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“It was a serious question,” I mumble.
I do busy myself with TV, but my thoughts won’t stop running wild. Again and again, I go over the implications of staying married. For now. Surely Teddy will tell his coworkers it’s not real, so no problem there. I’ll be lying to my family, but it’s either disappoint them now or disappoint them later. I’d rather deal with it later. And when it comes to my coworkers, what’s the harm? People get married for all sorts of different reasons, and love doesn’t always factor in. It’s not like I have to pretend to love Teddy. I’m just pretending to be his husband. I am his husband, so it’s not even a lie. Right?
When Teddy plops down next to me and a waft of spicy vanilla something hits my nose, I groan. “What is that?”
He looks at me curiously.
“The…” I wave my hand his way, trying to ignore his wet hair and the small damp spot between his pecs on his low-cut tank top. “Jesus. The, uh, that smell. What is it?”
His lips hike up on one side as he sets his heel on the coffee table, affording me a rather nice view of his crotch. “Tom Ford.”
“Uh-huh,” I mutter. “And, uh, how’d you get into porn?”
Teddy huffs a laugh. “I needed to get away from a job and a partner, and it seemed like the perfect fit.”
His words are said with a casual air, but there has to be a story there. “Well, you’re good at it.”
He gives me a smile. Not quite a smirk, but close. He knows he looks hot while fucking. He looks hot all the time, frankly, but especially then. When his light brown skin is dappled in sweat, the muscles in his thighs and ass flexing. When his hands are spread over hips or ass cheeks, his eyes focused and smoky dark. When his cock—
Nope. Shut it down.
I adjust myself as discreetly as possible.
“What time do you usually go to bed?” Teddy asks.
I swallow down my moan. “Eleven or so?”
“Same. That’ll work well.”
“Uh-huh,” I say weakly. “So good.”
By the time bedtime arrives, I’m contemplating jumping out a window.
“Maybe I should just take the couch,” I say as Teddy brushes his teeth in the en suite.
“If you want,” he responds. “The bed is more comfortable, though.”
“Sure, sure. Um, what if we have the same side, though?”
He sticks his head out the door. “I don’t have a side.”
“What?” I ask in shock. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is for me,” he says, spitting into the sink. My mind immediately jumps to him spitting other things, and—No. Bad Kipp.
Refocusing, I ask, “You just, what, sleep wherever the hell you want?”
“Why is that so odd?” he replies, coming out of the bathroom. He strips his tank top over his head without a care in the world, utterly confident in his body. It’s sexy as hell. He’s sexy as hell. “Kipp?”
“Uh, yeah,” I manage. “It’s just…everyone has a side.”
“Not me. Any other reasons?” he asks.
“Reasons for what?”
“You to avoid sleeping in my bed. You didn’t have a problem with it last night.”
“Right,” I say slowly, hoping my blush doesn’t show. This whole sleep with but don’t fuck your husband thing is throwing me. I’m not used to spending nights platonically in someone else’s bed. “It’s fine. I like the left side.”
