Page 25 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
But as I relax against him, letting myself sink into his embrace, I become aware of something else pressing against my lower back through his pajama pants. The hard length of his arousalis impossible to ignore, and the knowledge that he wants me, that this morning wasn’t just a one-time thing born of unusual circumstances, sends a thrill through me.
I shift slightly, and his sharp intake of breath tells me he’s very aware of the contact.
“Sleep,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice strained with the effort of control.
“Trying,” I whisper back, though sleep feels impossible when I’m so aware of his cock pressed against me, of the careful restraint he’s exercising to keep from taking more than I’ve offered tonight.
This arrangement was supposed to be straightforward: three months of playing house in exchange for saving my farm. But lying here in his arms, feeling the evidence of his want and my own answering need, I know that nothing about the next three months is going to be simple at all.
Chapter 8
A Taste of Scandal
Frankie
The morning air carries thesound of buzzing bees as I walk along the path from Raphael’s house to the apiaries. It’s strange how quickly the ten-minute walk between our properties feels routine, even though I’ve only been staying with him for two days. The keys jingle in my hand as I approach the equipment shed, where Tom’s already waiting beside his beat-up Ford truck.
He’s exactly as I remember, with his weathered face, graying beard, and the kind of sturdy build that comes from decades of physical labor. But his usual easy smile is notably absent, and there’s a tension in his shoulders that immediately puts me on edge.
“Morning, Tom,” I call out, trying to project my normal cheerfulness despite the knot forming in my stomach.
“Morning, Frankie.” His greeting is polite but cooler than usual, lacking the warmth I’m accustomed to from him. “Saw your truck in the minotaur’s driveway on the way here.”
My stomach drops. Of course he noticed. Tom’s route to my place takes him right past Raphael’s front gate.
“Yes, well…” I fumble with the keys, not sure how to explain the situation without revealing too much. “I’ve been helping him with some things.”
Tom’s weathered features settle into deeper lines. “Frankie, I’ve known you since you were a kid, spending summers here with Rose. I’ve watched you grow up, seen you struggle to make this operation work after she passed…” He pauses, and there’s genuine concern in his voice. “What are you doing getting mixed up with someone like him?”
“Someone like him?” I repeat as I busy myself unlocking the equipment shed.
“You know what I mean. Rich outsider, throws money around, probably sees this whole town as some kind of investment opportunity.” Tom follows me into the shed, his tone growing more troubled. “And now sweet little Frankie Baker is… what? Keeping him company?”
The words sting more because they come from Tom. Quiet, steady Tom who’s never been one for gossip or harsh judgments.
If he’s this concerned, this disappointed…
“It’s not like that,” I say, pulling out the protective gear and trying to keep my voice level. “You don’t know him.”
“And you do? How long have you known this minotaur, Frankie?” Tom shakes his head, and I can see the disappointment etched in every line of his face. “Your grandmother spent sixty years building something respectable here. Something the whole community could be proud of. And you’re willing to risk all of that for what?”
“Risk what, exactly?” I turn to face him fully, my own frustration starting to build. “My reputation? My standing as the town’s good girl?”
“Your future,” Tom says quietly, and the genuine worry in his voice deflates some of my anger. “Frankie, men like him… They take what they want and move on. And when he does, you’ll be the one left dealing with the consequences.”
I want to argue, to defend Raphael and explain that Tom has it all wrong. But how can I tell him about our arrangement without making it sound even worse? That I’m essentially trading three months of my life to save the farm?
“I appreciate your concern,” I say finally, setting the spare keys on the workbench with deliberate care. “But I can take care of myself.”
Tom studies me, and I can see him considering whether to push the issue further. Finally, he sighs and picks up the keys.
“I hope you’re right,” he says, but there’s a sadness in his voice. “I really do. Just promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you won’t let him take advantage of your kind heart.”
“I promise,” I whisper, though I’m not entirely sure what I’m promising.
We spend the next twenty minutes going through the maintenance schedule, and while Tom’s professional demeanor returns, I can feel the shift in our relationship. The relaxed vibe we’ve always had feels awkward now, shadowed by his disapproval and worry. When I explain the weekly hive inspections, he nods and takes notes, but the comfortable familiarity is gone.
“I’ll start tomorrow morning,” he says as we finish up, his tone carefully neutral. “Call if you need anything.”
