Page 11 of The Pucking Fake Marriage (The Ice Kings #4)

TEN

WALKING A TIGHTROPE (CHARLIE)

“Have you ever seen this place so…alive?”

I look out over the restaurant, a sense of pride brimming in me. For the first time in a while, there’re more than ten people seated in front of the counter. The kitchen is buzzing with activity: knives chopping, oil sizzling, food being plated. The sounds and the sight almost bring tears to my eyes.

“Looks like the reviews did their magic,” Haley chirps. She’s standing behind me by the counter as we listen to the low thrum of voices around us. “Also helps that we hired a competent chef.”

Yes, I think. Yes to all of that.

It has been three weeks since I moved in with Ken, and a lot has changed since then. He wired me money that same night, and I’d gotten to work right away. First order of business was to hire a chef. With Ken’s generous loan, I was able to offer a salary high enough to attract good candidates. We found Ivory Johnson in a week, a student chef halfway through her program. A temp staff, but good enough to relaunch the restaurant. We also got a sous-chef and three servers.

I tracked down a couple of social media influencers—no one reads the papers anymore—and paid them to come in for a review. Those videos started to generate some buzz. In the last two weeks, we’ve had a regular string of customers. While some people have deemed Ivory’s cooking as no better than average, no one has outright hated the food.

We’re nowhere near breaking even, but we’re on the right path. Plus, I already wired a huge sum back home for my father’s treatment. I feel less like a failure than I have in years.

A win, from where I’m standing.

I scour the restaurant, counting the people currently seated. Twelve . I try not to be disappointed, especially since around this time yesterday there were fourteen.

The numbers haven’t gone up to twenty at any given time yet, and I’m hoping to reach that milestone by the end of the month.

I lead Haley away from the main restaurant and into the cramped spot we use as our joint office. There’s a huge filing cabinet storing all the restaurants’ documents and a desk with two chairs. There’s a thin layer of dust on most of the surfaces—we’ve both been manning the counter for a while and haven’t used this space.

“Any ideas?” I ask Haley, wiping dust off the table with a rag. “We need more customers. Think we should hire another waiter?”

Haley’s eyes are twinkling. “Come on, you’re really going to make me ask?”

I squint at her. “What are you talking about?”

She sits down on one of the chairs and grins at me, excitement dancing in her eyes. “Seriously, how does it feel living with Ken Edwards?”

Now that’s a question I never thought I’d have to answer. Also, one I never thought I’d actually struggle to answer.

“Fine.” The word comes out a little too quickly, a little too calmly. I know that, even before Haley’s eyes widen in pleasure.

“Something has happened, hasn’t it? I knew it!” She screams the last sentence with so much glee I half-jump out of my chair.

“Nothing has happened.” I try to speak slowly and assertively, doing everything in my power to make sure I sound truthful.

Haley stares at me for a few moments. I stare right back, refusing to blink. A few seconds later, she sighs in frustration.

“I can believe it. Ken Edwards is literally a Ken doll. And you’re going to let all that testosterone walk around the same house with you and not take a bite out of it?”

There’s no chance for me to get a reply in. Just then there’s a sharp knock on the door, and one of our new servers pokes his head in. “Miss Donaldson,” he says to Haley. “We’re having an issue with the till, and we wondered if you could help.”

I still haven’t gotten used to the fact that we actually have employees now. Apparently, neither has Haley, because she gets completely distracted by his use of the word “Miss.” Pulling on a serious, I’m-the-boss expression, she walks out after him.

Leaving me alone, filled with relief…and a little bit of guilt.

There’s nothing to feel bad about though, I remind myself. I am telling the truth. Nothing has happened. And nothing will happen, not on my watch.

But then…

I press the insides of my thighs together. The shock of pleasure generated by the friction soothes me somewhat, but it’s not nearly enough to calm the flaming desire that has been awakened in me over the past few weeks.

Ever since I moved in with Ken.

I couldn’t have asked for a better transition. His apartment is miles better than mine in every way: a couch spacious enough for multiple people to lounge on comfortably, a kitchen that put even the one in my restaurant to shame, a king-sized bed in my bedroom, and the bathroom opposite Ken’s room actually has a jacuzzi and heated tile floors. I loved everything about his place.

