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This girl can cook. With nothing but supermarket pre-packaged steak, butter, and a couple of spices, she made the meal memorable.

It’s the company, you moron. You just like her. She likes you, too.

I don’t know if I can change her mind before I lose my chance, but by God, I’m going to try.

Try. Without being overt about it, without pushing.

Well. This is hopeless, the voice inside my head moans.

In situations like this, where I can see what my charges cannot, I either use brute force to carry them out of danger or position myself as an immovable wall to shield them.

I never just let them do as they wish if I feel it is wrong. I don’t like doing it now.

But maybe this is just selfishness—something I’ve never experienced in this form—or with whatever this strange new sensation is in my chest...

“I’ll clear the dishes. You go... uh. You go rest. You look tired.” I whisk the empty plates away and wait until I hear Therese walk out of the dining room before letting my head hang low with a long, heavy sigh.

It’s hard to give someone space when you’re obligated to be in the same house. It’s also hard when she’s the first woman you’ve ever called ‘wife,’ the first woman you think might fit that job description—and she doesn’t want to hurt you by accepting your offer, so she hurts you by rejecting it.

Damn. Is that what love is like? You feel wonderful and terrible all at once?

All the wounds I’ve had in the line of duty, on rescue missions, during war... I think the one that might kill me was given by a tiny little dude with a diaper and wings. All the bullets I've dodged, and Cupid’s arrow is stuck inside, too deep to get out.

I scrub the cast iron so hard that the water slops out of the sink and all over my front. I’m covered in greasy water that smells like onions.

“Teri?” I call out as I rush through the rest of the dishes.

“What is it?” Her voice is alarmed.

“I’m going to use the shower, okay?”

MY HOT, MUSCULAR, DEVOTEDfake hubby is naked across the hall from me. There’s a small half-bath in the master bedroom. It’s not like I need to be in there. That bathroom shouldn’t concern me at all. Nope. Nu-uh.

But all I can think about is stepping in there with him, running my hands down his wet body, soaping and lathering his sigil-covered skin. It’s a fantasy of mine and has been ever since I saw an iconic hot tub scene in a teen romance movie. Funny, it was one thing Matteo wasn’t interested in trying out. He was excited about anything and everything sexual, but not in the bathtub or shower.

I lay on the bed, my pussy giving needy tingles. How long since I had any kind of pleasure, whether delivered by myself orsomeone else? At least three months, probably closer to three and a half now. But Reggie sleeps in here, too. I can’t touch myself.

I want him to touch me.

Which is stupid in the extreme, I tell myself sternly. You just told the man you don’t want to repeat any of your mistakes, and what do you think about doing? Rejecting his long-term offer but wanting him to bang you into the middle of next week? That’s Matteo-thinking.

“God,” I groan, hands over my eyes. I just realized why he didn’t want to fool around in the shower. That was Hair Care Central. Matteo was more vain about his thick, lustrous black hair than any woman I’ve ever met. He had a fear of going bald. I should have told Powell to threaten to shave his head.

Speaking of shaving... I haven’t. My hand briefly ghosts over my mound as I hear water running in the silent house. My nipples tighten as I play a dangerous game... a game that’s completely safe in comparison. Knowing Reggie could walk in and see me touching myself makes me wetter than it should.

Matteo wanted everything smooth, shaved, and waxed. I didn’t mind. He was perfectly “manscaped” in return. Now, I’ve regrown a thatch of whiskey-blonde curls. Would Reggie care?

I don’t think so. I think Reggie would accept it as how I roll and move on. He might even like it.

Fuck, I want him to like how I look, how I taste, how I feel.

Would it be so bad to let him come with me? He could always leave later if he wanted... My finger slips under my pajama bottoms and parts my slick lower lips. My clit stands up, waiting for attention as images of Reggie stroking his cock in the shower fill my mind. Maybe that’s what he’s doing.

Maybe he’s imagining you on his big, hard cock, just like you’re imagining him filling you up.

With a silent gasp, one finger intrudes, then two. The heel of my palm stays hard against my clit, rubbing in circles as I start to finger myself hard and fast, knowing I’m seconds away from exposure.

I have to finish, fast.