Page 23 of The Pretend Marriage Experiment

"Damn," he exclaims, "Olive, can you... take your panties off?"

"Do you mind if I do?" I answer.

He catches his finger in the elastic of my underwear and moves it to the side. I watch as he uses his fingertip to separate my folds and move it back and forth before I throw my head back against the mirror and close my eyes.

"Fuck yeah," I grumble.

As he moans, his tongue delivers a long, sweeping swipe over the surface of my clit. I doubt I've ever heard him moan with such fervor about anything else.

He leans back slightly and gives the inside of my tingling leg a kiss. Ethan takes a long breath, as if he wants to carry my aroma with him forever. As his tongue once again sinks into my folds and his lips delicately strokes them.

After some strokes on my clit, Ethan brings his head back up. I begin to trace the curves of his cheekbones with my thumbs, my hands clasped his face which is blazing red.

"Can I fuck you?” he begs. "Please.”

As he blows into the back of my ear, I don’t want to say no. I nod my approval and grab for his cock, and he yanks down his trousers and clasps his grip around it before I can react. When he takes the condom out of his pocket and puts it on, which is now big enough, it covers it fully as usual.

He positions himself next to me and presses his head on my entrance. I can still feel his heart throbbing in his chest. Ethan pulls back and in a split second, his thrusts go from being cautious and probing to fast and all-eclipsing. His hand slips to the small of my back, lifting me into him as he packs in, in, and in again, stroking inside of me, against me, and sending bliss shivering up my spine. He pulls out from me, covered in my climax, which dripped all over the sink.

11

Olivia

Mybodystillfeelshim everywhere over me. I fix my dress and hair, which have shambled because of the heated moment we just shared. I feel pulled toward him and find it strenuous to stay away from him. My lipstick is smudged all over, so I clean it up and pick out my lipstick from my handbag to reapply. I look in the mirror for a last and final look. I appear gorgeous, and my eyes are charged with the immense love I feel for Ethan. I throw the paper towels we used to clean us up in the dustbin and walk out as confidently as a queen would.

I re-join the party, mingle with the people there, and act exactly like his wife. I am actually relishing the idea of being declared married to him. The fake marriage is not just caressing my love-filled heart, but also getting me a ton of attention in public gatherings and in the media. Not only am I becoming famous and appealing, but I am also somehow getting closer to him. While taking a sip of drink from my glass, I glance at him, still playing the scenes from the bathroom in my mind. I focus on his lips, which were eating me like crazy a few minutes ago, and my eyes are locked on his hands that, caressed every part of my body.

He glances at me, and we exchange smiles reflecting the love ignited between us. This is a game. A love game. The whirl might eat us up and let us drown, or it might unify us as companions forever. With every passing day, my heart conflicts with my mind, asking me to just love him like crazy without considering other factors. But my mind has some other plans: It warns me not to get myself into all of this and to stay away.

But who wins? The heart obviously. Ethan approaches me and brings me over to the circle of people he was talking to a few minutes ago. He introduces me to them as his wife and there, at that very moment, my heart pounds like crazy: Standing next to him as his wife while he holds my hand is a wholesome feeling. I am so in love with this moment, him, and the idea of us. It's exceptionally beautiful and heartwarming.

His acquaintances introduce me to them: They're all-important people, have great businesses, and are well-reputed. Now I know why he's introducing me to them. It's obviously part of the plan. The idea of a fake marriage lies on the foundation of benefits and gains: How can I possibly even think it is all real?

My heart sinks with these thoughts, and I am not as energetic as I was. I lose interest in everything, especially the drama we are displaying in front of everyone: I don't even feel like it anymore. I'm well aware of his reputation, and still, I have the slightest ray of hope in my heart: I'm the one to be blamed if I get hurt. I look at the watch on my wrist to see how much longer we have to play because I am exhausted.

Just at that moment, I observe a hustle and something weird happening around. I am unable to comprehend the situation and the sudden dispersion in the place. My brain freezes at that moment, and my heart is well aware that something bad is going to happen. There are people around us, and it takes me some time to understand that it's the media, and there are news reporters gathered around with their mics and cameras. My forehead perspires but he holds my hand, and that makes it all a lot better.

I instantly sense a strong support with me, and I'm well aware that he's not going to leave my side no matter what happens. My heart gains back the courage to face the world, and right now, the flashing cameras capture every angle of our faces and us. I'm still too disoriented to identify the current scenario till they start asking us questions.

News reporter one asks, "We have heard that you both are not actually married, but all of this is just to seek attention and drama. What would you say?"

As the first question is fired, I'm badly wounded. This was not even closer to what I was expecting. My heart races, and I know he, too, is affected by this first bullet. I can already guess what's going to come next. He clasps my hand and presses it in a way to convey that he is there, and we're going to deal with it together, no matter how troubled the waters we're in.

As we face the world, my mind gets less cloudy, and I'm confident that this man is not going to leave me.

The questions continue, and every time, I'm taken aback. How can they find out about our rouse so quickly. Only two of us knew about our plan, and neither of us shared with anyone yet.

Another reporter asks, "If you're both married, then why would you need to sneak out to a bathroom amid an event going on?"

What a weird question?

I say, "First of all, none of you have any proof of us not being married, and without anything solid against us, then your claims that and our marriage is fake is an allegation. We don't permit anyone to question our marriage, and certainly, we're not answerable to anyone".

I'm furious at the questions, and my hands are shaking. If we're exposed in any way, we are certainly done. My art gallery and my dreams shatter in front of my eyes, and I'm not ready for this at all. I can't give up my dreams, and this is the turning point of our lives and careers.

Ethan counters the question asked by the reporter. "As far as our sneaking to the bathroom is concerned, that is something very personal between a married couple. Am I supposed to explain the personal details about my wife in front of the world? Isn't her husband the only one to tackle her private problems? But no, we have to explain that to all of you just to prove that we are married? Isn't it clearly an invasion of privacy? How can you all even question the legitimacy of a married couple? This itself sounds questionable. I'm unaware of the person behind this propaganda, but it's some conspiracy against us. I'm never going to spare anyone questioning my wife and making her feel so uncomfortable because I am her protector, and I allow no one to hold her accountable for anything. Now this has become a case to be dealt with by the court: Either come up with proof against us, or I will sue everyone who comes up with false allegations."

He is enraged, and I love the way he defends me in front of the world. He doesn't let anyone question me and answers everyone himself. All the blurriness in my mind clears, the confusions are no more, and I am proud of choosing him. The way he stands for me, I wonder if anyone else would ever.

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