Page 93 of Charming Deception

Thirty-one days.

I glance at her again. I can see her face in the moonlight, snuggled into her pillow. Her eyes are closed.

I ease into the walk-in, then on into my bathroom, emerging into the cool moonlit space as the automatic lights come up. The nighttime setting is a soft glow that doesn’t quite reach the corners of the room.

It insulates me, makes me feel an aspect of privacy that isn’t really there.

But I can be quiet.

I blow out the breath I’ve been holding. What the fuck am I doing?

If I run the shower, I might wake her. And she knows I already had a shower tonight, when she got me out of the pool.

Sitting on the toilet to jerk off in hiding just seems fucking lame.

But my cock is not going to let me put the idea aside.

I turn to the mirror over the sink.

I’ve really fucked myself over here.

I thought the whole engagement idea checked off so many boxes. That it was brilliant, on so many levels. Maybe I let Graysen convince me of that.

But Graysen isn’t the one who has to share a bed with Megan while not having sex with her.

Fucking ridiculous.

If I knew she was coming here tonight, maybe I would’ve relieved myself of this tension in preparation.

But maybe I didn’t fully realize, or want to acknowledge, how much tension there would actually be, until she got into my bed.

I hook my fingers into my boxer briefs and tug them down.

Chapter 21

Megan

I wake to something moving. A shuffle of fabric, whisper soft, and the sensation of nearness. A body in the dark, somewhere next to me.

I open my eyes to a soft haze of moonlight filtering through the slit in the curtains.

Jameson stands next to the bed, one arm stretched above his head as he leans against the window, like he’s looking out.

He doesn’t have a shirt on.

His side is to me. I can see his beautifully muscled body, down to his trim waist and hips, and the boxer briefs he’s wearing.

The bulge in front looks thick.

His head turns my way, and I shut my eyes. I’m not even sure why I don’t want him to catch me watching him. But I keep them closed as his soft footsteps pad across the room and fade away.

I open my eyes. I’m sure he went into the walk-in closet.

I listen, hearing nothing but the pounding of my own heart.

What is he doing?

The glowing clock on his night table tells me it’s the middle of the night. If he got up to use the bathroom, why was he just standing there at the window?

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