Page 83 of Charming Deception

“Megan.”

I look at him.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re not safe here when your brother’s not around. I’m your fiancé now. We have an agreement. Any woman of mine is a woman I protect.”

Any response I might have to that gets jammed up in my throat.

Any woman of mine…

“Okay. It’s just… when you said we wouldn’t be having sex, I didn’t picture us sleeping together.”

His eyes darken a shade before he looks away. “No one will be in that bed but us. All they need to know is that we’re sharing the bed.”

I take a breath. He’s right, probably.

And I said yes to this engagement.

Am I afraid of him doing something out of line? No.

But am I afraid of what might happen if I sleep next to him?

Fuck, yes.

What if I do something stupid? Read his signals wrong?

Lose my shit and jump on him, and he turns me down?

What if I make him change his mind and kick me out?

I’ve never been in a situation like this, so vulnerable to a man I barely know. It feels intensely intimate just standing here in his room with him. I can’t imagine being in his bed while he sleeps next to me and I can’t touch him.

The first date I went on with Troy, he kissed me. The second date, he kissed me and then we made out. And the second time we made out, he tried to go much further than that.

It was me who’d held the brake firmly in place until I was ready to let go and plunge into my first sexual relationship.

And I have literally no other experience to go on.

I’ve never had the first date or first kiss or first make-out scenario with any other man. I’ve definitely never done anything as strange as share a bed with a man who’s drawn a no-sex line between us before we even touch.

I know sleeping next to him will blur the line for me. Just being near him blurs the line.

And he’s still waiting for my response. “I need you to be okay with this,” he says.

I’m not even sure how to respond to that. It’s more of a command than a question.

But maybe sleeping next to him won’t be as awkward as I fear it will be? He seems calm and collected.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Yes.”

“Let me show you the rest.”

He leads me through one of the two open archways on the wall to the right, both of which open into a single, massive walk-in closet. It’s almost as big as the bedroom.

I move through the room, my pulse thudding, every cell in my body hyperaware of Jameson’s nearness as he stands back, watching me.

It’s like a private boutique in here. There’s cleverly recessed lighting, built-in drawers and shelves, velvety ottomans for sitting on or draping clothing.

His on one side, hers on the other.

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