Reluctantly Yours(54)

I clear my throat and the image from my head. “Excuse me?”

“Drawers.” I turn to find her pointing at the chest of drawers. “Top, right? Since you’re taller,” she mumbles and that crimson flush reaches her temples.

Also, the sundress that she’s wearing is driving me fucking crazy. It accentuates her full breasts and her trim waist. The blue dress with tiny white flowers is far from erotic, but it still manages to stir my dick to life. When Chloe bends over to zip her suitcase, I inwardly groan.

I’d still be in this situation if Fred and Frankie were here, but at least they would be around to create a buffer.

I’ve been in this room with her for three minutes and my dick is already hard as a rock. We haven’t even addressed the fact that there’s only one bed here. No couch, not even a chair. Only an overstuffed bench that looks nearly as hard as the erection Chloe is giving me. We’re both doing our best to keep up the charade that this isn’t the first time we’ll be sharing a room. A bed.

I have to get out of here.

“Do you want to go for a walk? Check out some shops?” Chloe asks just as I tell her, “I’m going for a run.”

“Oh, sure. That’s nice.” She nods. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Yeah. See you at dinner.”

I run six miles. Not because I’m a runner or in training for anything, but because that’s how far I get before I feel the tension of spending the weekend alone with Chloe subside. Then I think about her in that silk pajama set and I have to spend an extra five minutes in the shower with my dick in my hand.

Ultimately, I arrive at dinner no better than I was before the run.

Chloe, on the other hand, is full of excitement over the bookstore she and Baxter found. I wolf down the petite filet and vegetables Fred’s chef has prepared, then take my glass of wine to his office. The only way to make it through this weekend is to avoid Chloe. To not hear the exhilaration in her voice when she tells me about the cute downtown shops she visited. To not bear witness to the brilliant smile that appears on her face when she talks about things she loves. And most of all, to not be present when she slides her enticing body beneath the sheets of our bed.





Last night I worked on my laptop for as long as I could. I checked to make sure Chloe was asleep before brushing my teeth and climbing into bed with her. It’s a king-size bed, yet somehow during the night we managed to meet in the middle. By morning, strands of her hair were tickling my chest. Her toes were pressed against my shins and I had the strongest urge to pull her close.

Trying to secure this deal with Fred and therefore being forced to be around Chloe this much is giving me the worst case of blue balls. If I had a signed agreement with Voltaire, then I’d gladly accept this punishment. But with no progress made, I’m starting to wonder if I can make this deal happen. After this weekend, the only thing I’ll be closer to is my will power snapping where Chloe is concerned.

I turn to find her softly snoring, blissfully unaware that a raging boner lays only a foot from her.

Fuck. I’ve never been this hard. I slide my hand into my boxer briefs, giving myself a few strokes. Chloe shifts next to me. The gap in the covers reveals where her t-shirt has slid up her front, exposing the smooth, tempting skin of her belly.

I stare at her bare skin and give myself another stroke.

I recall the moment at dinner this week when she laughed after I told her I wanted to eat her. It was not the reaction I had anticipated. How she disappeared from the study the night of the gala after we kissed, when I was moments away from finding out if her arousal matched mine. I can still feel the softness of her thigh under my palm. It’s clear, I’m the only one suffering with the tension between us.

What the hell am I doing? I can’t touch myself here with her sleeping beside me no matter how optimal it is for visual stimulation.

With Chloe still softly snoring, I throw back the covers. Another run, that’s what I need. To rid myself of this pent-up energy. It’s likely the only way I’m going to make it through the weekend. Physical exertion that doesn’t involve touching Chloe.

From his spot on the dog bed, Baxter’s head pops up, the tags around his collar jingling. I grab a pair of shorts and stalk into the bathroom. When I head down the stairs, Baxter follows.

“You want to go?” I ask.

He wags his tail.

“Okay, but here are the rules. We’re running. You have to be able to keep up. No stopping to sniff things every five seconds.”

He lets out a bark, which I believe to be a verbal agreement to our contract. I grab his leash off the bench by the front door and we head out.

Gray clouds hang in the sky and the air is muggy. I take the same path as yesterday, down Main Street, running past the shops and bars. Baxter hangs with me for the first few miles, all floppy tongue and bouncing stride, but he gets distracted by the dog treat bowl that is out front of Tate’s Bake Shop. It’s all downhill from there.

The sky opens up on our way home. We’re already going at a snail’s pace, so when Baxter all but stops, I scoop him up and carry him the rest of the way.

“You smell like wet dog,” I tell him.

He pants in my face, then licks my cheek.

“We had a deal. This was not part of it.”

By the time we return to the house, we’re soaked.