I draw in a deep breath and decide to sayscrew it. Reaching behind my back, I unfasten my bra and let it fall to the floor with the rest of my clothes. When I bend to take off my heels, his voice comes out in a rough growl.
“No. Leave those on.”
Then he turns, fills up a plate with food from the fridge and warms it in the microwave for a few seconds before bringing it next to the counter where I’m leaning, waiting,naked.
My chest tightens when I realize it’s the food that I saw in the fridge—pancit and lumpia, from that tiny spot in Brooklyn that I mentioned in passing to him once.
He went all the way there to get it.Just for me.He listened. Heremembered.
It’s gestures like this that completely mess with my head and have me wondering what we’re doing.
Rhianon’s voice creeps back in, her advice to justhave fun, and try to focus on the perks of having a temporary husbandis flooding my thoughts. And why shouldn’t I?
Why don’t I deserve a little pleasure for my sacrifice?
Why shouldn’t I fall into bed with the guy my dad basically conned me into marrying—for his benefit and, fine, mine too?
This is theleastI deserve, to be fed my favorite food and brought to orgasm on occasion for faking this whole thing outside of billable hours.
He points to the food. “Eat,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument. Then his hands are on my hips, strong and steady as he lifts me effortlessly and sets me on the countertop. “While I eat.”
The words barely register before he hooks a hand under one of my knees and starts to lift it. My knees slam shut on instinct, my cheeks flaming.
“Um… what are you doing?”
His gaze is dark, borderline angry. “Putting your heels on the counter so that I can have a look at my wife.”
My lips part in shock with the seriousness of his tone. The casual way he says it leaves my brain scrambling as I try to imagine how this will work.
Me, perched on the counter, heels propped up, legs spread open and completely at his mercy.
The problem isn’t that I can’t get into that position, years of ballet drilled flexibility into my hips. It’s not a mobility issue. It’s anexposureissue. An exposure to some of my deepest insecurities.
The truth is that I don’t feel attractive most of the time. I’ve never really felt connected to my femininity, or to my sexual side. Maybe it’s because I was raised by men, surrounded myself with them in law school, and now work alongside them every day.
And maybe all that testosterone, all that locker room talk, hearing what menreallylike, settled into something deeper. Something that turned into insecurities I’ve carried for as long as I can remember.
They’ve followed me my whole life, keeping me stuck in my head every time my clothes come off with someone else. I’ve tried to shake them. That night at the club with my law school friend was an attempt, but I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel completely confident in my skin.
“Boone…”
“Do you trust me?” he asks. His eyes are pleading now.
“I… I do, but this is…like… I don’t know.”
Heat floods my face as my lack of self-confidence comes rushing back. Too awkward, inexperienced, not nearly enticing enough to hold a man’s gaze, let alone this man’s.
I'm happy with my body, grateful, even for it, but knowing how to wield it to draw attention, nope, don't know how to do that at all.
“You should trust me when I say you’re not seeing yourself how I see you,” he says, his voice sincere. “What you see in the mirror, is not a male perspective. I see nothing but beauty when I look at you.”
I twist my hands together in front of me and take a deep breath.
“Now,” he hooks his hand underneath my knee again and begins to lift, “get your heels on the counter so that I can eat. I know you can, ballerina.”
Chapter 22: Rosie
I nod, swallowing down my nerves, and do as I’m told.
