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His hard muscles press into the soft parts of me, and I lose the gifts of speech, thought, and maybe even smell.
Nope. Smell is still there, making things worse. Art’s signature scrumptious scent is better than any dessert.
Firm lips touch my left cheek.
Holy Mother Russia. This whole hug-and-kiss farewell was clearly invented by a horny woman who wanted to fondle a man just like Art.
I peck him back and nearly faint. The skin on his stubbly cheek smells mouthwatering and—yes, I know I’m repeating myself—is better than any dessert.
To my huge disappointment, he disconnects from me, stepping back.
“Talk soon,” he says huskily.
I just stand there, gaping like a sashimi-grade salmon out of water, as Art turns away and gets into a taxi.
Sirens sound in the distance.
Right. The bomb/panties threat. I’d better scram.
* * *
A few minutes later, I’m in the subway with little recollection as to how I got there. As the train pulls out of the station, the full force of what happened hits me, and I start hyperventilating. To my fellow passengers, I probably look like a loon on the verge of shouting “the end is nigh.”
Art wants to marry me.
Me.
Marry.
Art.
I’d be Mrs. Lemon Skulme, assuming I take his name.
Would he want me to take his name?
Probably. He seems a little old-fashioned. Plus, it might look better to the immigration officers.
Speaking of immigration officers, how illegal is this offer? I should ask Honey. She’s an expert on fraud. But no. I’d first have to ask Art if it’s okay to blab about this deal. I bet it isn’t.
Skunk. Am I really considering it? I totally am. The money is just that good. Not to mention, the idea that I’d be Art’s wife, even a fake one, is extremely appealing.
My heartbeat speeds up.
That last bit is the biggest problem. I shouldn’t find it so appealing. This is a fake proposal, nothing more. It’s not an excuse for catching feelings. Feelings would be bad.
For one thing, Art might have a secret wife in Russia. He did hesitate on the wife question. Then again, maybe he hesitated because my query struck too close to the secret business he came to discuss: making me his wife.
Of course, even if he doesn’t have a secret wife in Russia, he has all those dainty, gorgeous ballerinas literally at his fingertips. Why would he ever want me? And even if, by some miracle, he did, there’s still the fact that if immigration doesn’t believe our marriage act, he’ll end up back in Russia, putting an end to any potential relationship. Oh, and I never told him that my visit to his changing room was me being a stalker, not acting on a dare as I claimed. And there’s the—
The train screeches to a halt, and I realize I’m about to miss my stop. I leap out and rush to the Ferry Terminal. Luck is with me because a boat is waiting there, as if solely for me.
The rest of the way home, I weigh all the pros and cons, and come to the inevitable conclusion that this is an opportunity I simply can’t pass up.
I need money, badly, and he’s offering a lot of it.
The key here is to remember that it’s a fake marriage, no matter how yummy he smells. And hey, if I masturbate enough, my hormones might be under control and my heart safe from Art’s charms.
I’ll just need to figure out how much jilling off is enough.
I’m guessing a lot.
