Page 8 of Earning Her Keep (Price of Love)

Like I said, I never vary, never change. Until she showed up. “Yeah, I know, Morty. I know. Had a little deviation from the schedule.”

He blinks in shock. Understandable. In ten years of Tuesdays, this has never happened. “Am I having a stroke? Are you having a stroke?”

Something about him, man. I’d never say this out loud, but I love the old bastard. I do. “Don’t look so surprised.”

“Son, you might as well tell me the sun has started rising in the West. It’s 11:18! On Tuesday!”

My obsession with order and routine has rubbed off on Morty and Ethel. And now it’s not just me that knows there’s a disturbance in the force.

“Morty. Seriously. I know.”

He slowly scratches his white stubble with one finger. He looks down at his watch and gives a little jump. “11:19 now!”

I can’t deal with this. Never apologize, never explain. Yeah, I hate deviating from my routine. But I hate something else even more: I hate to be away from her. And that right there? That’s the fucking sun rising in the West, for sure.

“Later, Morty.”

I crank the wheel, put the pedal down, and spin the monster of a SUV one-hundred and eighty degres. And then I gun it back to the house and to her. Where I belong.

But by the time I get back to the house, I’m more conflicted than ever. Because that girl, with her pretty face and her luscious ass and the way she laughs and smiles. She’s sweetly, gently, but surely fucking everything up.

I slam the door to my SUV, then hit the heavy bag hanging in the corner of the garage with a powerful one-two combination. Hard enough to knock out a grown man. It makes my knuckles ache and my shoulder scream.

Not even that takes away the wanting.

Not even pain can blunt my need.

CHAPTER 3

Dane

But hang on.

There’s a silver lining to her fucking up my Tuesday. I’m always gone at this time, which means Ethel always has whoever the latest girl is clean my master suite. Which means that right now, right this fucking minute, Emily is in my wing of the house.

Now we’re fucking talking.

I take a different back staircase, a different secret hallway, and use a different bookshelf-disguised door to make my way into a room that has a two-way mirror looking into my bathroom. And there she is—dancing around with a container of cleaning wipes in one hand and my robe hooked over her finger.

Seeing her gives me an instant erection. My dick is so hard in my pants that the cold teeth of my fly bite into the tip. Jesus Christ, this girl. What the fuck is it about her?

I unzip my pants. I don’t know and I don’t care.

Instead of hanging up my robe and cleaning the bathroom, she sets the things in her hands on the counter. She then turns and moves toward the Roman bath. It’s a saltwater pool, set into the floor, that I always keep at exactly 101.5 degrees. She trails her fingertips over the water, staring down smiling.

So fucking content in herself, so fucking peaceful in her skin.

She scoops her hair off to one side and then slips her tee-shirt off over her head. The sight of her bare skin makes my balls fucking throb and they feel like two lead weights between my thighs.

I’ve been watching her constantly all month, but every time she’s naked before me, I see new freckles, new beauty marks. I try to anchor each one in my memory, like I’m memorizing a new constellation.

She kicks off her Birkenstocks and fucking peels those yoga pants down her legs like she’s unwrapping herself just for me. For one beautiful moment, she stands there admiring herself in the two-way mirror—looking at me without knowing it—standing in her bra, her simple cotton lavender panties, and her socks. I see her looking critically at herself, twisting slightly, narrowing her focus at her hips. She pinches an inch on her ass and blows out a breath from flared nostrils.

Like she’s annoyed that she’s put on some weight.

Don’t you fucking dare judge that body, I think silently, slowly unzipping my fly, imagining my hand, my fingers, my fucking grip on her ass, her tits. My cock springs free from my pants, popping forward like a beast set free from it’s cage.

You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect. No matter what.

Turning away, she steps out of her panties and lifts each foot to remove her socks. I catch a glimpse of the slick wetness on the inside of her panties. Little does she know I’ve been stealing pairs from her room for weeks, replacing them with new ones—same brand, same size, same color. I know exactly how she smells already—like sweet, saltwater cherry taffy and lusty need.

I spit into my hand, get a firm grip on my shaft and work it in slow stokes as I watch her.

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