But the best part of all is that Philly Titans were on the road for a large part of the month, starting the day I moved in. This meant I spent most of my time at Ken’s alone, living luxuriously.

Until he came back three days ago.

Ken’s presence didn’t exactly change my routine. He mostly left early and came home late, going off for practices or team meets. Plus, ever since the humiliating episode where I cried in his arms, the block of animosity between us has been chipped away to almost nothing, like a thin layer of ice. We could actually talk about our day without ripping each other’s head off.

Everything should be fine, really.

Except for the fact that Haley’s right. Ken is a goddamn gladiator, sculpted to perfection. One that is harder to ignore when I catch a glimpse of him at the kitchen counter in the morning, making himself eggs. Shirtless. With his morning wood proudly displayed .

The past few days have been torture. Something about having him close after he promised not to touch me is making me go crazy. Not an exaggeration. Last night, it took hours to fall asleep because I was imagining him breathing in the next room, his beautiful body sprawled on the bed, his dick hardening…

My cheeks burn as I remember sliding my fingers down my body, cupping my breast with one hand and thrusting into myself with the other. I had a choice between pleasing myself or caving and going into his room to beg him to fuck me.

That wouldn’t have gone well. Especially because Ken seems to have found a way to burn off every iota of his desire for me. When he looks at me or talks to me nowadays, it feels like he might as well be talking to a middle-aged woman he met on the street.

He probably found someone to satisfy him back in Dallas.

I’m not jealous, I tell myself as a different burning sensation crawls up my spine. If anything, I’m relieved. Ken is keeping his end of the deal, and I’m finding a way out of the mess I dug myself into over the past few years.

My mind is most likely exaggerating my desire for Ken. Perhaps I’d gotten a little confused after he bailed me out of complete ruin, and my subconscious spilled over my gratitude into passion. It’ll take a few days, maybe a few weeks, to put a lid on that. But I’m going to figure out exactly how to do it pretty soon.

But as I stand up from my chair and head back to the main restaurant, a snapshot of a shirtless Ken flashes through my mind. Hard, broad shoulders, perfectly-sized pecs, smooth, toned stomach. The ideal man’s torso. His nipples, a dark pink shade, sharp small buds that would definitely feel good against my tongue…

Okay, now I’m salivating.

Swallowing hard, I force myself to admit the obvious. I want him. Pretty bad. And all of my defenses are crumbling…or have completely crumbled already. And if I don’t get things in check soon, I’m going to end up doing—or saying—something I’m going to regret.

Ken has proven time and time again that he takes pleasure in edging me. And that was when I was sure he wanted me too. Now…

Keep your dignity, Charlie, I tell myself. That’s going to be the mantra I’ll live with for the next few weeks.

Hours later, I step into the eerie stillness of Ken’s apartment. I closed a little on the late side tonight—I was brainstorming how to get more customers with Haley. As I stride across the living room, I feel almost frantic. I don’t need to think too hard to figure out why. As per Ken’s schedule over the past three days, he’ll be arriving home in less than thirty minutes.

I have to shower and get to bed by the time he’s back. The less time we spend talking at night, the safer I am. And since I use the bathroom right in front of his bedroom, I need to move as quickly as possible.

I hurry up the stairs. Incidentally, they are my favorite detail about Ken’s apartment. Exquisitely curved, it reminds me of a snake wrapped around a pole. There’s a huge abstract painting hanging over them that makes me think highly of Ken’s taste. I glance at it for a second before I dash past the stairs and into my room. Stripping my clothes off, I slip into my bathrobe and launch myself back into the corridor, heading for the bathroom.

I push the door open and step in. Ken’s bathroom is a wonder on its own. The walls are patterned with white and power-blue tiles that match perfectly with the off-white marble on the floor. The jacuzzi, the room’s main attraction, is a unique hexagonal shape, large enough so that two people can lie comfortably side-by side. Across the room, there’s an antique stone sink and a rustic floor-length mirror that somehow clashes with the rest of the decor and complements it at the same time.

His bathroom always calms me. But not today.

Because the moment I walk in, my feet gliding on the smooth tiles. I’m confronted with Ken standing in front of the mirror, combing his dark hair from his forehead…while fully naked.

All the breath in my lungs disappears in a single instant, rendering it impossible to make a noise. My blood freezes, and I’m suddenly incapable of movement.

