Page 122 of Charming Deception

The way he kissed me on the forehead and told me Be good before he went to lunch today, leaving me subtly turned on all damn day, wondering what would happen if I was bad.

It’s like he’s my dream man or something.

The office with the desk and books in it, just for me.

The flowers.

The way he genuinely seems to admire my sweetness, instead of taking advantage of it.

I keep trying to remind myself it’s all fake, part of the illusion of our engagement, but I’m losing the battle with my body, which knows the man beside me and all the heat and masculine pheromones he’s putting off are very real.

The air feels so charged between us in the back of the limo, I keep expecting him to reach over and grab me. Yank me to him and kiss me senseless.

I’m breathless for it.

He touched me in front of his family; a hand on my back, a brush of his fingers on my wrist at dinner.

But he doesn’t touch me in the limo, or when we get home.

And he definitely doesn’t kiss me good night.

* * *

As soon as we walk into his bedroom—our bedroom—Jameson disappears into his bathroom with a mumbled word about getting ready for bed.

He’s avoiding me, right?

He doesn’t want to touch me. Not yet.

Because of my brother?

Or because he just doesn’t want to touch me.

I’m so tired from the whirlwind day, I don’t know what to make of it. I undress in my bathroom and slip into the shower, and as I wash my hair, the warm water pouring over me, I dreamily imagine Jameson in his.

I’m buzzing with the idea of watching him again.

This time, watching him in the shower.

But no, I won’t do that. I can’t. He’s been so generous today, and my guilt about spying on him is only growing by the hour.

That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it constantly. Replaying it in my head.

Just remembering what I saw last night has my hands roaming over my slick body. Imagining my fingers are his…

I know I have to be smarter than this. He suggested we “get to know each other” first, before sex enters the picture, but I don’t really know why. I told him he could touch me, and touching doesn’t have to equal sex, yet he’s not even doing that.

I know I haven’t imagined the heat between us. But if he actually has no intention of touching me throughout this fake engagement—worse, if he decides to have sex with other people instead—because of my brother or whatever is holding him back…

I need to slow down and figure out how I’ll deal with that.

Tell that to your body.

Too late.

I’m coming before I know it, one hand between my legs and the other pressed to the glass as I bite my lip and struggle not to make a sound.

But as soon as the pleasure fades, a strange, hollow feeling takes over.

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