Page 37 of Chev's Mate

I swallow past the lump in my throat, unsure how I feel. The mere thought of letting somebody between my thighs is revolting, but I don’t have the same reservations about the back of my neck. That area has never been defiled, and even though I feel the pleasure in the parts of my body I struggle with, it’s different enough.

AmI okay?

There’s no crushing disappointment or suffocating fear. I wait for it, thinking it might be delayed, but nothing appears.

“I’m okay,” I eventually say.

Chev fucking beams, and despite knowing I shouldn’t, I find myself smiling back. This is a dangerous game, one that will most certainly end with me being hurt, but I can’t seem to stop. Chev is like a splinter I can’t get out, and I’m beginning to worry I don’t want to.

Charlie believes in him, and I take her endorsement to heart. Maybe Chev and I can come to some sort of agreement—one that will allow us to be platonic partners. I know he wants children, but if he’s willing to forego sex, I’d be willing to be medically inseminated with his seed.

My chest tightens at the mental of image of Chev holding a child—our child. I know he’d be a good father. All shifters are. He would be protective and caring, and our child would need for nothing.

“Can I drive you to work?” Chev asks.

I suck on my teeth, debating. He’s already here, and if I’m honest with myself, I don’t want to part ways yet. I worry about people at the facility seeing us, but it’s only a matter of time before we’re discovered. There’s no use prolonging the inevitable.

“You can’t come inside,” I say.

Chev hardly seems to take offense, his head quickly bobbing as I move over and make room for him to sit in the driver’s seat.I grab the things I set down earlier and clutch them to my chest as he turns on the golf cart and begins driving us down the long road to the facility.

I’m going to be late for my meeting with Charlie.

I have a feeling she’d be excited if I told her I got held up by Chev, but I won’t use him as an excuse. Telling her that would send the wrong message, and I’m not ready to face the questions I’m sure will follow.

My heart continues to pound, the aftereffects of my orgasm lingering. I turn and sneak a peek at Chev, wanting to see if he was affected by our touch. He was—still is. He’s hard, his length pressing against the fabric of his pants. It looks painful, but I’m not going to acknowledge it.

“Would it be okay if I drove you to work in the mornings?” Chev asks, drawing my attention. “I can meet you outside your home.”

I should sayno.

“We’ll have to leave earlier than this,” I say instead. “Because you drive slow.”

He drives like an old man, his hands firmly planted on the wheel and his eyes continually darting around, like he’s expecting traffic to suddenly appear on this empty, dirt road. I don’t have the same reservations, and I get to work in half the amount of time.

“Deal,” Chev says. He shoots me a sideways smile. “I’m excited.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Why didn’t I sayno? We finally pull up to the back entrance of the facility, and I practically leap out of the golf cart and sprint toward the doors.

Chev laughs. “Goodbye, Vanessa!”

His voice is full of excitement despite the fact that I’m literally sprinting away from him. I lift my arm, giving anawkward wave, before pushing open the facility doors and hurrying inside.

Charlie’s already waiting for me in my office. It’s like she knows when I’m in desperate need of advice, and she clasps her hands in her lap as I throw myself into my chair and drop my head onto my desk. It smacks against the surface with a quietthud, but my loud groan quickly drowns it out.

“I told him he can drive me to work in the mornings,” I admit. Charlie remains silent, and I let out another loud groan before continuing. “And I let him lick my mark, which turns out to be more pleasurable than it should be.” I let out a third loud groan. “And I think I’m excited to see him again.”

There’s a quiet shuffling as she shifts her position in her chair. I’m desperate for her to say something, anything.

She clears her throat. “You’ve had a busy morning.”

I laugh, even though I think this situation is anything but funny.

“How long has he been watching me?” I ask.

Charlie goes quiet before answering. “He came here about three weeks after you, and he watches you drive to and from work. Sometimes he sticks around while you cook dinner, but he returns to the manor before dark.”

I should be disgusted. I should be horrified and angry and putting a stop to it. I know I should. That’s the only reasonable response to something like this, but the emotion doesn’t come. It’s sick and twisted, and I hate myself for it.

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