All I can do is stare. Take note of all the parts of Ken I hadn’t noticed when we were naked together. The splatter of freckles on his lower back. His ass cheeks, lean and muscular. Even new things, like the drops of water glistening on his skin like shards of ice.

And if I let my eyes go a little lower, I can see it. Him. Hanging between his thighs.

I’m suddenly aware of how dry my lips are. I run my tongue over them, my heart pounding. Under my bathrobe, I’m completely naked as well. If I were to shrug off the material and go to him…

He doesn’t want you, Charlie.

Or does he? What if Ken has been doing nothing but playing a game all along? What are the chances that he’s going to turn me down if I stood in front of him, not wearing anything? There’s no way in hell he’s just going to keep staring at me with that glazed-over, respect-your-grandma expression.

“Fuck,” Ken mutters. My heart jumps in my chest. I think for a second that he’s seen my reflection through the mirror. But he doesn’t turn around. Instead, one of his hands reaches down his body, grabbing his dick and pulling it up.

My heart misses a painful beat. I’ve got no idea what he’s going to do next, but if I’m here for longer than I already am, I’m going to lose it.

I tiptoe out of the bathroom. My heart hammers in my chest as I bolt into my room, locking the door behind me. My fingers are jerky as I reach for the dress I just discarded, pulling it back on.

What the fuck is happening to me? Why am I suddenly unable to keep myself in check?

And what do I do now? Go to bed? Make it obvious that I’m avoiding Ken by not coming out to greet him?

What if he did see me?

I’m still hung up on that last thought when there’s a knock on my door.

This time, I jump along with my heart. My entire body is trembling as I look toward the door. But I don’t feel the trepidation I want to feel.

Instead, I feel…anticipation.

I want him to know I was watching. To have come here only to collect…me.

I take a deep breath. And then another. I’m trying to calm my trembling fingers, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

What if tonight ends with sex? What then? Would I graduate to spending every night in his bed? Let him have his fun until he has to go out of town again and finds someone else?

“Charlie? You in there?”

I pause. He sounds casual enough.

Nothing screams “ I’ll fuck your brains out tonight ” in his voice.

I walk to the door as slowly as I can manage. Soon enough, I’m twisting the handle and pulling it open. For one wild second, I assume Ken will be fully naked. Or wearing only a towel.

But no. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. The top is half-wet and clings to his skin in a way that makes me squeeze my thighs together.

“Good. You’re here.” He grins at me, and I’m almost disappointed to note that he’s still wearing the casual gaze from the last few days. “Got a notification on my phone about someone walking into my house. Wanted to make sure it was you and not one of the guys.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah, it’s me.” Taking a bold stab at a conversation, I ask, “How was practice?”

Ken runs his fingers through his wet hair, slicked backward so the sharp angles of his face are more prominent. “I swear the coaches are trying to kill us. I just tried to drown my sorrows in an hour-long bath.”

My stomach buckles. Now, we’re firmly in the roommate territory, talking about work and showers.

Why can’t I convince myself this is a good thing?

His eyes suddenly pop with realization. “Damnit, I forgot there’s no bath in your room. That’s the bathroom you’re using, isn’t it? My bad, my ensuite bathroom isn’t big enough to fit a jacuzzi in, so I use the guest one when I need it. You know, after an awful practice. ”

“That bad, huh?” If he’s going to keep talking to me in this way, I’ve got to find some better rejoinders.

He clamps his right palm on his left shoulder. “It’s killing me, Charles. And you know the hockey massage therapists do their job like they’re trying to kill us or something.”

“I could give you a massage.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I feel the color drain from my cheeks. Did I really just say that?

I take a deep breath and think back on my words. Am I so fogged by my sexual desire that I am willing to literally massage Ken in order to get close to him?

No, I realize a second later. I didn’t offer a massage to Ken because I am turned on by him.

I did it because he talked about his training in exhaustive detail. And called me Charles. Just like he did when we were kids.

And just like that, I’m offering him a massage. The way I used to.

Guess who’s still living in the past.

I raise my gaze to him, mortified. But if Ken is surprised by my offer, he doesn’t show it. He merely shakes his head. “You’re too tired. I’ll get over it.”

I surprise myself by shaking my head too. “I’m not. I’ll do it. Do you have massage oil?”

