Page 23 of Deception & Desire

As soon as that floodgate opens, it’s very, very hard to stop it.

It’s too easy to remember her little gasp as I entered her, to imagine how she might look bent over the kitchen counter, how her nails might rake over my skin, how she might taste in my mouth.

It’s almost too easy to picture her sitting there at the breakfast bar, regarding me with a slow blink, brutally emotionless, knowing exactly what it takes to crack that facade.

I reach up for a glass.

Then, turn back to the breakfast bar.

She’s still there.

Very real. And very, really there.

For the second time today, a woman has managed to take advantage of my preoccupation.

“Leon,” she greets me with such shortness that it immediately puts me on edge.

I give myself a beat to relax against the counter and take her in. She’s dressed in her own clothes this time, not a fancy dress or a haphazardly thrown-together outfit from my wardrobe.

Her sense of style is…agreeable. Tight jeans hug her curves before flaring out over her boots. The color of her black blouse makes her skin seem almost luminous under the kitchen lights, which pick out the red and gold in her hair as it drapes over her shoulder.

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” I say, glad at how even my voice comes out.

She regards me without concern for my very obvious appraisal. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of staying any longer than I need to.”

Of course. I go back to finding myself a drink and wait for her to get to whatever point she needs to.

Luckily, it doesn’t take her long at all.

“I think we need to establish some ground rules.”

My hand hovers over the whiskey bottle for a beat. “I assume you mean about our marriage?”

“What else would I be talking about?”

I smirk slightly, “I could think of a couple of things.”

When I turn back to her, her mouth is set in a thin line. “Number one. No flirtation.”

“We’re getting right into it, are we?”

“Number two. No sex unless I’m ovulating.”

I overpour my measure of whiskey. I need a bigger glass for the whiskey that this conversation is fast requiring.

“Makes sense,” I recover quickly. “Do you have an app or something?”

Finally, something other than indifference colors her expression. “Youwon’t be monitoring me.”

“So what, I’m just going to have to trust you?”

“Yes,” she says firmly enough for me not to push it any further.

“Number three,” I say instead. “You will do a pregnancy test every day after your cycle.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

I don’t answer that. I take a sip of my whiskey.

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