what did I expect?

  I suppose, truth be told, I expected that if we ever did fuck, everything would remain the same.

  Wishful thinking.

  I laugh privately.

  Perhaps that hope makes me a fool. But that’s exactly what I imagined we’d do next.

  And precisely what I want.

  A man in a black suit thirty or so feet away lifts an iPad with the words flashing on the screen: Mr. and Mrs. Dickens.

  I drop my voice to a whisper. “We can pick a different name each night, different accent too. English tonight. The next time we could go for French, and we could be Mr. and Mrs. Descartes.” I slide into that accent, my lips curving into a grin.

  That earns me a smile, and the smile makes me feel better, especially when she returns to witty, clever Scarlett. “Yes, of course. Let’s do everything in homage to your philosophy degree. We could then be Mr. and Mrs. Rousseau. Or what about Mr. and Mrs. Nietzsche? But then you would need to do a German accent.”

  I adopt one. “I can do that. I can definitely do that if you want to go full nihilist.”

  She laughs, then says, “Don’t forget English philosopher John Locke. That would keep you in your delectable English accent. But I love the way you speak French.”

  Delectable.

  Yes, let’s keep going.

  I give her a taste of French, shifting not merely to the accent, but the language. “But if you want us to be Mr. and Mrs. Rousseau, I can pretend to be French for you.”

  A tremble rushes down her body. A sign. This woman loves to pretend. She loves to role-play.

  “I would like that,” she murmurs.

  And I would like to keep this up.

  But a voice cuts in as the driver steps closer. “Mr. and Mrs. Dickens, I presume?”

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s us.”

  “I’m here to take you to your hotel. It’s wonderful to see you,” the driver says, then opens the back door for us.

  “After you, Mrs. Dickens,” I say to Scarlett, and she slides in, shaking her head, rolling her eyes, but laughing again.

  Perhaps I have reset us. Perhaps a little more pretend is what Scarlett needs to feel comfortable.

  I can give her plenty of pretend.

  That’s my stock-in-trade.

  I thank the man then join my temporary wife in the back seat. She already seems more herself again.

  “Maybe next time I want us to be Mr. and Mrs. Joplin,” she says playfully, tapping her chin. “Or Mr. and Mrs. Nicks. Or Mr. and Mrs. Jett.”

  “I didn’t know you were such a fan of classic rock and anthemic female singers,” I say with an approving look.

  Her eyes twinkle. “Maybe I’m just a fan of surprising you.”

  “You’re full of surprises, Scarlett. And I love them all. They’re the cat’s whiskers,” I say.

  She furrows her brow. “Bullshit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By ‘bullshit,’ I mean I don’t believe you.”

  I laugh. “Yes, I’m familiar with what ‘bullshit’ means. I’m wondering why you’re calling bullshit on what I said.”

  “I don’t think you like surprises. You like to think you like surprises. But you always prefer to know exactly what’s going on.”

  Scarlett sees inside me in a way that others rarely can. It’s as if she’s holding up a mirror, reflecting the truth back at me.

  And it’s . . . enticing.

  While she doesn’t know all the dark secrets I hold in my heart, she can see the edges. She can tell they have shape and form.

  I don’t mind her having that knowledge, that power.

  I’m not sure why it doesn’t bother me, but I’ll evaluate that another time.

  For now, I take perhaps one of the biggest steps I’ve ever taken—admitting she’s right. “Yes, I suppose that may be true. I suppose I have spent a large portion of my life trying to protect myself against surprises.”

  She shoots me a sympathetic look, then reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Maybe someday you’ll tell me about them.”

  She turns her gaze to the window, staring at the whirl of color and light on the street outside.

  I sigh in relief that she’s not pressing, merely leaving open the possibility that someday I’ll share.

  Maybe someday I will.

  It’s hard to say. At the moment, I’m much more fixed on what other surprises this woman might have in store.

  Something unusual happens when we arrive at the hotel.

  It looks exactly like its photos.

  Make that even better.

  Despite the dark of night, the hotel beckons me with its beauty.

  The car pulls up in the circular driveway, parking in front of the stone steps that lead into the spacious boutique inn. It’s big enough to be profitable, small enough to be wildly desirable.

  And gorgeous enough to fit into our portfolio.

  Scarlett gasps as she drinks in the sight, the stone front, the rustic charm, the white windowpanes all bringing a freshness to this provincial inn high atop a grassy hill in Giverny.

  She turns her gaze to me. “It’s gorgeous,” she says in a whisper. It sounds almost reverent, the way she speaks.
r />   “It’s even better than the photos.”

  We emerge from the car, thank our driver, and shoulder our bags to go inside.

  The lobby is both welcoming and modern. With sleek, low couches, clean white walls, and bright hardwood floors, the inn is inviting, open, and airy.

  It also exudes the charm guests would want from an inn in a small town famous for an artist who painted here. Monet.

  One wall boasts a replica of his work—an expansive Japanese bridge the artist was famous for painting as it arches over a pond full of water lilies.

  As Scarlett takes in the lobby, she clasps my forearm. Like how she gripped my arm on the train not so long ago.

  Her touch is electric, like a jolt of heat has ignited my blood.

  Maybe I’m already addicted to her. I try to shake off that notion. I don’t get addicted. I don’t have it in me. I don’t ever want to feel so intensely for anything that it would be an obsession.

  I have that already with music.

  I simply like her touch. That is all. I like, too, that she seems enthralled with this place.

  This is a business deal after all.

  But I want her to like this inn because I get a kick out of her excitement. I love when she’s enchanted with a deal, a place, an idea.

  “It’s everything I would want if I were coming here as a newlywed. It feels like an escape, Daniel. That’s what I love most about it,” she whispers.

  I give her a smile, one that I feel deep in my chest, one that warms me up. “That’s exactly what this is. It’s like I’ve gone back in time, but it has everything that I want from this time too,” I say.

  She nods enthusiastically. “Yes. That’s exactly what it feels like.”

  With bags in tow, we walk to the front desk.

  A black-haired woman lifts her face, flashes a bright smile, and says, “Good evening. Welcome to Le Pavillon de Giverny.”

  Her name tag reads: Song/Hotel Manager.