Scar
It’s been a long time since I shared my space with another person.
Since college, over ten years ago now.
Even back then, I got my own apartment as soon as it was feasible. I loved my Atlas brothers, but they were messy as hell, and I couldn’t handle it.
Now, I wake up to find half-finished glasses of water left around the apartment. Mugs of coffee with two sips perched on end tables. Dishes lying on the counter, not rinsed, not put in the dishwasher. Drawers hanging open. Cabinets with fingerprints. Keys tossed on the entry table with no attempt at organizing the chaos.
She’s Hurricane Rita.
Throw pillows appear. Colorful blankets. Some attractive art prints on the walls. Coffee table books tastefully spread out. None of it is my style, but I told her to make the place her own.
There are perks. Like Rita in a pair of tight yoga pants and a sports bra lounging on the couch, reading a novel. Or Rita working out, sweat dripping down her stupidly gorgeous body. Or Rita in an old, ratty t-shirt, too small and practically see-through, her nipples hard, her lips pouty.
Fucking hell, the girl drives me crazy.
She got clothes from every designer brand imaginable. Really made me pay for it. And yet she still somehow wears what looks like thrifted stuff designed to be as sexy as possible.
It’s hard to complain. My new fake wife has beautiful tits and a tight ass. Over the next few days, she works out obsessively, and it’s clear how she looks the way she does.
Hard work. Something we have in common.
“You don’t have to kill yourself, you know,” I say on Wednesday evening after a few days of her living here. “Sometimes it feels like you’re trying to push yourself to the limits.”
She’s sitting on the gym with her back to the wall, breathing hard after a particularly intense workout. “Exercise keeps my mind off my problems. And as you know, I have a lot of them right now.”
I shrug and walk to the treadmill. It beeps to life as I start my evening cardio. “There are better ways to distract yourself. Ones that won’t end with you getting injured.”
“If you’re about to mention sex again-”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I wasn’t, but I can see where your head’s at.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, sorry, this coming from the guy that keeps glancing at my chest. Yeah, I noticed.”
“You have a great tits. Am I supposed to ignore them?”
A little smile graces her lips. “You think so? I mean, I know I do, but it’s nice to hear it sometimes.”
“Look at you,” I say, head tilted. “You’re gorgeous. But you work for it.”
“Is that some kind of insult?”
“Not at all. We’re alike, actually. I work for what I have too. I wasn’t born with any of this.”
She hesitates, fingers drumming against her lips. “Where were you born?”
“The Midwest. A small town a couple hours outside of Chicago. Father was a roofer, mother was a seamstress.”
“Blue-collar upbringing, huh? Honestly, I would’ve guessed you’re the son of a California oil baron.”
“I was the first person in my family to go to college.” I feel a sense of pride bloom in my chest. It makes me think of my father, sitting at his old, peeling table, drinking his fifth Miller Lite, grinning at me. Boy, you’re the smart one in the fucking family. Go to school and don’t look back.
“Me too,” she says cautiously. “What are the chances of that?”
“Is it really such a shock that we have things in common?”
“Well, my parents are swingers now, and they’re having a nice time in Paris with their quadrople relationship. How about you? Are your parents swinging with their Midwestern buddies?”
“God, no, my parents would sooner throw themselves off a bridge than swing.” I look at the treadmill and turn the speed up. They were conservative people, hard workers, serious types. They saved and saved, planned and worried and saved from more, until it didn’t matter in the end. “My dad passed away from cancer four years ago. My mom lives in a retirement facility.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about your dad.”
“It’s all right. I take care of my mom now. Financially, at least, and I visit as much as I can.” Which isn’t as often as I’d like.
“Do you have a good relationship with her?”
“I do,” I say, tilting my head. “But she’s always been sort of… distant. Closed off.”
“I wonder where you got that from,” she says, grinning.
“Right, just like how you got your love of swinging from your parents.”
She laughs and flips me off. “Okay, I have a question for you, and please don’t take this the wrong way. I’m just trying to get to know my supposed husband.”
“If you’re about to ask if I love going down on women, the answer is yes, absolutely.” I lick my lips, thinking about her legs wrapped around my face.
Her cheeks turn red. “Do you really have to do that? No, I was going to ask if you’ve ever been in a relationship before. Like, a real one.”
I hesitate, some of my excitement fizzling away. I don’t look at her as I turn the speed up until I’m jogging slowly. “Yes, but it was a long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“We ended.” I don’t elaborate. She waits for me to say more, but I don’t want to talk about her. Not with Rita, not with anyone.
“Okay, keep that one close to the chest, that’s fine.” She stretches her long, lean legs. “As you’re aware, I dated one guy in college, and he is now engaged to someone else.”
“You’re married. You win.”
“Hm, actually, that’s true.” She grins at me. “Hey, you’re useful for something.”
“Glad to be of service.”
She pushes herself to her feet. “We’re flying to Gloucester in a couple days to visit with the Callahans. I think we should do this a few more times. You know, so we can plausibly pretend to know each other.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say, glancing at her. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to get information about my sex life? I’ll show you the piercing if you’re so desperate.”
She blushes again. “Absolutely not, no thank you.” Then clears her throat. “But you really do like going down on women?”
“Love it,” I admit. “I haven’t been in a serious relationship in a long time, but that doesn’t mean I let myself grow rusty.”
She licks her lips. “Uhm, that’s good to know, I guess. You know, in case, uh, the subject of sex comes up. Somehow.”
“Right, for the fake relationship.”
She clears her throat and speaks in a rush. “Scott never went down on me. Not a single time. He never cared if I got off, even though he let me suck his dick all the time and insisted that I swallow. Not that I minded, but still. He got off, but I didn’t, and I always resented him for that. He was into sex, and thought I was hot, but he couldn’t have cared less about whether I got the same pleasure as him. That’s about my experience with, uh, you know, sex stuff. Now you know.”
I slow the treadmill until it stops. I stare at her, heart racing, doing my best to keep my cock from getting rock hard. Which isn’t easy. The thought of her lips wrapped around my tip, of her down on her knees sucking me off with that pretty mouth, making those whimpering noises-fuck, I need to get it together.
“If I were in his position, I would make sure you come on my tongue every single night,” I say and realize just how much I mean it. I’ve been fucking with her, teasing her, riling her up for fun. But it’s beginning to backfire. As I stare into her eyes and watch the sweat roll down her lovely skin, down over her breasts, down her toned stomach and long legs, I realize how much I really would love to taste her. How much I crave that whimper as she digs her fingers through my hair.
“Good to know,” she says quietly.
I stare at her and begin to walk again. Otherwise I’m going to get hard. She licks her lips and her eyes drift down my body. I’m sweating now and she’s noticing. I like that she’s looking. I like that she’s aroused, maybe as much as I am.
But no sex. That’s the rule.
Not that I particularly want to make this fake relationship messier than it already is. Rita’s beautiful, yes, and I want her physically, but she’s still a mess. There are a dozen reasons why I don’t want to get even more tangled with her.
Still, the idea of her rubbing her soaking wet clit against my tongue-
Fuck, I need a cold shower after this.
“I should go,” she squeaks, turning on her heel. “Good talk.”
She marches out.
Her door slams.
And there’s no doubt in my mind she’s in her bed right now, giving herself the orgasm she deserves.
Fuck, that girl is trouble.
But she’s right: we need to get to know each other. Not just sexually, but in every way I can think of. I need to know her likes, dislikes, hobbies, tastes, habits. All the stuff a husband would know intuitively.
And I have two days to do it.
Time for a crash course in Rita Scarfoni.