The Stranger I Married-Chapter 67: Pretended

The apartment was warm, golden with soft light when they returned. Nicholas had made them prepare a simple dinner tonight. He let her go change, handed her one of his hoodies—massive on her, swallowing her whole—and set the table himself.

By the time she came back, the food was laid out neatly, the aroma filling the room. Pasta, garlic bread, a bottle of wine opened, two glasses half-poured.

They ate mostly in silence at first, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel awkward but soft, like both of them were too heavy with things unsaid, both protective of the peace that existed between them in this little bubble away from the world.

Nicholas watched her fork twist absentmindedly through her pasta, her gaze distant, lost somewhere between exhaustion and thought.

"You did good today," he said finally, breaking the quiet.

Ella glanced up, eyes wide, like she wasn’t expecting praise.

"Barely," she murmured, a weak smile curling at the edge of her lips. "I wanted to throw the coffee machine at one of them."

Nicholas huffed a quiet laugh, setting his fork down, his gaze fixed on her face. "Next time, I’ll help you aim."

That startled a real laugh out of her—small, but genuine. She ducked her head to hide it, stirring her pasta unnecessarily.

"I don’t want you fighting my battles for me," she said softly. "I need to be able to do this myself."

"I know," Nicholas agreed. "But I’m going to be there whether you like it or not."

It shouldn’t have made her chest ache the way it did, shouldn’t have made something warm and unfamiliar curl in her stomach—but it did. She glanced at him beneath her lashes, heart beating in a soft, quick stutter against her ribs.

His gaze was steady, but there was something different tonight. Something heavier under the surface. His usual control was fraying around the edges, the mask he wore for the world slipping the longer he looked at her. She could feel the tension coiling between them now—something electric, buzzing like static in the air.

Nicholas sat back in his chair slightly, tipping his wine glass to his lips, watching her with that dark, heated focus that always made her feel like he was peeling back her layers one by one without even touching her.

His next words hit her like a slow-burning fuse.

"Have you ever," he started, voice quiet but sharp with intent, "thought about me? Like that?"

Ella blinked, her mouth parting slightly before she could stop herself. Her fingers tightened around her fork.

"W-what?"

Nicholas’s lips curved just slightly—not mocking, not playful—just knowing.

"Fantasized about me," he clarified smoothly. "Making you feel good."

Ella’s cheeks flamed instantly, heat rushing from her throat to the tips of her ears. She looked away, entirely caught off guard by the raw honesty of the question, by the way his voice dipped when he said feel good, like the words themselves were something sinful sliding between them.

"I—" She tried to form a coherent thought, but her brain was already spiraling into heat and embarrassment.

"It’s been a while since I’ve felt good," she admitted quietly after a long moment, the honesty slipping out before she could catch it. "I don’t even remember how it’s supposed to feel."

Nicholas set his glass down gently, as if carefully placing down a loaded weapon.

"Since Ryan?" His voice was soft, careful, but edged with something else now—something darker, something protective.

Ella gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "If you could call that... feeling good."

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. The wine in her stomach felt heavy, curling like shame, but it wasn’t embarrassment at him. It was the memory. The weight of pretending for so long.

"Sex with Ryan was..." She trailed off, searching for the right words. "It wasn’t about me. It was him. It was always him. What he wanted. What felt good for him."

She pushed her plate back slightly, staring down at her lap, picking at the sleeve of Nicholas’s hoodie draped over her hands. "I should probably win an Oscar for how convincing I was. Pretending. Faking it."

Nicholas was quiet for a long time. Then his chair scraped gently against the floor, slow and deliberate. He rose, circling the table until he stood behind her chair.

She didn’t move, too stunned by her own admission, by the heat in her cheeks, the vulnerability crackling through her chest like something splintering.

Then his hands were on her shoulders.

Not harsh. Not demanding. Just there. Solid, warm, grounding her.

"I don’t want to be another thing you have to pretend to enjoy," he murmured into her ear, his breath hot against the shell of it.

Ella’s heart stopped.

"I want to make you forget you ever had to fake it."

His thumbs brushed slow, careful circles over her shoulders, working at the tension there, and she realized suddenly that her whole body had gone rigid with embarrassment.

"I don’t— I wouldn’t even know how—" fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

Nicholas leaned in closer, his mouth at the curve of her jaw now, his voice like velvet and heat sliding down her spine.

"I do."

That was what undid her.

Not the words.

The certainty in his tone. Like it wasn’t a boast. It was a promise.

Ella’s breath shuddered in her chest. She tipped her head slightly to the side, giving him unspoken permission, and felt his lips brush lightly against her jaw, feather-light, not quite kissing but close enough to make her tremble.

"You deserve to feel good, baby," Nicholas whispered, the endearment falling from his lips so naturally it made her thighs press together beneath the table, her body betraying her mind’s frantic refusal to need this as much as she did.

"It’s not about sex for me," he continued. "Not just sex. It’s about you. I want to watch you fall apart in my hands—not because I can, but because I know you need someone to teach you what it’s supposed to be like."

Ella was breathing hard now, her fists clenched around the fabric of his hoodie like it was the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

She had spent so long being used, so long performing, making herself small, quiet, agreeable—just so she wouldn’t be discarded again.

But Nicholas wasn’t asking her to shrink.

He was promising to unravel her.

With care. With intention.

"Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice low, coaxing, barely audible.

Ella’s throat tightened. She wanted to say no. Wanted to protect the fragile parts of herself that had been broken one too many times.

But her body answered for her, leaning back slightly into the heat of his chest.

"I... I think I’m starting to," she whispered.

Nicholas pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck then, reverent, patient, like a man willing to wait as long as she needed to give him