This story is devouring my brain, little by little. Thank you all so much out there for supporting it and sending prompts in this verse on tumblr. It was actually a prompt from thefoodofloveismusic that inspired the manner in which I began this chapter, so I hope you enjoy it, my friend. Also, all my love and thanks to fellow Baconators and partners in crime, Cls2011 and miscreant rose for too much to list here. ;)

Own nothing...love it all. Happy Monday, everyone!


His mouth covers hers, gentle yet demanding, pulling and coaxing, delicious and warm. A large hand works its way under her shirt, finding her breast, squeezing and prodding until she is grinding against him in need. Then his tongue is on her neck, her shoulder, her nipple, every sense responding to the whims of his mouth, every atom in her body crying out for him to be inside of her and to ease this ache sending her out of her mind.

"Charles," she moans, reveling in the texture of coarse hair woven into her fingers, of his leg nudging open her thighs, of the heat of him pressing against her core, his breath on her neck, his scent on her skin. Then she bucks against him, begging for completion, enveloping all of him, crying out in pain…

"Charles," she cries, sitting up in bed, wincing at the sharp jab in her knee, confused to find the other side of her bed unoccupied and cold. She shivers and clasps the blankets up to her chin, continuing to stare at the walls of her room in confusion, missing the presence of a man she fears needing so much.

Her knee is throbbing, and she bites her lower lip in frustration.

She hears nothing, the absolute silence enshrouding her like an icy tomb, and she breathes in deeply to chase away the fog of unrealized dreams. Yet they linger, tickling nerves, pressing on emotions she's too tired to handle. She wants him with her, craving their banter, longing for his reassurance, missing that blasted grin and quirk of his brow that burrows under carefully crafted layers all too easily.

But the taste of him, the texture of his lips, the lushness of his hair, it had been so vivid, too real to be the product of drug-induced sleep.

God—had they actually kissed?

She wracks her scalp in confusion, seeking a clarity just out of her grasp as she seals her eyes shut in concentration. Memories whisper enticingly, swirling in her brain as a mocking mist, revealing fragments and echoes one bit at a time.

His eyes…the way he had stared at her…the curve of his mouth…the tone of his voice when he had said…

Wait? What had he said to her?

Yes, they had kissed, she is almost certain of it but confused as to the details. Who instigated it? Why had it ended? Was he still sleeping on her sofa just beyond her bedroom door? Or had she pushed him away for reasons she can remember no better than anything else stored in her muddled mind?

She has a sinking sensation that it was all her doing. God—what he must think of her.

There's only one way to find out, she reasons, and she bites her lower lip in determination, setting her sights on crutches leaned conveniently by her bedside. She reaches for them after maneuvering her legs over the edge, settling them into her armpits when something hits her with the shock of cold water.

It hadn't been Matthew making love to her in that dream.

Her throat constricts as she ponders implications that make her hands tremble and her heart pound. She has vowed to never let another man in so close, to see her so vulnerable, to witness her weaknesses without filters or edits.

But here she now sits, knowing Charles Blake has seen her at her worst and most vulnerable. He has cleaned up her vomit, helped her bathe, assisted her both removing and putting on clothing without making demands or taking advantage. He has seen her stinking drunk and horribly hungover, has heard her cry over what was lost and knows the desperate lengths she took to get it back.

God—he's practically seen her naked in every way imaginable. The question now is if he is still around.

She pushes herself up onto the crutches, wincing at the pressure under her arms, catching herself just before the bottoms slide out from under her.

Damn it. She hates these bloody crutches.

She manages one leap and then another, feeling no sturdier than a fawn testing newborn limbs, and she presses her lips together, concentrating on each step, focusing on every movement, breathing out between each one before sucking in more air to try again. It's hard not to grunt as she opens her door, but she quickly pokes her head out, exhaling in relief at the sight that greets her.

