Page 78 of Imperfect Arrangement
Yeah, well, tell that to my brain, Vi. Because the only someone it wants is completely off-limits. I only do casual, and Raymond has serious written all over his face when it comes to his personal life.
Me: What I really need is a damn good vibrator. It’s been so long since I had a proper orgasm, my body’s forgotten how to get there on its own.
I hit send with a little too much force, hoping the sheer act of venting will deflate my frustration. Instead, I lie there in this unfamiliar bed that’s starting to feel uncomfortably familiar, my pulse pounding, my body restless.
But when seconds turn into minutes of radio silence, I pick up my phone again. Why hasn’t she replied? Violet never leaves a conversation unfinished, not even at this ridiculous hour. The second my eyes land on the screen, my blood runs cold and the device tumbles from my hands.
Noooo. God, no.
I didn’t send that message to Violet.
I sent it to Raymond freaking Teager.
I stare at the screen, willing time to reverse, but there it is. The read receipt glares back at me like a neon sign announcing my mortification to the universe. I’m about to hide under all the covers that are available in this house when there’s a knock on my door.
Crap! Crap! Crap!
He read my text about my orgasm drought and decided to…what? Follow up in person?
Frozen in panic, I don’t move. Not a muscle. I’m a full-blown possum, playing dead as the door creaks open slowly.
A WILLOW WHORE
RAYMOND
There’s something about the nighttime that’s always felt like magic to me.
The first time I met my father was on a night like this—dark, endless, full of unknowns. The first time my daughter wrapped her tiny arms around my neck and held on for dear life was under the same moon. Then there’s Willow—this stubborn, infuriating woman who’s tangled herself into my life like she was always meant to be here.
All of our most intense moments, those whispered confessions, stolen glances unfolded under the cover of darkness in the pergola. Now, here I am again, one foot inside her bedroom, watching her burrow under her sky-blue comforter like she’s hiding from me.
I’d woken up thirsty, but instead of water, I got something infinitely more dangerous—the sound of soft shuffling movements in the kitchen. There were no security alerts from the numerous sensors and security men stationed around my property.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I walked in, but it sure as hell wasn’ther—standing in the middle of my kitchen, attempting to bake something that looked more like a science experiment gone wrong than an actual cake.
My mother would have had a heart attack.
The mess was spectacular. But it was the look on her face that stopped me in my tracks. She was trying for Quill, for my daughter. The picture Willow had pulled up on her phone—bright yellow sunflowers, honey bees, a pale yellow cake base—it screamed my bug.
Something about it cracked me wide open.
Helping her was instinct. Capturing her against the counter while we worked together was something else entirely. I’d underestimated the force of attraction between us. I’d misjudged that I could stand this close, breathe her in andnottouch her.
I was so fucking wrong.
I spent the entire time torturing myself. My hands were occupied with batter and frosting, while my lips barely grazed her cheek, her shoulder, justghostingover her skin. And somehow, that was worse than if I had just pinned her to the damn counter and kissed her until we both forgot our own names. I was so fucking turned on that I could hammer nails with my cock.
There was no way to hide it. I didn’t want to hide it.
But then like everything good, the night had to come to an end. Every ounce of my resolve was tested when Willow walked out of the kitchen. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to sleep. My body was too wired, my brain too wrecked with thoughts of her—her scent, her laugh, the way she looked at me like I was both her problem and her solution.
I was debating which was a lesser evil—jerking off thinking about her or smoking an entire pack of cigarettes to forget her—when I got her text.
One mistake. One beautifully, perfectly disastrous slipup.
Now, here I am, watching her hide under her covers, pretending she didn’t just throw gasoline on a fire that was already burning.
“How long?” I murmur.
