Page 57 of Married to My Grumpy Minotaur Boss

“Now eat up. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.”

Under the table, I squeeze my legs together, savoring the press of my thighs and the slight pressure against my clit. I’m right back to wondering if I’ll ever be able to think straight again while the memory of his raw sexual power wipes my mind clean of everything else.

I forget all about the camera crew and the filming and the show until Amy approaches the table while the waitress is removing our dessert plates. “That was amazing, you guys! The crew is going to head home for the day, but I’m going to leave you with these”—She sets two top end phones on the table—“so you can do a little video diary each after you get back to theapartment. I emailed some notes. I think that will feel more intimate than a full on interview, and things should start to feel intimate now.”

I flush and try not to think about exactly how intimate everything is feeling at the moment. My stomach is a wrestling pit full of butterflies as we travel in the back of Ronan’s town car to his rented apartment.

TWENTY FOUR

Ronan

I hit stop on the video recording for the millionth time, erasing what I filmed and scrubbing a hand over my face. I keep fumbling it. The truth is I don’t know what to say. We’re supposed to journal about the day, but all I can think about is how much I want to get my hands on Justine. That, and the fact that I shouldn’t be thinking about that.

In the past, I’ve had women become attached far too quickly. To me or, more likely, to my bank account. I get the impression, though, Justine is smarter than that. Clumsy, sure, but smart enough to know what this is and what it’s not.

I should be smart enough to know what it shouldn’t be. I should never have touched her in the first place. Made her come for me, make her moan and beg. Apparently, I’m not paying attention to any of that, though. Because doing it again has been on a constant loop in my brain all day.

There are so many reasons why it would be a bad idea to take this further than I already have. Regardless of what else we do, fallout will come, when she discovers I’ll have to find her a new job. I haven’t broached that with her yet, though I really should. The more I get involved sexually, though, the more likely it is there will be... expectations. I don’t do relationships. I don’t usually do more than one night, so Justine is already an anomaly. When filming is done, though, that’s it. This ends.

The shower cuts off in the ensuite bathroom and I picture her toweling off her smooth, pale skin. I stash the phone, giving up on filming anything I’d allow them to air. The ensuite dooropens and Justine emerges in a cloud of steam. Her cheeks are rosy, her hair clings to her cheeks in damp tendrils, and she has only a towel wrapped around her, the fabric tucked in such a way there’s a slit right up the middle of her left thigh.

Of course, my eyes linger there.

“Come here.” I pat the bed beside me. I’m sitting propped against the headboard on the far side from the bathroom.

Justine hesitates.

“Come on.”

“Should I get dressed first?” She’s still clutching the towel around her.

“Probably.” I wish she wouldn’t. I’d love the chance to really look at her again. I bet her skin is all the same pretty soft pink. I want to take it all in while I get to watch her pale nipples harden under my gaze.

She darts into the walk in closet. She calls back, “I’ll put my pajamas on.”

I sigh. Should have kept my mouth shut.

She only takes a moment and when she returns, I’m pleased to see she hasn’t bothered with a bra. Her nipples are tight and peaked against the white fabric of her singlet top. Her pajama shorts are gratifyingly short.

She approaches the bed and slides across to sit next to me, not bothering to get under the covers. The whole time she’s watching me as if I might pounce. She’s not far off, but I do have some self-control.

If I was going to pounce, I’d make sure it’s what she wants first.

“There’s um... there’s a sofa, in the living room...” Justine is still perched on the very edge of the bed.

“Do you want to sleep in separate rooms, Justine?”

There’s a little intake of breath. A pause. “Do you?”

“Seems like that horse has already bolted, wouldn’t you say?” It’s a pathetic excuse. I know that. I’ve decided the course I’m taking, though.

She gets onto the bed and slides her feet under the quilt. I tuck it over her. It’s a strange feeling. Almost ceremonial. As if we really are a married couple climbing into bed together.

Justine wriggles down until she’s lying in the bed beside me. I slide down the mattress to join her. This is it. The moment I should roll away from her and wish her goodnight and maintain the tenuous line I drew in the sand the last two nights I didn’t actually fuck her.

God, I want to fuck her.

Reaching across, I switch off the lamp and the room grows dim. There’s a long silence.

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