Charles is stretched out on her couch, one arm hanging over the side, the other tossed across his stomach. And nestled snuggly on top of his chest sits Andromeda, curled up and content, her tail precariously close to his slumbering face.

"What are you looking at?" she whispers as the cat watches her every move. But the feline is unfazed by her difficulties, flitting her tail just so, making Charles flick his hand across his nose with a snort. She nearly laughs as she makes it a step closer, then she is practically on top of him, watching him with a fascination she cannot define.

Dark lashes fan out across tan cheeks, morning scruff peeking out before the sun, protectively covering the expanse where dimples now sleep. She wants to touch him, to caress him, to press her lips to his to prove to herself that their kiss is actually a hazy memory and not the product of an overly-vivid dream. But you can't imagine taste, can you, or the distinctive shape of a mouth, or the texture of an unknown tongue…

"May I help you?"

She jumps at his words, and feels suspended just a moment as she loses her footing, her crutches sliding here and there as his arms work faster than her mind. A gasp escapes her as he grips her waist hard, helping her put pressure on her good leg as she collapses onto the coffee table in front of him.

"Don't ever do that again," he reprimands, catching his breath as he sits up quickly. "God, Mary, you just scared the life out of me. Do you realize how badly you could have hurt yourself?"

She feels like a five year old caught raiding the biscuit tin.

"I'm already on crutches," she tosses back. "No thanks to you."

"Don't remind me," he responds, the remorse on his face making her wish she could bite back her words. "I feel horrible every time I look at your knee."

"I'm sorry," she breathes. "I didn't mean that. Truly."

He reaches for her hand then, cupping it between his own in a manner she feels all over.

"I know," he whispers. "But it is my fault you're on those things, and we both know it."

His eyes fall to the floor, taking a small piece of her with them on their decent.

"I might be in a body cast or worse if you hadn't knocked me out of the way," she assures him, ignoring the pain in her knee as best she can. "You don't owe me an apology."

He stares as if seeing parts of her for the first time, and she shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny, wishing he would say something to alleviate her uncertainty.

"You'd look cute in a body cast," he grins half-heartedly, and she sees the sides of his mouth tremble. "Of course, you'd have to let me sign it wherever I wanted."

Her cheeks flush in an instant.

"What makes you think I'd let you near me with a pen?" she fires back.

"Because I have expert penmanship," he smiles back. "And face it. You're dying to check out my John Hancock."

Her breathing feels much too shallow.

"And just when I thought you'd graduated from ogre to frog," she retorts, eliciting a groggy chuckle.

"I suppose there is no hope for me," he sighs, stroking her thumb still encased in his hands. "Once your ogre, always your ogre."

Then it hits her with the impact of a bullet, a memory, a fragment…him leaning over her just so, stroking her hair, staring into her soul…

Just don't leave me. Alright?

I'm not going anywhere. After all, I am your ogre…

"I kissed you, didn't I?"

His eyes round in surprise, and she sees him swallow before he drops his gaze to their entwined hands.

"Yes. You did."

Her heart flutters in both fear and relief, and she breathes in with difficultly, wishing she had planned what to say next.

"Charles," she tries, "I-I'm…"

"Don't worry about it," he jumps in, still not looking at her. "I know it didn't mean anything, that you were high on pain medication and not thinking clearly."

Her heart sinks with the weight of lead.

"Yes," she stammers, her eyes fluttering ahead of her. "I mean, I'm sorry I took you off guard like that. I usually don't…"

"Mary."

She fights back tears, refusing to cry in front of him now, not when she knows the kiss meant nothing to him, not when he clearly is just being kind to her, not when he doesn't feel what she feels, when he doesn't wonder just what would happen if...

"Please," he assures her, pulling her hand into his chest, stabbing her inner fabric with his gesture. "Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Except kiss an ogre," she retorts, her bottom lip quivering rebelliously.

"Well, there is that," he breathes. "I hope you've had all your shots."

She laughs, she can't help it, and she looks back at him, moisture clouding her vision, making him stare back at her in concern.

