He’s changed into a gray V-neck shirt and shorts, leaving his well-developed calves exposed for me to admire. I’m sure his thighs are just as muscular and strong. He has the body of a man who takes care of himself in all ways. He doesn’t have to take off his shirt for me to know that he has flat, well-defined abs that deserve to be worshipped. Just because I’m not that into sex doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a good physique.
His feet are bare, and for some reason it makes him look a bit vulnerable, like a layer of shield is gone from him. But I’m not letting my guard down. He’s about as defenseless as a sleeping tiger.
He’s nursing something—maybe bourbon?—and gestures with the glass.
“Have a seat.”
I do, since my feet and legs are killing me. But I make sure to choose the armchair as far away from him as possible. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.
“Something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” As if.
After a healthy swallow, he studies me. The silence stretches between us until I’m tempted to squirm.
Which I bet is exactly what he wants me to do.
Forcing myself to stay still, I hold myself rigid, my spine straight and stiff. Since he’s the one who insisted on seeing me, he can start.
Finally, he says, “Since you claim that your next fuck has to be your husband, and I’m in need of a wife, why don’t we get married? Only for a year, mind you.”
It’s a good thing I didn’t take a drink from him because I would’ve ended up wearing it. My mouth hangs open. “Excuse me?”
He spreads his hands. “What? A year not ‘steady’ enough for you? It’s a helluva lot more secure than most jobs. I’ll even throw in some severance pay.”
Mr. Grayson mentioned Elliot is looking for a wife, but I couldn’t bring myself to really believe it. All he’d have to do is snap his fingers and women would line up to marry him. But this thing he’s proposing? It’s crazy.
“One million,” he says.
“Like dollars?” I ask almost stupidly.
His voice is dry. “Is there any other kind of million?”
“But…” I trail off. My gosh. I can’t think.
“The deal is very simple. We will get married as soon as possible, you will let me fuck you as often as I want, and a year later we’ll divorce, quietly and amicably.”
“No kids!” I blurt out.
His dark brows pinch together. “Of course not.” Distaste curls his lips. “That would be a disaster.”
“Right. A complete disaster.” Then I stop. Why am I even talking to him like he’s being rational? None of this is normal. “Why do you want to marry me anyway? You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t have to know you to marry you. History’s full of brides and grooms who didn’t even know what each other looked like until the ceremony. Hell, I bet it’s still happening somewhere in the world.”
“But not in America.”
“I’ve never been one to worry about precedent.” He smiles. “It’s only for a year. And in addition to the severance pay, there’ll be other perks.”
“I don’t think sleeping with you counts as a perk,” I rasp out through my dry throat.
He chuckles softly. The sound of amusement ripples like a gentle river, surprisingly calming. “More like a privilege.”
Oh my god. “How does your neck support a head that big?”
“With a great deal of difficulty.” He places his empty glass on the small table next to him and gets up.
My spine straightens, and I watch him with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. I’m quite certain whatever he’s going to try will end up disappointing. Sex is by default sort of bland for me, the mind-bending orgasms you always hear about myths as far as I’m concerned. Not that I don’t climax. I do. But it’s more like “ah, that was nice” not “ohmygod I can’t even remember my own name.” I actually think a lot of women talk about the crazy orgasms they experience so their boyfriends’ feelings won’t be hurt. Telling a man, “That wasn’t too bad,” isn’t really proper post-coitus etiquette.