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He stood beneath a hot shower for ages washing the day off and reflecting on the conversations he’d had with Charity. She was easy to talk with. He rarely confided in people, and he had exposed fragments of himself to her that he wouldn’t normally share with anyone else. Not even his family. She was the only one who now knew about his obsession with fantasy sagas. He cringed as he recalled the way he had enthused about his current read, but she had seemed interested and even entertained.
Admitting how ill he had been was a first as well. He had brushed it off with family and colleagues and had dismissed the seriousness of his condition even when he knew that they knew he wasn’t being quite truthful. They had been happy to allow the lie, until he had gotten too ill for anyone to ignore.
But he hadn’t even considered dissembling like that with Charity.
He didn’t know what it meant, all he knew was that he wanted to explore this attraction between them even further. But he was questioning the wisdom of doing so.
Beyond the obvious, he had no real idea what he wanted from her. She rang all the right physical bells in him. He was attracted to her, he wanted to touch her and stroke her and pleasure her. And he wanted her to want the same from him. But it hardly seemed fair to act on that when she was the one taking all the risks. He knew that she’d worry about her job, and naturally there was always the fear of emotional and physical depe
ndency. She had so much more to lose than he did.
And he wasn’t certain how any sexual relationship between them would be structured. He usually offered his partners an arrangement of mutual, no strings pleasure for as long as both parties required it. His only caveats being exclusivity and a clean bill of health. While he had found such understandings perfectly suitable before, he now wondered if Charity would consider a similar offer crass and insulting.
It was best to step away from this and stop seeking her out. He had unfairly exposed the disguise that she had hidden behind for so many years. Mrs. Cole existed for a reason, and by stripping her of that armor, he left her open to who knows what kind of pain.
Unless he was willing to shoulder that burden with her, he should leave her alone. Allow her to be Mrs. Cole and leave Charity for some other man to discover.
It was the right thing to do. He knew that.
Still…despite that resolve—after his shower, when he returned to his room to find Charity timidly stepping across the threshold of his bedroom door, common sense beat a hasty retreat. And all he could do was stare in shock at the very welcome intrusion.
She froze when she spotted him and a dull red flush started at her throat and crept upwards until it reached her cheeks. She took a startled step backward, stumbling as she hit the door, which swung shut with a quiet click.
Leaving them alone…in a closed room.
She looked confused, torn between fleeing and standing her ground.
“Uhm…Stormy brought…” She didn’t complete the sentence, instead lifting the item clutched in her hand for him to see.
A lone sock.
His eyes dropped to her feet, looking for his larcenous dog, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Charity seemed to know exactly who he was looking for. “She passed out on my sofa.”
His gaze travelled back to her face, noting that she had changed into her horrid Mrs. Cole uniform, and he bit back a growl of frustration. Desperate to tear the hideous clothes off her.
His hands fisted at his sides and he fought the impulse to say something about it.
“I-I’ll just put this…” She ventured into his room, her movements slow and tentative. A few tiny steps took her to the bed.
“You said that you usually wait until I take Stormy for her walk before bringing the loot back.” He recalled, and she froze in the act of replacing the sock beside its mate. Her hand tightened fractionally around the tube, but she kept her gaze averted while her flush deepened.
“I thought you would need…”
“Why are you really here?” he interrupted her, his voice hoarse with suppressed desire. He wanted her to admit that this was a ruse, that she had known he would be in the shower, that she had hoped to catch him in nothing but a towel…Jesus, he wanted her to admit it so damned badly. Because then they could finally do something about this growing sexual tension between them.
She licked her lips, and he shuddered at the sight of that pink tongue, gooseflesh breaking out on his wet, naked skin. His dick responded, tenting the towel knotted around his waist.
She appeared to be aware of the movement beneath the towel, and her eyes darted down nervously before leaping back up to remain fixed on his Adam’s apple. The outstretched hand still clutching the sock began to tremble violently.
“Do you want to touch me, Charity?” he asked in a barely audible whisper, and she swallowed, the click of her throat as loud as a gunshot in the quiet room.
Her gaze met his: large, liquid, and filled with longing.
Her head moved. A barely perceptible nod.
“Say it, please.” He could hear the strain in his voice as the air in his lungs thickened. The deep, heavy saw of his breath came faster as he fought to remain composed.
