What’s a woman supposed to do when her fake husband admits he has real feelings?
CHAPTER 41
CHARLIE
As I lie in bed, I strain to hear any kind of movement through the wall. Some hint that Luna is getting ready for bed. That she didn’t leave the house as soon as I was out of sight.
Eventually, I catch the rush of water hitting tile. Her shower turning on. The relief is short-lived when I think about why she’s washing off so late at night.
Getting rid of my touch. The remnants of what we did earlier.
Fuck, just the memory of her is enough to get me hard. I glare down at the bulge in my shorts, wanting to remind my dick that we’re not going to get any attention for a long time.
I’m not sure what drove me to confess my true feelings. Just, after what we did today, moving backward seemed impossible. How could I go from my head in between her thighs back to pretending our entire relationship was fake?
My mind doesn’t work like that.
Pig shifts on her side of the bed, then lets out a big, sleepy sigh.
At least the dog doesn’t hate me.
The shower shuts off, and images of Luna soaking wet fill my mind.
Damn it. This infatuation is going to get much worse.
She moaned my name.
And now she’s freaking out. Which I understand. I really do. This agreement we have is all in pursuit of setting her brother free. A selfless act. And no doubt, Luna’s worried I’ll start demanding more from her now in order to continue the ruse.
The thought that I’d try to manipulate Luna has me wanting to gag.
That’s not how you treat people you care about.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out how to tell her that, even though I’d like things to change, they don’t have to. That I’m here for her in whatever capacity she needs.
I just can’t tonight.
I’m about to roll over and try to force myself to sleep when my bedroom door opens, and I jerk to attention when Luna pokes her head in. With quick fingers, I slide my glasses on, wanting to see her face rather than a blur of features. The expression she wears isn’t any more welcoming than before, but she doesn’t hiss at me to leave her home.
“I want my dog,” she says.
Of course. She’s here for Pig, not me. Silently, I say farewell to the pup’s innocent, comforting presence.
“Not holding her hostage.”
I give the pit bull an encouraging push toward Luna. The dog stays relaxed, a dead weight in the middle of my mattress.
Luna steps farther into the room. “Pig. Come. Come here, Pig.”
The dog cracks an eyelid. But then she just snuggles her head deeper into my comforter.
“Pig. Come.” Luna’s voice has shifted from asking to demanding.
But Pig doesn’t seem to care.
“She can sleep here tonight,” I offer.
So can you, I almost add.