Now I’m actually offering to do it wholeheartedly. First, because I know from our childhood just how brutally sore his muscles could be. Second, because I kind of like that we’re easing back into friendship territory.

Maybe seeing Ken in this light is exactly what I need to get over him.

In five minutes, I’m standing behind Ken seated on his couch. Some sports show is on the TV. I’m grateful for the noise that cloaks the awkward silence as Ken strips off his T-shirt. I pour some of the coconut oil he gave me onto my palm and rub fervently. A strong feeling of déjà vu overcomes me as I place both palms on either of his shoulders. His skin is warm, muscles rippling underneath as he moves his arms.

“Damn,” he mutters, as I start to knead the muscles gently. “That feels amazing.”

A smile tugs on my lips. Something about visiting the past this way isn’t nearly so bad. I continue to massage him, spreading oil over his skin and working it in. His muscles stiffen as I reach a particular spot on his shoulder.

“Some fool whacked me with his stick here,” he says, jabbing at the spot. “A rookie. Says it was a mistake.” He huffs.

My smile broadens. “At least you weren’t drenched in hot oil because the chef you hired mistook you for the sink.”

He turns around to look at me, his jaw slack. “Really? Your new chef did that?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Actually, it was the first chef I hired when I bought the restaurant. He was a nervous wreck. I knew even then that it was a bad idea, hiring someone who was a ‘self-study.’”

Ken lets out a bark of laughter. “A self-study chef? Come on, Charles.”

I give him a quick jab on his sore spot. He winces. A strange feeling bubbles up in my gut. Warmth, I realize a second later. I actually like talking to Ken like this, as it was in the old days.

“A lot of world class chefs didn’t go to culinary school,” I remind him. “Your mom is one of them. ”

He shrugs. “Agreed. She taught me a lot about cooking. Hey, maybe I can teach your new chef some of her recipes.”

“Coming from the man who makes eggs for breakfast every morning? I don’t think so.”

We’re now deep in friendship territory, and it feels good. So good I can almost forget my wanton desire for him.

Almost.

Still, it makes me remember how it felt being around him. How Kali could never measure up to someone I could lose sense of time speaking to.

An old memory comes to mind. It happened after Sasha, my best friend in high school, hung out with me and Ken for hours.

“You guys act like a real couple,” she’d said, sounding disgruntled. “Laughing together, inside jokes. You’re more in sync than you and Kali. Why aren’t you with Ken? You clearly like him better.”

I’d swatted her off with some mediocre response, but I still remember the strange emotions that had flared in my heart at her words. Deep down, I knew she had raised a valid point.

But I also knew that I’d never dare to think about going for Ken. It would be like taunting the universe. And I decided that it’s better we preserve our sweet, easy friendship than ask for more and get burned.

Cause you can have anything, just not everything.

A lesson from my mom.

But she’s full of shit. Even though she has been proven right so far. For instance, just look what happened when Ken decided to tell me about his feelings.

But I should be able to have everything, damn it.

“Only because it’s training season and I’ve got to get my protein in,” Ken pulls my mind out of the spiral. “I can still cook. It never leaves you.”

I stash away the bitterness that arises in my gut when I think of Ken confessing his feelings. This is a new phase in our relationship, one I’m grateful for.

“I bought the restaurant because I was inspired by your mom’s cooking,” I admit. It’s the first time I’ve ever told anyone, but I don’t feel self-conscious about it. “I thought it would be easy to learn. Even tried by myself for a whole week. But I sucked.” Something about sharing my failures with Ken feels freeing. Not at all as embarrassing as I thought it would be.

Maybe because even after all this time, I still trust him to want the best for me. I know he and his mother never got along, except when they were cooking together.

“You probably had a horrible tutor.”

“It was a cookbook and a few YouTube channels, actually.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here now. And I can teach you how to do it properly.”

I surprise myself by chuckling. Ken’s shoulder muscles are completely relaxed now, and so I move outwards, going to his arms and forward till I’m spreading the oil on the topmost part of his chest.

I hear it before I feel it, a change in my breathing. It’s suddenly getting harsher, thinner.

Without thinking, I snake my arms lower, going for his pecs. My fingers spread across the light hairs on his chest, brushing, massaging. The reality of my attraction is swinging back in my face, as hard as a punch to the gut.

