Page 55 of I Almost Do

Initially, when she chose a state school, it was more about her emotional health than any career advantages.

But she changed her major when she transferred. She wants to work in publishing, which makes school here a no-brainer.

She stops in the middle of foot traffic, and New York City shoves and dodges around her, irritated glares thrown her way.

"Do you want me to transfer and move back home?"

I reach for her elbow and urge her to keep moving. "This has nothing to do with my feelings."

She looks a little hurt, and I feel like an ass about that.

She wants me to ask her to move home a year early.

But I can't do that. If she comes home out of her own choice because of school, great. But I’m not derailing her plans because I’m greedy for her.

And once she's living with me full-time, how am I going to keep my hands off her? She's become a nearly irresistible temptation.

And yet, nothing has changed. The idea of touching her makes me feel guilty. As if sex with me would harm her. It's getting worse over time, not better. God knows I feel guilty about the night of the gala.

I'm not doing a deep dive into that, or trying to figure out if my screwed-up past is messing with my present. Or if all the things I owe to Marcus are at the root of my guilt. Because it doesn't matter.

We still have the money issue between us. And it's not going away anytime soon.

She's gaining access to more of her own money this week, per the requirements of the trust. Which is great because I won't be divvying out a weekly allowance for her anymore.

Primarily, I'll be managing her investments, the houses, and the staff. She'll only need to request funds from me if they're in excess of twenty thousand at a time.

She's my responsibility. It's a precious charge, and I cannot fail at that or forget it for a moment.

When I tell her as much, she shakes her head, presses her lips together, a small dent between her eyebrows, and tells me she's returning to Pennsylvania.

We have a week at the brownstone. I work an abbreviated schedule from home so we can see more of each other.

When she's away, I usually stay at my own apartment, as it's a closer commute to the office. But when she's here, I'm here.

Every single time I walk out the front door, I think about that night. About holding her against that door and making her come with my fingers.

I haven't tasted Clarissa yet. The fact that I didn't taste her when I had the chance torments me.

She walks around in a T-shirt and underwear a lot. And I can't decide if she's deliberately tormenting me or if she's just become so comfortable around me that drinking coffee in the kitchen simply no longer requires pants.

She wears these clinging little things that let me see everything: the outline of her sweet little slit, the bounce of her tits and ass.

Sometimes, after we kiss, I cansmellthat I've made her wet. I can see it in the darker patch on her panties. And I remember what she felt like. How her pussy sucked on my fingers, how her walls fluttered when she came. How slick and hot she was.

My dick is going to grow a callous from the number of times I hide in my bathroom and tug one out.

I stay away from her suite upstairs. She stays away from mine.

On her twenty-first birthday, I take her to Crown Shy. It's not my usual scene; if I hadn't asked where she wanted to go first, we'd have ended up at Marea.

But the food at Crown Shy is great. The waitstaff are in jeans and Converse. Snoop Dogg is playing in the background. And, watching her, I realize—even though I'm only thirty—until I married Clarissa, I really was well on my way to being the stuffy old man she teases me about being.

Most of my coworkers are at least ten years older than I am. Clarissa's father, a man in his fifties, was my best friend for years. Despite that, she reminds me that I'm not really old, no matter how heavy the years and responsibility are.

For a long time, dinners out were about making an impression or closing a deal. But when I'm with her, I can stop being that driven, ambitious asshole. I can just be the man who is wildly, desperately in love with my wife.

If I'd taken Clarissa to Marea, she'd have had a great time. She'd have worn a cocktail dress and diamonds, used the right fork, and laughed at exactly the right volume to not draw attention from the other customers.

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