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Her caresses gentle and assured, her sweet breaths on the back of my neck, perfume filling my nose. Those delicate hands stroking my shoulders…
What else could she stroke?
My movements speed up, lost in it now, remembering those photos we took kissing. I still can’t believe how real they’d looked. Two lovers caught in a private moment, wanting each other. Her lips soft, waist trim as I gripped it tight. Her response had been so genuine, her mouth eagerly meeting mine, the brief touch of her tongue exhilarating.
It was only for pretend, right? Just to get the shot. Then why did it feel so real?
And why do I want it again?
I groan loudly, too far gone to care at this point, stroking myself madly, frantically, wishing it was her touching me. This enigmatic woman that’s barrelled into my life, somehow both sweet and seductive, innocently tempting me.
Serena. My wife.
I gasp as I come, jetting on the shower tile, breath sawing in and out, shame immediately washing over me. If she knew I was thinking of her like this, doing this to thoughts of her, she’d be shocked. Horrified. Mortified.
I’mmortified. I shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have opened this door that seems somehow… dangerous in where it may lead. She deserves my respect, not this primitive slavering over her.
I can’t help my instinctive reaction to her, but I can control it at least. This won’t be happening again.
I clean up and dry off, dressing for the day, glad now I cut my workout short since my shower took so long. When I walk into the kitchen, Serena’s already at the counter eating an omelet, a matching plate next to her for me.
I avoid her eye, sitting down and shoveling the eggs in.
“Hungry?” Lori asks, washing out the pan in the sink.
I grunt, my mouth too full to respond. Serena’s floral scent teases me once again, to the point where I’m wondering if I’m imagining it. I doubt she doused herself in perfume after waking just to exercise.
It’s all in my head. Her response to the kiss. This attraction. We have a job to do, the public to convince. Just because there’s a Mr. and Mrs. in front of our names doesn’t mean there’s anything more between us.
“What do you have planned today?” Serena asks, wiping at those luscious lips with a napkin.
No. Not luscious. Just normal lips.
“Work.”
My one word answer doesn’t seem to deter her, though. “Well, if you’re free later, I’ll be at the animal shelter. It could be a good photo op. Exposure for us and the animals.”
“I’ll think about it,” I mumble, clearing my plate in record time and placing it in the sink.
The faint question, “What’s up his butt?” from Lori echoes in my ears as I hightail it to my office, shutting the door firmly. Nothing’s up my butt. I just need to concentrate.
But I can’t do that when all I’m envisioning is Serena perching on the edge of my desk, those slim thighs just within reach. Her standing behind my chair, smoothing her hands over my back, a comforting weight on my shoulders that incited as much as it soothed.
Damn it. When did I start waxing poetic? I didn’t do that a week ago.
I should be continuing my research on Greg Montague’s financial history. He downgraded from a ten million dollar condo earlier in the year to one valued at two million, but that isn’t necessarily suspicious by itself. And from the pictures online, Serena’s condo was nice, but won’t net him a fortune in its sale. And why does he need the house in Brooklyn? What’s going on there?
As far as records go, there are no outstanding loans, nothing crazy on his credit report, no reason to suspect anything.
But that tingle on the back of my neck hearing Serena describe the situation last night… it doesn’t add up. Why the hell is he selling off his daughter’s things? She said they’ve always gotten along civilly, as long as she did what he asked. And she did. She married into the Bishop family.
But the reason he had her do that to begin with… Dad said Greg wanted our connections. As an upwardly mobile thing or something else? Financial protection, perhaps?
But from what?
I push it out of my mind with no new information to go on and get started on preparing for the upcoming week, but I’m only an hour in before I’m interrupted by an email from Angelina going on about high engagement in our last post and striking while the iron’s hot. Basically, what it boils down to is taking more lovey-dovey photos with Serena.
I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the strands. Logically, I know I need to head down to that animal shelter. Like she said, it’s the perfect photo op. But after my slip-up in the shower, spending time with her seems… risky.