Page 58 of I Almost Do

This is his rule, not mine. I absolutely disagree with his reasoning at this point. I'm not in crisis or overwhelmed by grief. I'm not too young to know what I want. He obviously won't try to guilt me into quitting school or giving up my career goals. And I'm honestly not worried about the money.

If he tries to control me, we'll fight about it. But it's not as though I allow him to walk all over me.

If he didn't want me, that would be entirely different. But he does. I see his erections and the way his pulse speeds up around me.

So if the sight of me nearly naked gets him worked up and possibly rethinking things, then I can only see that as a good thing. It hasn't worked yet, but hope springs eternal.

The last time I was home, he was working in the study. I walked my butt right in there with a cup of coffee, wearing thin white cotton panties and his white undershirt.

Then I sat cross-legged in a chair directly opposite him and started chatting, as if I had absolutely no idea of the picture I made.

His eyes did this fluttery, unfocused thing, and he let out a short, involuntary noise somewhere between a nearly silent "ha" and a whimper. He looked ready to melt into a puddle. Or maybe just grab me and rail me right there on his desk.

Instead, he stiffened his spine, his eyes trained directly on my hard nipples, as he asked, "Aren't you cold?"

I looked at him with huge, fake-innocent eyes peering over my coffee cup and said, "Nope."

Fifteen seconds later, he stood up. "Excuse me. I need to just…." He gestured vaguely at the door.

I sipped my coffee, then quirked an eyebrow at him over the rim. "You need to just…?"

He palmed his cock, which looked huge and hard as a rock under his clothing, shot me a look midway between smile and scowl, and said, "Woman, you're a witch."

"Still love you, James."

Another evening, I took my red lace bra off under my clothing, sliding it out through one sleeve. Then I gave a huge sigh of relief, cupped the girls, and said, "That is so much better."

I proceeded to drape the bra right next to him on the arm of the sofa. Then I sat down beside him to watch a movie, putting my head on his shoulder and my hand on his thigh.

He watched the entire movie sitting straight up and eyes forward. But he was thinking about something entirely different from what was on that screen. I don't have to be a mind reader to know it.

See, the trick with James is to never attack directly. Direct complaints about our lack of sex life end in a fight that he always,alwayswins.

So my plan is to wear him down. But I have to be smart about it.

Which is why, when he sits me on the counter and stands between my spread thighs, I stay very still, as if he's some wild animal. Best to let him approach.

He kisses me, and I revel in the feel and taste of him, wrapping my fingers in his hair. A hot spiral of lust coils through me, but he doesn't shift his body closer or press into the V of my thighs the way I need him to. He leaves his hands on the counter, and way too soon, he pulls his mouth from mine.

Then, as if he simply can't help himself, he lifts his hands from the counter and shoves them under my sweatshirt, holding them still against the bare skin at my waist. He drops his face to where my neck meets my shoulder, and hebreathes.

He breathes for a long time. Long enough for the tension to leave my muscles as I absorb the heat of him. Long enough for me to sift my fingers through the silky strands of his hair. Long enough for me to start breathing normally myself and let the familiar scent of my husband ground me. This is comfort, and I didn't realize how desperately I needed it until I felt it.

Sydney walks past us toward the fridge and says, "You two are so frickin' weird."

James lifts his head at last, eyes intense and sincere on mine. "God, I hate that girl."

After dinner, James finally manages to tear himself away from Mr. Snickelnuts, who's been clinging to him from practically the moment of his arrival.

We go to Jack's, my favorite dive bar, which, conveniently enough, is owned by Bronwyn's cousin. Our high school friend, Louis, drove in this weekend from New York to play a gig here and hang out. And he and his band have promised they'll play a couple nineties grunge songs, just so I can tease James about his taste in music.

I’m pretty sure Louis is still carrying a torch for Bronwyn after prom night. But if he is, he seems to have accepted that Bronwyn only sees him as a friend.

The place is crowded and noisy, with sticky floors, cold beer, and more townies than college students.

I tug on James's hand as I drag him back to our usual corner booth. He follows me easily enough, but his head is on a constant swivel, and his fingers are wrapped around my own a little too tightly for comfort.

I pull up short, leaning into him and standing on tiptoe, trying to get close enough to speak in his ear.

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