"Damn it, Mary," he whispers. "Don't do that."

He then moves to the table beside her, enveloping her in his arms, making her tears fall all the harder, making her want him with a force she thought she'd never experience again. Why does she always want what is just out of her reach?

"I'm sorry," she says roughly. "I don't know what's gotten into me."

He kisses her temple, making her ache in too many places, and she shuts her eyes in an attempt to ward off disappointment as her eyes continue to well over.

"You're exhausted and hurting," he answers. "Not to mention frustrated and stuck with an incompetent ogre for a caregiver."

"You're hardly incompetent," she murmurs, her face pressing into his chest, the lingering scent of sleep hovering over them both.

"I'm glad to hear it," he returns. "Does this mean I'm due a promotion?"

She tries to swallow, conscious of just how severely she has dampened his t-shirt.

"I'm just glad you didn't run away," she admits, feeling raw and exposed, suddenly very aware that she is sitting beside him in nothing more than one of Matthew's old shirts and bikini briefs.

"You can't scare me off," he continues, rocking her gently as his hand cups her head. "No matter how hard you may try. Remember, we ogres are thick-skinned. Although that blasted cat of yours just might before the week is over."

"Andromeda's not that bad," she argues weakly, trying not to let her nose drip on his sleeve.

"No. She's worse."

Her ribs rattle as her spine straightens.

"Wait," she interrupts, laying a hand on his chest. "Did you just say week?"

He looks at her in silence just a moment, laying his palm atop her own.

"Yes," he answers softly. "I'm planning on staying until you can manage on your own or you kick me out. Whichever comes first."

They stare mutually, breaths mingling, bodies touching, the moonlight on his features toying with her emotions until she hurts.

"Even though I kissed you?"

He's uncomfortable, she sees it, and she wishes she could take back her question, kicking herself yet again for saying what she shouldn't.

"I told you not to worry about that," he insists, turning her body to face him directly. "And for God's sake, it' not as if it were unpleasant or anything."

The sides of her mouth tug upwards.

"So you enjoyed it?" she goads, unable to stop herself, remembering his unmistakable physical reaction to her in the shower.

"Of course I enjoyed it," he whispers. "I'd be an idiot not to. You're one hell of a kisser."

He suddenly looks boyish, unsure of himself, and she feels herself falling hard and fast for a man whom she is certain just wants to be her friend.

"I'm glad you think so," she returns, her limbs beginning to tremble.

"There's no thinking to it," he murmurs, his voice barely audible in the darkness. "It's a fact."

She feels something electric, a pull, a tug, and he sits motionless, dark eyes asking for something she fears misinterpreting yet again.

"You must be pretty good yourself," she offers. "At least I think you are. I dreamed about it."

A grin that borders on goofy erupts across his face.

"You dreamed about me kissing you?" he asks with the eagerness of a child just handed an unexpected gift. "Damn. I'm better than I thought."

She whacks his arm, and he flinches.

"Was that in your dream, too?" he questions, rubbing his shoulder. "My kissing was so overwhelming it made you violent?"

She eyeballs him wryly.

"I was going to tell you the rest of it," she teases. "But I don't think I will now. And what a shame. I was enjoying myself immensely until I woke up."

She hears his breath catch.

"So I had you crying out in ecstasy," he muses with an overly-satisfied expression.

"And what if it were the other way around?" she tosses back, watching him bite his lower lip.

"Hmmm," he retorts. "I like that even better. Did you have me tied to a chair?"

"God, you're worse than Sybil," she exclaims with a roll of her eyes, making him laugh.

"Sybil ties up her husband?" he shoots back. "Now that is interesting. Although I shouldn't be surprised after what you said to me last night. I blame those fairy tales your mother read to the two of you."

"What did I say last night?"

She knows how she must look, but she can't remember their conversation, only fragments of feelings, impressions of touch.

