ears when I make it home just before five. I skipped out on my last meeting, asking my assistant to cover for me, because I know Olivia will be expecting sex tonight. And I know I need to figure out a way to tell her everything. The contract. The bouncing baby we’re supposed to make.
She thought I was scared of having sex because I was worried about feeling something for her. But she’s wrong. I already feel a lot for her. I always have.
She was adamant. Tonight. Sex. Period. Even picked up some condoms. What the fuck am I going to do? Fake a latex allergy? No way in hell will she buy that. It’s such a stupid idea; I can’t even believe I’m thinking it. I’m so rattled, so panicked, all sorts of crazy shit is pouring through my head.
I kick off my shoes and stow them in the small entry closet. Loosening my tie, I head into the bathroom, where I stare at my reflection.
When I signed those papers, it seemed like the right thing to do. Save the company? Check . Get a shot with the woman I’ve always dreamed about? Check . And make a baby? No problem, right? But now that this is all happening, it’s become real , and I’m fucking losing it. Losing my edge.
Just over a week into our marriage and I’m already the world’s worst husband. Rosita was right about the dark circles under my eyes. I look like hell. I splash some cool water on my cheeks, hoping it might help. No such luck. I still look confused and tired and scared.
Well, fuck that. I straighten my shoulders. That’s not me. I’m not some wimpy little boy who’s too afraid to take care of his woman. And that’s what this is, isn’t it? Olivia has needs. And I’m supposed to be the one to take care of those needs.
I have two choices when Olivia gets home tonight. I can come clean with everything, tell her about the heir clause, show her the section in the contract she missed. Or . . . I can keep my fucking trap shut and go along with what she wants. No-strings sex.
We’re just beginning to click. She’s just beginning to trust me. If I fuck her tonight and she enjoys herself—which I have no doubts she will—that’s a big step toward bringing us closer as a couple. And isn’t that what we need if we really are to parent together? I think that’s what Rosita was trying to say today, that Olivia and I need to enjoy ourselves. We’re in our honeymoon stage of marriage, after all. Baby-making can come later. After our relationship is strong enough that the heir discussion won’t bring it crashing down around us.
If safe sex is what she wants, with condoms galore, I’ll do it. If I don’t, I’ll arouse her suspicions. What choice do I have? The only thing I can do for now is buy more time to think. I just need to shut up and do my husbandly duty until I can figure out the best way to broach the topic of babies with her.
Glancing one last time in the mirror, I exhale a deep breath. Just go with it, man. This can be good for both of us. It can be the start of something real. For now, my wife wants to be fuck buddies, and I’m sure as hell not turning my nose up at that opportunity.
I head into the kitchen and start pulling ingredients out of the fridge to make dinner. I don’t know how to make many dishes, but there are still a few Mum taught me that I remember.
Now that I’m in the kitchen, with the soft sizzle of the sauté pan to keep me company, my deception doesn’t seem quite the earth-shattering catastrophe I thought it was going to be. I’m not a coward, not really lying . I’m just being thoughtful—taking care to choose the right moment to bring up a sensitive topic.
I work efficiently, chopping and dicing as I wait for my wife to get home from work. It all feels so normal, so utterly mundane.
My phone chimes, and I see there’s a new text from Olivia.
Olivia : I’m on my way home. Everything still on plan for tonight? Because we’re totally going to fuck. Right, Mr. Tate?
Reading her dirty words sends a
She thought I was scared of having sex because I was worried about feeling something for her. But she’s wrong. I already feel a lot for her. I always have.
She was adamant. Tonight. Sex. Period. Even picked up some condoms. What the fuck am I going to do? Fake a latex allergy? No way in hell will she buy that. It’s such a stupid idea; I can’t even believe I’m thinking it. I’m so rattled, so panicked, all sorts of crazy shit is pouring through my head.
I kick off my shoes and stow them in the small entry closet. Loosening my tie, I head into the bathroom, where I stare at my reflection.
When I signed those papers, it seemed like the right thing to do. Save the company? Check . Get a shot with the woman I’ve always dreamed about? Check . And make a baby? No problem, right? But now that this is all happening, it’s become real , and I’m fucking losing it. Losing my edge.
Just over a week into our marriage and I’m already the world’s worst husband. Rosita was right about the dark circles under my eyes. I look like hell. I splash some cool water on my cheeks, hoping it might help. No such luck. I still look confused and tired and scared.
Well, fuck that. I straighten my shoulders. That’s not me. I’m not some wimpy little boy who’s too afraid to take care of his woman. And that’s what this is, isn’t it? Olivia has needs. And I’m supposed to be the one to take care of those needs.
I have two choices when Olivia gets home tonight. I can come clean with everything, tell her about the heir clause, show her the section in the contract she missed. Or . . . I can keep my fucking trap shut and go along with what she wants. No-strings sex.
We’re just beginning to click. She’s just beginning to trust me. If I fuck her tonight and she enjoys herself—which I have no doubts she will—that’s a big step toward bringing us closer as a couple. And isn’t that what we need if we really are to parent together? I think that’s what Rosita was trying to say today, that Olivia and I need to enjoy ourselves. We’re in our honeymoon stage of marriage, after all. Baby-making can come later. After our relationship is strong enough that the heir discussion won’t bring it crashing down around us.
If safe sex is what she wants, with condoms galore, I’ll do it. If I don’t, I’ll arouse her suspicions. What choice do I have? The only thing I can do for now is buy more time to think. I just need to shut up and do my husbandly duty until I can figure out the best way to broach the topic of babies with her.
Glancing one last time in the mirror, I exhale a deep breath. Just go with it, man. This can be good for both of us. It can be the start of something real. For now, my wife wants to be fuck buddies, and I’m sure as hell not turning my nose up at that opportunity.
I head into the kitchen and start pulling ingredients out of the fridge to make dinner. I don’t know how to make many dishes, but there are still a few Mum taught me that I remember.
Now that I’m in the kitchen, with the soft sizzle of the sauté pan to keep me company, my deception doesn’t seem quite the earth-shattering catastrophe I thought it was going to be. I’m not a coward, not really lying . I’m just being thoughtful—taking care to choose the right moment to bring up a sensitive topic.
I work efficiently, chopping and dicing as I wait for my wife to get home from work. It all feels so normal, so utterly mundane.
My phone chimes, and I see there’s a new text from Olivia.
Olivia : I’m on my way home. Everything still on plan for tonight? Because we’re totally going to fuck. Right, Mr. Tate?
Reading her dirty words sends a
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