Chapter 27
Megan
On the drive home from dinner, Jameson is quiet.
Pensive.
I know I did everything he asked of me tonight. I was polite and respectful with his family. I was honest when answering their questions.
And I sold them on our fake engagement, I’m pretty sure.
There’s no way, with the way we spoke about each other tonight and came across at dinner, that they can have any doubt that the world will believe our relationship is real.
There were moments when there was so much heat between us, it was downright uncomfortable. I was sure they could all feel it.
Fake engagement or not, we make a believable couple.
I’m shocked by how believable.
Maybe Jameson’s shocked, too?
Maybe he’s reeling, just a little, over what I said about him?
I know I am.
He’s the most awe-inspiring man I’ve ever met. I’m halfway certain he’s a secret superhero. When I look at him, I feel like he could save the world.
God. Where did that all come from?
From the place deep inside where your stubborn belief in fairy tales resides.
I’d panicked as Jameson’s siblings all stared at me in the wake of those words. But we want them to support this fake engagement, right? Well, I was damn convincing.
I’d listened to his reasons for loving me, and they were utterly convincing as well.
I just can’t decide if this means he’s really developing some kind of feelings for me or if he’s that good a liar.
I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing about me right now.
The whole ride home is hot with tension, the kind I feel sizzling on my skin every time he shifts next to me. And every time I recall our conversation right here on this seat, on the way to dinner. Spankings. Kinks. Domination. He broached such subjects so casually, and then brushed it off after he set me on fire.
Have I ever felt this kind of unspoken sexual tension around a man before?
Only him.
God, I’m a fool. For Jameson Vance, apparently.
I like him.
I really like him.
I mean, I told Cole I did. But even then I didn’t admit to myself how much.
Hearing him talk about me the way he did to his family… it was intoxicating. It would be way too easy to get drunk on his charms. Not just his looks and his style and his money, but the generous gifts, the thoughtful gestures, the warm words.
And the subtle implications of the scorching hot sex life we might have, sometime in the future.
The way he kissed me on the forehead and told me Be good before he went to lunch today, leaving me subtly turned on all damn day, wondering what would happen if I was bad.
It’s like he’s my dream man or something.
The office with the desk and books in it, just for me.
The flowers.
The way he genuinely seems to admire my sweetness, instead of taking advantage of it.
I keep trying to remind myself it’s all fake, part of the illusion of our engagement, but I’m losing the battle with my body, which knows the man beside me and all the heat and masculine pheromones he’s putting off are very real.
The air feels so charged between us in the back of the limo, I keep expecting him to reach over and grab me. Yank me to him and kiss me senseless.
I’m breathless for it.
He touched me in front of his family; a hand on my back, a brush of his fingers on my wrist at dinner.
But he doesn’t touch me in the limo, or when we get home.
And he definitely doesn’t kiss me good night.
* * *
As soon as we walk into his bedroom—our bedroom—Jameson disappears into his bathroom with a mumbled word about getting ready for bed.
He’s avoiding me, right?
He doesn’t want to touch me. Not yet.
Because of my brother?
Or because he just doesn’t want to touch me.
I’m so tired from the whirlwind day, I don’t know what to make of it. I undress in my bathroom and slip into the shower, and as I wash my hair, the warm water pouring over me, I dreamily imagine Jameson in his.
I’m buzzing with the idea of watching him again.
This time, watching him in the shower.
But no, I won’t do that. I can’t. He’s been so generous today, and my guilt about spying on him is only growing by the hour.
That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it constantly. Replaying it in my head.
Just remembering what I saw last night has my hands roaming over my slick body. Imagining my fingers are his…
I know I have to be smarter than this. He suggested we “get to know each other” first, before sex enters the picture, but I don’t really know why. I told him he could touch me, and touching doesn’t have to equal sex, yet he’s not even doing that.
I know I haven’t imagined the heat between us. But if he actually has no intention of touching me throughout this fake engagement—worse, if he decides to have sex with other people instead—because of my brother or whatever is holding him back…
I need to slow down and figure out how I’ll deal with that.
Tell that to your body.
Too late.
I’m coming before I know it, one hand between my legs and the other pressed to the glass as I bite my lip and struggle not to make a sound.
But as soon as the pleasure fades, a strange, hollow feeling takes over.
I ache with emptiness.
I dip my face under the water, letting the warmth soothe me. I’m safe now. Safe from my past.
He can’t hurt you anymore.
But I’m feeling it now, and it hurts all over again: a man withholding sex from me.
How long did I have a sexual relationship only with myself because of Troy’s withholding?
* * *
I dry off with a plush towel, feeling wrung out and exhausted. I want to fall into bed and sleep. No restlessness tonight.
Just don’t think about the man lying next to you or wonder if he masturbated in the shower or if he’ll get up in the dead of night to do it again.
Right. Easy.
I realize I’ve left my nightshirt in the walk-in, so I wander in there, wrapped in the towel, the clothes I’ve taken off draped over one arm.
I startle when I find Jameson in the walk-in and drop the clothes.
At least I manage to hang on to the towel.
His back is to me, and I stare as he peels off his charcoal-gray dress shirt. The muscles in his tapered back flex and ripple as he moves, and my mouth goes dry.
The way his dress pants cling to his muscular ass when he bends over to pick up a cuff link he dropped is pornographic.
He told me I could change in the bathroom for privacy, but he made no promise he’d be doing that himself.
I only realize this now.
He must feel his clothes starting to incinerate under my gaze, because he turns. And before I can stutter out any words, his eyes drop—instantly skimming my body.
My skin flushes hot, and my nipples tighten.
He looks right at my pussy as if he can see it through the towel. His hungry expression makes my throat close up.
I could duck back into the bathroom.
But I don’t.
The towel is too small to cover all of me, but at least it covers the private bits. My heart hammers, and I swallow hard.
The air between us is charged with electricity and a dangerous tension. The kind that could drop you into free fall if it snaps.
“I… I’m sorry,” I whisper. I don’t really know why.
I didn’t do anything wrong.
But it’s enough to startle him into tearing his gaze away. It’s like we’re both under some spell. Caught in the snap of electric current. “It’s okay.” His voice is rough and strained as he turns away. “I really should’ve?—”
“I’ll just go get dressed.” I grab my nightshirt and duck back into the bathroom.
Inside, I press my back to the wall, breathing too hard. And it strikes me as my heart pounds: that as much as I want him, I’m afraid of him, too.
I’m deeply afraid of what Jameson Vance could do to my heart.