"Something about huffing and puffing and blowing down my trousers," he answers, his dimple flashing at her reaction. "And then you suggested I cook for you naked."

"I did not," she protests, feeling much too hot all of a sudden.

"Well, you did suggest that I wear a towel," he concedes with a shrug. "But I decided a loin cloth would be more comfortable."

"Was this before or after you set the kitchen on fire?" she questions, enjoying how his brows ricochet into his hairline.

"Oh, come now Mary," he muses. "You know I could never set the kitchen on fire without you."

They both realize what he has said at the same moment. She's shaking inside, she can't help it, and they're so close, hovering, questioning, fearing rejection, needing to know.

"What are we doing, Charles?"

His smile fades, replaced by a look so tender she nearly melts at its impact.

"Taking care of each other," he breathes, his hand moving to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking the curve of her bone. "Helping each other forget, I suppose. Teaching each other to trust again."

She nods, still lacking an answer but taking what he offers, closing her eyes as his lips graze her cheek. She senses it, his vulnerability reaching out to her own, just there, no more than a whisper, pulled back into security before boundaries are crossed that cannot be retread. It soothes her even as it pricks at her heart, leaving her confused yet fluttering inside. He then picks her up in his arms, carrying her back to her bedroom, taking such care with her knee as he deposits her softly on her mattress.

"You can stay in here if you like."

Her words stop him before he steps away, and he raises up fully, looking down on her with measured uncertainty.

"My bed is much more comfortable than the sofa, and there's plenty of room." She fears she is gushing, so she clears her throat, searching for at least a sense of composure. "I promise not to come on to you again. You needn't worry about that."

His shoulders drop, his face hidden in shadows.

"And here I was hoping you were going to tie me to the bedpost," he returns, drawing a chuckle from her.

"Well," she hums. "It's always nice to leave something for another time."

With that he laughs before tucking her in, moving deftly to the other side of her bed before sliding in with a bit of hesitation.

"Are you sure about this, Mary?" he questions before settling himself down into the pillow. "I can go back to the couch if you prefer."

She's not sure why she needs him beside her, but she does. He has become an odd sort of security blanket, one that covers her completely even as he makes her question everything about herself.

"Do whichever you prefer," she answers, staring up at the ceiling. "But you're welcome to stay here. No ropes attached. Although Andromeda might get jealous."

His chuckle reaches out to her in the moonlight.

"I was beginning to wonder if you had sprinkled my shirt with catnip," he muses, making her shake with a fit of giggles. "That bloody feline wouldn't leave me alone."

"At least it was your shirt she was after," Mary returns. "Can you imagine if it had been your boxers?"

"That's the stuff of nightmares," he shudders, making her laugh even harder. "Please don't tell me your cat was in your dream last night."

Her nipples perk up at the memory, his proximity making them harden all too quickly.

"An ice queen doesn't kiss and tell," she hums. "Especially where her cat is concerned."

"And does she share the same concern for her ogre?"

She turns her head to look at him, trying not to jostle her knee.

"That depends," she teases, biting her lower lip.

"On what?" he throws back, his face just there.

"On if you cook breakfast for me in that loincloth tomorrow morning," she retorts with a hum.

"God, woman," he shoots back. "You're impossible, you know. I've already answered your front door for you in a towel."

"And look how well that turned out," she retorts. "Sybil adores you."

"A rousing recommendation if I've ever heard one," he snorts. "The way she kept grinning at me, I thought she was going to slip a pound note or two down my ass."

A cackle breaks free, instigating more laughter from him, and the bed shakes in merriment as they both seek to catch their breath.

"I wouldn't put it past her," she finally breaks in. "So what do you say? Will you serve as my naked chef tomorrow? I tip better than my sister."

He laughs freely.

"I'm frightened to think just how you'd try to tip me," he insists. "It might send me to the emergency room, and then where would we be?"

"I promise to be gentle," she hums, all too aware of body parts now hidden.

