Mr. Grande,
I am pleased to inform you that I took your advice, opening myself up to the possibility of settling down. Who better to do this with than the woman I’ve been seeing since returning to Chicago? I’ve loved her since the first moment I saw her, and after our conversation, I realized I was only holding myself back by not allowing myself to conceive a future with her.
Truly, my dad continues to affect me even beyond the grave. I’m sure he would be thrilled with the announcement.
My fiancée is Juliette Harper. Though I don’t have children of my own, she does have a son, and I’m sure my father would also be happy to see me stepping into a paternal role.
Please let me know what you need from me to move forward with releasing the funds in my trust. I anticipate we will want it for our honeymoon, and as we build out our lives together.
Regards,
Russell F. Burch, M.D.
I read it over again, making sure I’m not laying it on too thick. Part of me thinks Mr. Grande can’t really expect true love from me—can he? As though men my age don’t marry twenty-something girls for nothing more than a piece of eye candy on their arms all the time.
It only strengthens my previous feelings about the whole thing. Being married doesn’t mean being responsible or even staying in Chicago. It just means a piece of paper, a contract. And one that can easily be broken.
“Good morning,” Jules says, rousing and turning, sleepily pressing her open mouth to my neck. I close my eyes. My cock was already half-hard when I woke up this morning, her naked body beside me enough to send me into a spiral of remembering last night, playing it through my mind like a movie.
She’s warm and seeking, her hand splaying out over my chest, tweaking a nipple playfully. I raise my eyebrows at her, projecting playfulness but really wanting nothing more than to flip her over and fuck her until she’s screaming my name again.
For such a head-strong woman, she really did melt under my touch. And I want to see her do it again and again. I want to be the only man to arch over her, hold her, carry her to the bathroom when she’s so spent from pleasure that she can hardly stand on her own.
Her gaze flits to my phone screen, and from the two seconds she reads, she must gather enough to realize what the email is. It seems to sober her up, the reminder of what this arrangement is for.
I want the soft, nuzzling Jules back, so I send the email and lock my phone, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her onto her back.
“Was last night a one-time thing?” I ask, sliding between her legs, loving the way she relents, easing her knees open for me, like I’m coming home.
She presses back, her head dimpling the pillow so she can catch my eyes, “I don’t know, was it?”
“Do you want it to be?” I ask, even though my cock is hard against her, and I can feel how wet she is. How much she wants me.
“…doyouwant it to be?” she asks, and I thrust, sliding between her folds, catching her clit with the tip of my cock. She gasps, her eyes shutting, pupils moving behind them. I lean down and press my lips to each of her eyes, then to her hairline, moving with more fervor as I get harder and harder.
I don’t want to talk about what we’re going to do. I just want to do it.
“This is what I think,” I say, my voice nothing more than a rumbling growl, “I think you like this, and I like this, and we’re both consenting adults. Why not get a little something extra out of this arrangement?”
Something moves over her face so quickly I don’t have time to pick it apart, then she’s saying, “Okay,” and rising up to capture my mouth with hers.
Remembering how much she liked it last night, I wrap my hand around her throat, pressing her gently down into the bed, “I’ll kiss you when I’m ready,” I tease, notching in her entrance.
And the sound she makes when I slide inside her is enough to make me ready for the kiss, ready to swallow the sound just the way I want to swallow her—whole, every part of her, mine, mine,mine.
“Russell, I have never heard a more fucked up plan in my life.”
Alena stares at me, a French fry doused in ketchup dangling from her fingers like a cigarette. With how strictly healthy she eats at home, it might as well be.
We’re sitting in the busy hospital cafeteria, right against soaring windows that face the courtyard, the fountain sparkling in the bright sun. It’s not snowing yet, so the area around the fountain is all dead grass and nearly leafless-trees, aside from the row of evergreens along the path over to the main hospital.
I wonder if they still decorate them like they did when we were kids. If they bring the long-termers here at the children’s hospital outside—the ones who can leave their rooms, anyway—to help with the lights and the tinsel.
“Earth toRussell,” Alena says, waving her soggy fry in my face before biting off most of it, and turning, giving the nub to Rory, who is still awake. Ray, her twin brother, is asleep in their dual-stroller. Poor guy doesn’t even know what he’s missing. My sympathy for my nephew wanes when his mother turns back to me, glowering. “Stop spacing off. We were talking about the fact that this is a stupid idea.”
“It’s not,” I say, mostly because I know that no amount of arguing with her is going to change her mind. I scoop some of my quinoa stir-fry up onto my spoon and add a dab of hot sauce before taking the bite.
“What if Grande finds out?” Alena presses, trying to tuck her hair behind her ear. Last week, she chopped most of it off.
