I snuggle under the covers and close my eyes, thinking about Chris and how he blushed something fierce when I asked him to be a Trophy Husband. Of course, I was just playing around.
Still, he would make a good candidate if he were twenty-three. Then I wonder what actually constitutes a good candidate.
I say the words quietly aloud.
“Trophy Husband.”
I break it down.
“Trophy.” Then, “Husband.”
As I separate them, as I pull the adjective away from the noun, I find I don’t really like them apart, I don’t really like the second word by itself.
Husband. Husband. Husband.
For the first time since I started this project that word echoes in my brain. That title, that role. But I don’t want to think about the practical application of the title. Because I’m not ready to think about what it means. That’s why I have answered the question in other ways. That’s why I have turned the question into one I want to answer, a question about politics, about equality between the sexes, about what women can do, about proving the naysayers wrong, about making a point. Or about my friends, and how they want me to do this to move on. How I need to need move.
Even though now I kind of want to move on to Chris. So I close my eyes, and think of him, and the way he blushed, and how he touched my hand, and how he said all those nice things that make me want to curl up with him instead of my Mac.
I’ve let my mind wander to him so often already. I’ve pictured snapshots in time with him – on my table, kissing him by his car, making out with him on my couch. But today, for the first time, I felt as if maybe, just maybe, he might want those things too.
And so, I let the images rush by. I picture him here with me, walking into my bedroom, seeing me here in my bed with just a tank top and bikini underwear on. He drinks me in, his eyes saying how much he wants me. He doesn’t lower the light. He wants to see me, to watch me, to savor every inch of me. He walks over to the bed, crawls up onto it, and straddles me. He’s pinning me, a knee on each side, then he brings my wrists up high above my head. I’m helpless, but I don’t care. Because each move he makes stakes his claim to me. He buries his face in my neck, kissing me behind my ear, and making me groan. He runs his tongue down to my chest, cupping my br**sts through my top. I’m completely aroused in an instant and I wriggle under him. He flashes me a quick and wicked smile, knowing he’s having the desired effect already. But he doesn’t give in to the arch of my h*ps just yet. Instead, he lets go of my wrists, removes my top, and kisses my br**sts. First one, curving his hand all the way around and tugging at my nipple until I say his name in a hoarse kind of voice. Then the other, so deliciously, that all I want right now is to know exactly how his mouth feels against the center of me. I writhe underneath him, trying to guide him faster down my flesh to the throb between my legs. And soon, soon, he listens to my body, inching down my waist, kissing my belly button, and then nipping at my hipbone. I cry out.
“Please touch me,” I say. And he knows what I mean and how much I need to feel his tongue swirling a delirious line across all that liquid heat in my core. In one swift move, my panties are off, and his face is between my legs, and my hands are in his hair, and I am mindless with pleasure as his tongue swirls against me. My knees fall open, blood rushing through my veins, heating my body, as I see him, feel him, picture him here with me. He is masterful, his tongue painting dizzying brushstrokes through all my wetness. I grab him, bring him closer, wrap my legs around his shoulders. He grips my calf, running his hand over my smooth skin as he buries his face between my legs, spread open for him and holding him tight at the same time. I rock into him, and I can’t stop. I can’t hold back. I don’t want to. He goes deeper with his tongue, as if he can’t hold back either, as if he can’t resist drinking me in, as he grips my h*ps and devours me with his lips so intensely that the neighbors may soon know his name. Drenched with desire, I am panting and moaning, singing his name and wishing he were the one doing this to me right now.
Chapter Ten
I brush last night’s solo ride from my mind when I see him. I have to. I can’t let him see that he’s already done so many things to me. That he’s unraveled me and I’ve come for him. I have to back this all up and let him be my gaming tutor.
“So do you teach a lot of newbies how to play Guitar Hero?”
“Not as much as a few yeas ago,” Chris says, then hands me a black plastic guitar. The guitar is a cross between a real guitar and the sort of miniature kid-size guitar someone might give away in a grab bag at a party for musically-inclined ten-year-olds.
“What can I say? I’m a retro-loving gal.” I point to my flirty little vintage blue dress with a cherry pattern on it.
“That’s a totally hot dress, and if you keep pointing to it, it’ll make it hard for me to concentrate on giving you lessons.”
I hide a wild grin at the compliment, as I drop the guitar strap over my head, slinging the plastic instrument across my belly. It’s not mere fashion happenstance that I chose this dress. It accentuates all my best assets, and I also love it, so I feel good when I wear it. And with his comment, I’m left to wonder if he’s entertained after-hours thoughts about me too. How far they went. If he touched himself, if he pictured me doing things to him, if I made him come too. My mind is awash in dirty thoughts that are dangerously close to making me too turned on to function. So I shove away all the delicious images of Chris undressed, naked, in his bed, lost in thoughts of me.
Chris turns on the Xbox and then hits the on-button on my guitar. We’re in the former car stereo room at the electronics store, only now it’s been converted into a sort of gaming living room. Customers can come here and test out all sorts of games on the various consoles. Or they can get lessons from the master once a week.
The game whirs on, a picture of a dark pink mountaintop, set against a black night sky, appears on the gigantic television screen hanging on the wall in front of us. Chris moves closer to me, taps a few buttons on my guitar to click past that screen, then the next, then the next. I want him to touch a few more buttons on my guitar.
He teaches me the basics, how to play the green, red and yellow notes on the easy level of the game. How to hit them at just the right time. How to hit the strum bar at the same time too. I butcher my way through Slow Ride and Hit Me with Your Best Shot, getting booed at by the virtual audience, tossed off stage. So I dig in, like a batter at the plate, eyes fixated on the screen, feet planted firmly on the ground, index, middle and ring finger poised over the notes. Chris walks behind me, adjusts the strap a bit, moving the guitar a bit lower. He places his right hand on top of mine on the notes.