Page 91 of Between the Lines

I head down the stairs. The house is dark and empty, and despite this being just a minor issue, I feel on edge. Like, there might be things lurking in the shadows that might harm her.

She follows me. I’m attuned to the sound of her bare feet now, padding across the floors of my house.

And my erection still hasn’t fully deflated. Luckily it’s dark, and Charlotte is distracted, or she would have noticed the fucking tree trunk between my legs.

I head to the security panel in the main hallway. It’s hidden behind a painting that’s hung on hinges, a construction the previous owner had put in. I tap the code to open the little door and find the override button for the maintenance alarm.

I shut it off.

“There,” I say. “I’m sorry it woke you up. There should?—”

There’s a crash behind me. I turn, eyes scanning.

Charlotte is standing by a side table, her hands over her mouth. A knocked-over sculpture lies on the floor. It’s shattered into several pieces. She must have bumped into it in the dark.

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Leave it,” I say.

She ignores me, of course. Turns to the mess instead and bends over to pick up the jagged shards.

My entire world narrows. She’sonlywearing that oversized T-shirt and a black thong. Her creamy skin, the long expanse of her slim legs, and the ass that fits perfectly into my hands, one cheek in each palm, is right there. And between her thighs, the thinnest little sliver of black fabric.

Fuck me.

The erection was painful earlier. In the past few minutes, it had deflated somewhat. Not enough to stop bothering me, but enough that I can think. Focus. Now it surges back to life with a rush that has me stifling a groan.

She can’t walk around like this in my house.

I never thought I’d complain about a beautiful woman in underwear, but right now, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Charlotte Gray is too damn fine to be wearing so little clothing around a man she had hot sex with only a few weeks ago.

A man she’s not meant to have hot sex with again.

She’s not looking at me. She’s collecting the little ceramic chunks onto her open palm, meticulously organizing them.

I reach down and rearrange my cock. It’s hard to hide it, but I do my best. If she looks for longer than a split second, she’ll see it. Hard to miss the clear fucking tent in my sweats.

“Leave it,” I mutter again.

She glances over her shoulder at me, and almost like she just realized it, bolts upright. Her free hand tugs on the hem of her T-shirt.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know if she’s apologizing for breaking a random piece of decor I’ve never thought twice about, or for flashing me.

Neither is necessary.

“It’s fine. Leave that for the housekeeper,” I say. “You could cut yourself.”

“I clean up my own messes.”

I want to tell her that my constant hard-on is a mess of her creation, yet she isn’t doing a thing to clean that up.

“You don’t have to. Not around here.”

She takes a step from the small disaster zone on the hardwood floor and places the shards carefully on a side table. “Okay.” Her hands clasp together, and then she looks at me far too closely.

Fuck.

I run a hand through my hair and walk away from her. Turn my back entirely, and head into the kitchen. I still hear her soft footfalls as she follows me.

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