“PASTA?”
Gypsy looked up from the plate I served her with confusion in her eyes. I didn’t have to guess what she was thinking. She was wondering what strings were attached. I suspected she would always wonder that, unless by some miracle I managed to establish legitimate trust with her.
“You earned it,” I told her.
“How?” she asked.
“You followed all the rules today, didn’t you?”
She offered me a bored expression because she didn’t want to admit that she had. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that I’d tamed her. This was just the calm before the next storm, but we could both enjoy it while it lasted.
Gypsy dug into her pasta, and I watched her while I ate. I could already tell she was getting nervous. Tomorrow would be her first day in class, and I was certain she would invent some sort of imaginary plague so she didn’t have to go. But I was mentally prepared for whatever she might throw at me. I wanted her to face her fears, and I wouldn’t allow her to be conquered by them.
“You’re staring,” she mumbled.
I probably should have looked away. I should have read the paper, or checked my emails, or done anything else with my attention. But I couldn’t. I liked to look at her, a little too much, and that was becoming a problem.
I cleared my throat and set down my fork. “When you finish class tomorrow, I’ll need you to do your homework right away.”
“Why?” She peeked up at me with a mouthful of pasta.
“Because we have a work function to attend.”
Her brows pinched together. “What kind of function?”
“A picnic,” I griped.
She laughed. “You put on a picnic?”
“No. My partners do.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “Those must be the other names on the door. Vincent and Emily. I was wondering.”
“It’s a large firm,” I told her. “I like the private side of the building, but you’ll meet the everyone else tomorrow.”
“Can’t wait.” She snorted. “I imagine your office parties are all the rage.”
“They aren’t,” I assured her. “It’s just business.”
“It’s time to get ready for bed.”
Gypsy looked up from her magazine, her steely gaze staring right through me. “It’s only eight.”
“Yes, but you have a big day tomorrow. We both have to get up early.”
She set the magazine down in her lap and closed the pages but didn’t move. “Why are you doing this?”
“This was the deal you agreed to.”
“I would hardly call it agreeing,” she said. “You blackmailed me into this situation. But regardless, I want to know why you’re acting like you have some sort of parental role in my life. I’m a grown woman.”
“Are you?” I cocked my head to the side. “What is the last grade you completed, pet?”
“That’s irrelevant.” She glared. “Those were circumstances outside my control and—”
“I never said they weren’t. My point is that you want to be an adult, yet you have none of the basic skills required to survive in this world.”
“That isn’t true,” she insisted. “I get by. I’ve always gotten by. And if I don’t know something, I figure it out.”
I wanted to touch her. She was always beautiful, but never more so than when she was vulnerable like this. “Wouldn’t it be nice to do more than just get by for a change?” I asked.
Her eyes met mine, and for a split second, I saw the fear there. The idea of allowing anyone to help her was terrifying. Gypsy had only ever learned to take what she needed or wanted, but now she needed to learn to accept what was given freely.
“Come.” I held out my hand, and she stared at it as if it were poison.
I knew she wouldn’t take it but hope still lived inside me. Instead, she rose on her own and crossed her arms. “What now?”
“If you want a shower to help you wind down, then you need to take it now. Otherwise, you can get dressed for bed.”
She padded down the hall without protest, and a minute later, the shower turned on. I had to restrain myself from following the way I wanted to. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and drank a glass of ice cold water. But even that didn’t stop me from thinking about her naked body beneath me.
It didn’t help matters when I walked into the room and found her in one of her silk nightgowns. It was beautiful and classy and everything that Gypsy was, but it also emphasized her every curve. Curves that my hands ached to touch. It felt wrong when it was never my intention to be this way with her. She was my wife on paper only, and that couldn’t change.
“You’re staring again,” she noted as she moved to her side of the bed.
I turned away wordlessly and changed into a pair of lounge pants and a tee shirt. Typically, I would sleep with nothing more than briefs on, and with the night sweats, I’d been miserable. But it was the only way to ensure that Gypsy felt safe, and I wouldn’t sacrifice her sense of well-being for my own comfort.
“I won’t be able to sleep,” she whined.
“Get into bed,” I told her.
She thought about arguing but decided against it. She could protest that she wasn’t tired until she was blue in the face, but I could see it in her eyes.
I picked up the copy of Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout and flipped to the first page. Gypsy was on her back beside me, her face nestled into the pillow, and her fingers beating a restless rhythm against her opposite arm.
When I began to read aloud, I felt her gaze move to me, but I didn’t look back. It was difficult enough as it was without staring into her eyes, and I had begun to doubt my self-restraint the longer I was around her.
I read the story of Olive, and she fidgeted through the first five pages, but the next time I peered over at her, she was enrapt. She caught me staring, and for a moment, neither of us were quite sure how to handle the situation. Ultimately, it was me who broke the gaze as I went back to the story, reading until I caught her dozing off several times.
It was just past ten when I set the book on the nightstand and turned out the light. The room was quiet, and I was already too warm. I also didn’t trust that if I put my arm around Gypsy right now, I’d be able to leave it at that.
So I stayed where I was, flat on my back, and removed my tee shirt. Gypsy and I were separated by covers, but she became restless as the minutes wore on.
“Are you going to sleep?” she asked.
“Yes.”
There was quiet, and then more shuffling around. “I can’t sleep,” she complained. “Why did you stop reading?”
She was irritable, and it had nothing to do with the reading. That shouldn’t have meant anything to me, but it did. I knew what she needed and withholding it now wouldn’t be fair. I moved closer, leaving the blankets between us, and wrapped my arm around her waist.
She sighed, and I did too. We were closer than ever, skin to skin. Our forearms melding together as our beating hearts found synchronicity between our breaths. I wanted her. And the realization was so overpowering at that moment, I didn’t know what to do with it. It had been a long time since I’d wanted anything.
She turned her face toward mine, her breath blowing across my chest as she spoke. “You’re burning up again. Do you have a fever?”
I wished I could say that I did, but that wasn’t my problem. My problem was that it should have felt wrong when I lowered my face to hers. It should have felt dirty when my lips dragged against hers and froze there. She should have pulled away, and I should have stopped. But neither of us moved. And when my fingers found the tender flesh of her throat, I drew her closer, tasting what was never meant to be mine.
She didn’t make a sound. Her lips parted on a silent gasp, and I inhaled her breath. I dug my fingers into her skin and hated myself for doing this to her. For wanting her. My cock was hard and long, and my thoughts were short.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t.
I couldn’t.
My lips broke away from hers. She was swollen from my kiss, and I was emptier than I thought a broken man could be. But for the first time in a decade, I remembered what it was like to be whole.