“Do you want me there? I mean…do you want them to meet me?” I can’t tell if he’s asking out of politeness or a desire to please his parents, or if he’s extending the invitation himself.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? You mean because you’re human? They won’t care, and if anyone does, that’s athem-problem, not a you-problem.”
“Because I’m not exactly the mate anyone dreams of. People are going to talk when you introduce them to your much older—”
“Not much,” he objects, interrupting me.
“Ten years is a lot. And I’m mar—”
He interrupts me again with a finger against my lips. “You’re mine, that’s what you are. My mate. You are more than I ever dreamed of, so don’t worry about that. We don’t have to tell anyone anything about your life that you don’t want them to know. If anyone hassles you for details you don’t want to share, let me deal with them. I’ll be right by your side the whole time, but I promise, they’re going to love you.”
When he puts it like that, it doesn’t sound so intimidating. I’m confused why he wants his family to meet me, though. After the babies are born, I’m going to disappear from his life. From their lives,too. After I hand off the pups, we’ll all go back to how it was before.
My heart stumbles and catches, imagining it. “I don’t know if I can lose them, too,” I confess. “Your family, I mean. It’s going to be hard enough walking away from the babies and…”You, I don’t finish. It’s going to be hard to walk away from him when this is over.
“Julia, I wasn’t going to bring this up yet, but it seems like it needs to be said. You’re the only one who says you have to walk away. It’s not in the contract. Not in either contract. I welcome your involvement. And evenRichard”—he says the name through gritted teeth—”only stipulates that he doesn’t want to know anything or pay for anything, not that you can’t have contact with us afterward. You don’t have to lose anything unless you want to.”
I bite my trembling lip. He’s right. I made the rule because I was trying to protect my heart. But maybe I don’t need to protect it. Maybe I can trust Ian to protect me. Wrapped in his arms, it sure feels like he could. “Okay,” I whisper.
“You’ll go?” He gives a little bounce that settles his cock even deeper inside me, if that’s possible.
I’m saying yes to more than attending his brother’s baby shower, but that’s enough for now. “Yeah.”
What have I gotten myself into?
That’s all I can think as I make the drive home, my seat belt pressing between my still-sensitive breasts and reminding me how much attention Ian lavished on them. He didn’t mind that they aren’t perfect anymore. He didn’t even seem to notice.
I’m reeling over how he made me feel. He was so attentive and caring and sexy. I have never felt so desired or cherished or…pleasured. I can’t even process how one night with him has changed my life. Changed my understanding of what sex can be like.
My thighs squeeze together as I make the turn into my cul-de-sac. After last night in the privacy of Ian’s forest, I feel exposed on my own suburban street. Like when I pull into our driveway and step out of the car, everyone will know I have some other man’s cum still dripping out of me…and Ilikeit.
Who am I? Not the good wife and mom I thought I was.
I park in the garage to avoid my leaf-raking neighbors and stumble inside to shower. Maybe if I wash off the scents and stickiness of last night, I’ll feel like myself again. I’ll be able to go back to myregular life with realistic expectations. I start for the master bathroom and then remember it’s not mine anymore.
I use the guest bath instead, even though Richard won’t be home for a few more days, just so I don’t have to clean that shower again. Hoping for a miracle (and maybe some memory loss), I scrub until my skin is practically raw. But when I step out, the pretty lingerie set, the one I bought for my husband but wore for Ian, is staring at me from the floor.
I swallow hard, tears pricking my eyes as I ball it up and throw it away instead of washing it. No point in keeping reminders. Better to focus on gratitude for what I have: a nice house, healthy kids, a husband who works hard to support us.That’s a good life, Julia. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
So I do some laundry. Get the chore list done so the house has the comforting smell of bleach solution. Sweep the front walk. Pick up some mums and pumpkins at the nursery for the porch. Normal Saturday-in-autumn stuff.
But despite my best efforts, I’m feeling anything but normal when four o’clock rolls around and my mom video-calls at our usual time. Typically, we share a cup of tea and catch up on the week. I try and put on a happy face, mentally preparing to chit-chat about the weather and plan the kids’ visit home during winter break in January.
“Hi, Eomma. How are you?”
“What’s troubling you?” she asks in Korean, frowning so hard she gets little dents in her forehead as she leans toward the screen, like she wants to jump through it and hug me. I should have known I couldn’t slip anything past her. Even though we are thousands of miles and many time zones apart, we still have a close relationship.
“Are the girls there?” I ask, not wanting them to overhear what I have to talk about.
“Already went to school.”
“On a Sunday?”
“At the library. They’re good girls, studying hard.” She beckons, encouraging me to open up.
I sigh, and the tears start before I even begin speaking. If it were any other week, I’d think it was perimenopause kicking my emotional butt, but this week, I know better. It’s my own actions making me feel unstable. I nibble my lower lip, trying to form my feelings into words without shocking her. “I think I’m a bad person.”
She clucks her tongue in disagreement. “Who told you that? The American?”
