Page 34 of Method for Matrimony

Then there was a dinner with Nora and Rowan, which my mother could not be talked out of because apparently Rowan’s mother had told himall aboutNora.

That meant Mom stayed for almost a week when everything was said and done.

Almost a week of sleeping in the same bed with Fiona.

I’d kept myself and my cock away from her because I didn’t think the woman did empty threats, and I was rather attached to my balls—blue as they were after this week.

It was especially hard since Fiona had become accustomed to sleeping with me and was usually loosened up enough by wine to sleep soundly. And when she slept soundly… she cuddled.

Fucking Fiona, who spit fire and swore like a trucker, liked tocuddlein her sleep. She curled up to me like a cat, even when I gently tried to push her away. She rolled right back up to me. I stopped trying to fight it, even though I was not a cuddler.

Never was.

I didn’t like anyone touching me in my sleep.

Not even my late wife.

That had bothered her.

I’d understood why, and I’d tried my best to grit my teeth through it.

I didn’t have to grit my teeth through it with Fiona. Which had me beating myself up all fucking night.

I’d come to the conclusion that it wasn’t because Fiona was different than…her.It was because I was different now.

For worse, to be sure.

So, I slept with Fiona in my arms until I woke up before her—as I always did—got in the shower and jerked off to the thought of fucking her the second her eyes opened.

My cock was almost at constant attention these days. Whenever my mom was around, it was husband-duty time. And she had the eyes of a fucking hawk.

Fiona shot me glares and curses about the affection whenever and wherever she could, but she played along too.

Mom did not mention my father, and I didn’t ask about him.

Fiona likely caught on to this and didn’t ask many questions either.

She and Mom were fast friends, and my mother was talking about coming to Jupiter again in a few months.

The only awkward moment was the last night, when Mom tried to mention me coming home.

“My home is here,” I said, looking down at my plate of food.

“Of course, your home is here now, but the home you’ll always have is—”

“My home is here,” I repeated, louder this time, slamming my hand down on the table hard enough to make the glasses teeter.

My mother jumped and paled some, but she sipped her wine delicately. “Of course it is, honey,” she placated, as she was an expert at doing.

Fiona noticed that too. It was hard not to. And she didn’t ask questions.

Which was unheard of with a woman. In my experience, at least. If they liked you, they had questions. About your likes and dislikes, about your past and your plans for the future.

But then again, Fiona didn’t like me, as she was so fond of telling me when we were alone.

But she reached for me in her sleep.

six

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