Fuck it, I want him. No amount of polite conversation is going to make me forget it.

Ken most likely thinks the same because he’s fallen silent. His muscles are tensing again, and this time, it’s not from pain. He’s…anticipating? Wanting to see how far I’ll go.

As discreetly as I can, I brush a thumb over one of his nipples. It hardens into a bud.

Ken inhales sharply.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I’m weak at the knees, and there’s heat between my thighs. For once, I’m completely clear-headed on my next move.

Moving back again, I start to massage his shoulders. My movement flows naturally. But I’m aware that there’s a new sensuality to it, a nuance that wasn’t there before.

I let my fingers trail to his neck, dwelling on the soft skin there. Ken groans, reminding me of how he sounded when he first pushed himself into me in Las Vegas.

Okay. Now I’m on fire.

I run my hand down the side of his neck. Another low groan. Suddenly, he’s shifting. My heart catches in my throat. I recall what he did when we first met at the club and back at the gym. Ken Edwards is not a man of subtlety, and I half expect him to pull me down on his thighs and…

He jerks to his feet and turns around. I take a step back, unsure of what to expect.

Then I see it. He’s completely hard. Completely obvious underneath his shorts, in his full glory.

Saliva dries in my mouth and throat. In one short second, I’m filled with the pressing need to get on my knees in worship of him. To take him in my mouth and suck until he comes. Multiple times.

He’s that glorious.

“Thanks for the massage,” he grinds out.

His teeth will shatter if he grits them any harder.

Confusion seeps into my very core. I gaze up at him, feeling myself deflate. Is he going to keep pretending that this isn’t inevitable? I mean, he’s harder than a rock.

Ken stares back at me, then takes a deep breath, an easy grin spreading over his face. “I’d love to continue, but I did promise you that I wasn’t going to touch you while you lived in my house, and you’re making it harder to keep that commitment by the second.”

Okay, so he is acknowledging the elephant in the room. But why he sounds this casual, this calm , with none of the passion I’ve seen him display over the past few weeks, is beyond me.

Ken is silent, waiting for an answer.

And then it hits me.

He’s not going to do anything because I made him promise. He’s going to keep backing away and putting this wall between us until I tell him the truth.

That I want it to happen. Us to happen.

A ball forms in my throat. I swallow hard, not wanting to imagine what it’d be like asking Ken to screw me again.

No, I’d rather die than do that.

Or would I?

He lifts his arms up his own body, spreading the oil more evenly from his shoulders down to his chest and abs. Slowly, expertly, he works until he’s half coated his torso in the light liquid that makes him shimmer like gold.

Damn. Damn it to hell.

My knees feel weaker than ever, and I need to do something to stop myself from falling on them. Particularly since he’s still erect and ready to fuck from the looks of it.

I’m this close to spilling my guts to him.

“Really, you were born to be a masseuse,” he carries on easily, like we’re nothing but old friends. “I didn’t feel even an ounce of pain. Meanwhile, the ones back at the Philly Titans attack like starving sharks.”

My lips tease into a watery smile. “Thanks.” He’s steering the conversation back onto firm ground, and a pool of disappointment forms in me. But there’s no need for that, I remind myself. I would never have admitted that I wanted him.

“Did you learn how to massage while you were a ballet dancer?” he asks.

It’s my turn to stiffen. I look up at him, and the bitterness I could manage to keep back a few minutes ago floods back in. Maybe it’s because this is the first time in ten years that Ken is asking me a pointed question about ballet.

Or maybe it’s because it’s easier to hold on to the past than consider telling Ken what I want now.

“No,” I say. I take a firm step back. It’s now becoming easy to ignore the bulge in his shorts and his body. I'm carefully filling my head with what happened the last time I let him get too far with me.

Ken’s eyes narrow. He’s detected a change in my tone, I can tell. His lips part, and I know he’s about to ask what’s wrong. About to make me explore my most painful memory.

I’m not up to it tonight…or ever. If I find that I still want Ken badly enough, I’m going to think of some way to get it across to him.

But for now, I’ll keep doing what I do best: bury my memories deep inside me.

“Goodnight,” I hiss.

I don’t wait for a reply before I walk across the living room, heading for the stairs. Only when my door is closed behind me do I feel like I’m able to breathe again.