Page 208 of Accidental Husband
Chapter Forty-Six
Juliette
The top left corner of the poster falls forward, threatening a permanent indent. I peel the sticker off a poster mount and reach for the paper.
No good.
I'm too short. I need Griff here. Yeah, he only has two inches on me, but, right now, I need those inches.
All his inches. Not just the height. Also theahem.
My body buzzes at the thought of his thick cock. I want to touch him, taste him, fuck him. Tonight is our night. My night with my husband. My night to fuck my husband in our apartment.
My heart pounds so loud it drowns out the Paramore song. I know, it's a bit much playing a band while hanging said band's posters. Even I feel ridiculous. But then Griff was right about newfound associations.
This album drags my mind straight to the gutter.
When I close my eyes, and listen to the song, I see bliss streak Griff's expression. I feel his strong hands on my chest. I taste the champagne on his lips.
Fuck, it tastes good.
And this last poster is still threatening to buckle.
I drag a dining chair over. Press it against the wall. Hop on.
There. I stick the mount to the paper, press the poster to the wall, count to fifteen.
Hayley Williams belts the chorus.
I get why Griffin criticizes. She doesn't whine, but she does pack eight tons of emotion into every note. She's tiny, but her voice is huge. It fills the entire stadium.
I wish I could do that.
Not the singing itself, though I wouldn't mind her vocal skills.
I wish I could stand on a stage in front of ten thousand people and sing my heart out.
Hell, I wish I could stand on this fucking chair, stare into Griff's eyes, and explain every messy thing in my heart.
I wish I was that good at expressing myself. I'm okay at pouring my thoughts onto paper. But only okay.
The MFA program that starts in two weeks—
It's terrifying.
Yes, I love books. I love reading. I love writing ten page term papers on symbolism in British literature.
But the program is as much creative writing as anything else. I have to spill my guts. I have to read my writing to classmates. To share the ugly stuff in my heart.
Sure, I don'thaveto dig deep or reveal myself. I can get through the program and stay on the surface. But I know how that goes—I took creative writing in high school. This isn't math or science. There isn't a simple formula.
I get out what I put in.
It's the same as it was with Jackson. I didn't put enough into our relationship, so I didn't get enough out of our relationship.
It's the same with Griff.
If I don't reveal myself, let my guard down, offer him my heart—