"Said the woman who has kicked me out of her bed and whacked my shoulder," he quips. "And if I refuse to cook in such flimsy attire?"

"Then I guess I'll have to huff and puff and blow," she whispers, feeling his side of the mattress shake slightly.

"Don't tempt me like that," he breathes on to her mouth, so close she can still smell toothpaste mixed with slumber. There's a shift, almost imperceptible, but there, and it hums over her skin, making her aware of him on every level. She can't tell if he's still teasing her or not, so she ups the ante, feeling bolder than she should.

"Why, Charles," she grins. "What big hands you have."

One daringly slides up her arm.

"The better to throttle your neck with," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand with sigh. "No go to sleep, Mother Goose."

She wonders what would happen if she kissed him now, hard and open-mouthed, inviting and sober. He might kiss her back, might touch her skin, might bare himself to her even as she opens herself to him. Then again, he might move back to the couch and out of her life. She can't risk that—not now. Perhaps not ever.

She needs him too much.

"Aye, aye, Captain Hook," she yawns, reluctant to close her eyes, no matter how weighted they feel as they settle in together, so close yet still worlds apart.


What the hell is that noise?

A persistent humming makes her groan, and she pushes herself up on her elbows, blinking away the sunlight as best she can in protest of morning's arrival. She then hears the sound of the tap being turned on in the bathroom, and she assumes Charles is about to shower.

It's his phone making all that racket. She picks it up to see 4 missed calls and 2 texts.

Curiosity and concern get the better of her, and she clicks on his text icon, noting the two missed ones are from someone named Lucy.

I've tried ringing your flat at least six times. Please call.

She swallows down a lump forming in her throat, wondering just who Lucy is and what so urgently requires Charles's attention.

You're worrying the family, I hope you know. Please text me to let me know you're alright.

Lucy…his sister, perhaps? Her hand trembles as she looks towards the bathroom, smiling as the sounds of him singing carry through the walls. She takes a deep breath to steady her nerves, wondering with every touch of her fingers if she is barging in too close.

This is Mary. Charles is fine, just in the shower. I'll have him call you as soon as he's finished.

She stares at her text then back at his pillow, finally biting her lip as she haltingly presses "Send".

Nothing happens.

He moves from Oklahoma to South Pacific, and she wonders if he's planning to cover Rodgers and Hammerstein's entire repertoire before emerging when his phone vibrates in her palm.

Mary? This is Lucy, Charles's sister. Have we met?

Oh, well. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thinks.

No, but I saw your text and didn't want you to worry about him. He's staying at my flat to help me as I have recently sprained my knee and cannot walk very well.

She is now extremely curious about the woman on the other end of her messages as a hearty round of Younger Than Springtime hits her ears.

A sprained knee? That has to be painful. He helped me when I broke my leg when we were kids. I was horrid with crutches. He has never stopped teasing me about it.

She chuckles to herself, already liking this sister she has yet to meet.

Crutches are instruments of torture. And I tease him as relentlessly as he teases me.

God, now he's moved on to The Sound of Music. How long does it take this man to shower?

I'm glad to hear it. He deserves all of it and more. Let me know if you ever run out of fuel. I'll send insider's information.

A wave of curiosity tickles her spine.

I''ll keep that in mind. It's always helpful to have a knowledgeable source.

Big sisters always know the truth.

She laughs audibly into the room just as the water shuts off.

Please tell him that our sister Sharon has gone into labor. He's going to be an uncle again very soon.

So that's the urgent business- a new baby. Her heart squeezes painfully at the lack of children in her own family and all that such emptiness represents.

He's nearly done, and I'll tell him about Sharon. We'll have to chat again later. It's been lovely meeting you, Lucy.

She stares at the screen, wondering what the rest of his family is like, envisioning meals around a large table, laughter and debate over wine and dessert when the phone vibrates yet again.

Same to you, Mary. He's been keeping you a secret from us, you know. I'll have to reprimand him for that.

