Her Gentle Gangster by Carolyn Faulkner
Chapter Ten
Michael
I letit go too far.
Don’t get me wrong; playing house with Cara is better than I could have imagined as far as my fantasy fulfillment goes.
Best of all, neither of us answers to anyone, living for the next day and a half in complete pretend domestic bliss.
I don’t ask Cara to do anything, but she cooks my meals, washes and folds my laundry, cleans the entire house, and massages my feet while we watch Netflix and chill. To the casual observer, it would seem I have this woman under my thumb. In reality, she takes all the initiative. The more I protest, the more she insists.
She says she loves the roleplay as much as I do. As evidenced by her unquenchable fire in the bedroom, I believe her.
We fuck in every room of the house, like newlyweds. Or as I imagine, newlyweds should.
We feed each other lemon blueberry cake in the kitchen with every meal, but only after I eat all my vegetables.
I have to mark on a calendar how much water I drink because she wants to make sure I’m hydrated. I’m sloshing around so much that I don’t even have room for whiskey on Saturday and Sunday night. And I don’t want it, anyway. I want every single second with this woman burned into my brain, clear as the blue of her eyes.
Sunday night comes too soon.
In the shower before bed, her face looks sad, and this is the point at which I think I’ve taken it too far.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. You look like something is on your mind.”
Cara smiles up at me wanly while soaping up a sponge and running it over my chest.
“I don’t want to go to work tomorrow,” she says.
“So don’t go. Simple,” I say.
“I mean, I do. I love my job. I just don’t want the fantasy to end. There’s a lot we haven’t discussed—as husband and wife—that we should discuss.”
Something in her eyes tells me there’s more to this than playing pretend. I’ve let it go too far, and she’s going to get hurt. Let me be perfectly honest—I’m not going to hurt her. This whole thing that I’m into purely for sex has turned into something else. I don’t want her to leave. Ever.
“You can say anything to me, lovely.”
“I know this is a game to you, but I have news. I didn’t take my birth control pill today.”
At this moment, I make the wrong choice. I think I’m doing the right thing by listening, but instead, she takes it as shocked silence. Inside, I’m cautiously pleased. I want nothing else but to have this woman, pregnant, in my bed—every night.
I take the sponge from her and lather it up, rubbing it over her back, massaging her shoulders while we share a silence.
I should have anticipated this, and I should have already decided what to say.
“I…I’m fine with that, Cara.”
Her face changes and I know instantly she’s putting a mask back on. She lolls her head back and laughs, then points at me. “Gotcha!”
This is what she needs right now, to save face. She nearly let her emotions get the better of her, and she needs to make a joke.
I wish she would just tell me.
That night, I spoon up behind her in bed and wrap her tight in my arms.
She sighs. I lose myself in her hair.
“What’s my retired husband going to do tomorrow?”
“Oh, probably go 18 holes with Bill. Or probably get my teeth knocked out by his five iron.”
“Maybe don’t tell him you married his daughter and instead have a nice 18 holes, my love.”
The way she says “my love” grips me, squeezes all the juice out of my heart.
I want to hear her say it again. Every day. For the rest of my life.