Her eyes widen just as he opens the door, and she tries to smile naturally, knowing she's been caught no matter what she does now.

"Did my phone ring?" he questions, toweling off his hair. "Sorry. I thought I had it on vibrate."

"You did," she responds. "But it was vibrating like mad."

He tosses her a sly grin.

"I'm sure there must be worse ways to be awakened."

"Yes," she tosses back. "Your snoring being one."

He laughs, reaching for his phone which she pulls it back instinctively.

"Sharon has gone into labor," she gushes, still gripping the evidence in her palm. "Lucy has been trying to contact you, evidently."

"Ah," he replies, tightening the other towel slung around his hips. "I hope it goes well. This baby was a bit of a surprise for both her and Donny."

"Do they have other children?" Mary asks, her palms starting to sweat.

"Two boys," he answers. "This will be their third and last, according to Sharon. She's forty-four, and this pregnancy hasn't been easy on her."

She bites her lower lip, feeling a pang she can't explain before his phone vibrates yet again.

"You can hand it over now," he grins, extending his palm towards her. She relents with a sigh, completely uncertain of just how he will react to her conversation with his sister. Her stomach tenses as his brow furrows and his eyes dart in her direction.

"Charles," he reads aloud. "I've just told Mum about Mary. She wants more information immediately."

"She told your mum about me?" she asks, sitting up straight in the bed.

He ignores her as his fingers glide across his phones surface, snatching a photo of her looking tousled and confused before she realizes what has happened.

"What the hell did you just do?" she demands, pulling the blanket higher too late to matter.

"I'm complying with Lu's wishes," he states. "Sending more information immediately."

"Don't you dare send that photo to your sister," she insists, cursing her limited mobility as she reaches form him in vain.

"It's done," he returns, far too pleased with himself as her cheeks heat rapidly. "Ah, look, a reply. I wonder what Lucy has to say?"

She stares daggers at him as he sits on the edge of her bed.

"She's stunning, even first thing in the morning. Rob says, 'Well done,'" he recites.

"Who's Rob?" Mary asks, wanting to murder Charles and slide under the bedclothes simultaneously.

"Lu's husband," he answers. "Oh, she adds that I'm a complete ass for taking a picture of you when you obviously weren't expecting it and hadn't had time to brush your hair."

"Which is why I like her better than you," Mary retorts, sliding her fingers through her locks self-consciously. She starts as her own phone vibrates on the bedside table. There's a mad scramble, but he beats her to it, standing with his treasure in hand and beaming back at her smugly.

"It's from Sybil," he informs her. "She says, 'I know Charles is there. Tell him I said good morning.'"

"Dear God," she murmurs, rolling her eyes as he begins to text her sister.

"Good morning, Sybil," he dictates as he writes. "This is Charles. Do me a favor and don't leave Tom tied up for too long."

She grabs a small pillow and hurls it at his head, just missing him and hitting the wall. Then he chuckles, obviously reading Sybil's reply.

"Well?" Mary prods.

"So good to hear from you, Charles," he reads obediently. "I let Tom out of his cage ten minutes ago, you'll be glad to know. What color towel are you wearing today?" He pauses, surveying the item in question and looks back to her. "Would you call this burgundy or maroon?"

"I'd call you a baboon, personally," she shoots back as he sends his reply.

"Burgundy," he recites to Sybil. "And Mary is calling me names now."

"I'll be fishing out the catnip later, just so you know," she shoots back.

"Sybil wants to know what I'm doing to you to elicit such a heated response," he grins in her direction. "So she can get Tom to try it on her later."

Just then his own phone vibrates, and he reaches for it, only to lose his towel in the process. He curses as he bends to retrieve it, dropping her phone onto the bed while giving her a stunning view of his bare backside in the process. She grabs the phone in an instant, clicking a picture of his derriere and hitting Send before he can stop her.

"You didn't," he tries, looking back at her in horror, clutching the towel to his front.

"Turn about is fair play," she retorts, quirking a brow in satisfaction.

"Or is that fair play is about to turn?" he fires back. "On you."

She laughs throatily as he ties his makeshift garment back around his waist, feeling her phone tickle her palm yet again.

"Oh look, a reply," she grins wickedly. "Forwarded the photo to Mama. She wants to meet Charles for herself at your earliest convenience."

He collapses on her bed, shaking his head in clear mortification.

"Your sister sent a picture of my naked ass to your mother?" he clarifies with a sigh. "And now she wants to meet me. What's wrong with your family, Mary?"

"More than I can tell you at the moment," she states, unwilling to travel down that path just yet. "Oh, and Sybil says to tell you that Tom sends his sympathies for getting mixed up with a Crawley woman."

He snatches her phone from her and stands up again, sending a text and giving it back to her before she can properly protest.

"I sent Tom my direct number," he explains. "If he's been married to Sybil for two years, he must have learned some survival strategies. And I'm betting he knows some dirt on you."

It's his phone that buzzes this time, and he grabs it up.

"The baby is here," he smiles, his relief evident. "Joshua Andrew."

"That's lovely," Mary returns with a soft smile.

"Big brothers Sean and Colin are proud as punch," he continues. "Not to mention Daddy Don. Mother and son doing very well, apparently. God, I wonder if he's red-headed like the rest of their lot?"

"It's from my mum," he states, drawing up his brows. "She's scheduling a family dinner as soon as Sharon is up to it so everyone can meet you."

She falls back on to her pillows, shaking her head at this turn of events when her own phone sounds.

"It's my mother," she tells him as he sits back down on the mattress. "She says you have very nice buttocks and wonders if we can come for dinner next week."

They stare back at each other wordlessly.

"What in God's name have we done here?"

The question falls from her lips, landing between them with the grace of a drunken ox.

"The hell if I know," he shoots back, ravaging his scalp. "Both our families now think we're quite the item, thanks to you."

"Me?" she retorts. "You're the one who sent that picture of me in bed."

"You're the one who texted my sister in the first place," he argues. "What else is she going to think when she gets a reply from a woman named Mary on my phone this time of the morning informing her that I'm in the shower?"

"I told her you were helping me with my knee."

"And she quickly filled in the blanks," he adds with a shrug. "And Sybil already thinks we are a couple."

"She calls you my man-slave," Mary corrects, hearing a laugh escape him at this.

"That's disturbingly accurate," he admits, looking down at his towel. "Of course, what else would she think under the circumstances of our first meeting?"

"You've got me there," Mary confesses, exhaling audibly.

"May I go and get dressed now, your majesty?" he inquires with a bow. "Isn't that how a proper man-slave is supposed to behave?"

"Sod off," she returns with a gesture to her phone. "What are we going to do about this?"

"You mean about our families?" he asks.

"Of course our families," she expounds. "How are we supposed to handle this situation we've created?"

He bites his lower lip, shrugging as he looks back at her.

"As far as I can see, we have two options," he states calmly. "One—we can tell them the truth, although I'm not certain any of them will believe us."

"Sybil didn't when I tried telling her," Mary sighs. "The more I talked, the more convinced she was that we were lovers."

The word sends a shiver up her legs, images of his muscled backside now vividly pressed into her brain.

"My point precisely," he nods, his voice a bit rougher than it had been.

"So what's our other option?" she inquires, half-giddy, half-terrified at what his response will be.

"We play along, of course."

They stare at each other long and hard as breaths intersect and merge.

"What do you think we should do?"

Her question lingers warm and enticing as he leans in close, sparks dotting her skin, instigating a powerful current that gives her goose flesh. He smells of soap and something decidedly masculine she thinks must be his natural scent. It's driving her half-mad.

"I say let the games begin," he grins mischievously, making her bite her lip in nervous anticipation as her thighs race to catch up with the rest of her.


As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)