Page 38 of Personal Foul

Despite our brief, shining moments of connection, she clearly wants nothing to do with me or my life. I’m going to graduate next year, go to law school, and join the family firm. Maybe go into politics like my dad eventually. Be a family dynasty in western Washington. Hell, if Dad gets his way, maybe in Washington, D.C.

I don’t mind the law school part, really, or the guaranteed spot in the family firm. I think I could do without the family political goals. Or the family politicking in general. Spending my adolescence being paraded around for Dad’s campaigns sucked donkey balls. That’s one of the reasons my sister and I are as close as we are. She’s the only other person who really gets how soul-sucking all of that is.

I’m not sure I can handle doing it by choice. Much less dragging a girlfriend or wife or family into it like my dad has.

He hasn’t decided yet if he plans to run for governor next or for a US congressional seat. He’s weighing the pros and cons, trying to figure out which one better sets him up for a presidential run in another couple of election cycles. Looking at past presidents and their involvement in politics, it’s a pretty even split between former governors, representatives, and senators. I think the best way to decide is to figure out where he has the highest chances of winning and running for that office.

Which is what I’d tell him if he ever asked my opinion. But he has plenty of other advisors, and his youngest child’s opinion—who’s an undergrad and a football player, no less—doesn’t really rate that highly where his career is concerned.

And a presidential run is the last thing I want to have to deal with.

Yeah, Charity wouldn’t want anything to do with my family. And if I’m honest, my family wouldn’t want me anywhere near her either. Her dad’s under investigation by the SEC. They wouldn’t want that stink anywhere near us. Not with my dad’s political aspirations.

So this is it, then. I need to quit pushing her and keep my distance. Tomorrow we’ll go back to our typical arrangement—she can clean before she leaves. I won’t even make her wear the stupid uniform.

In fact, I’ll stop with that altogether. As an impulsive joke—even if it was only for my benefit—it’s wearing thin. And if I’m trying to keep my distance, I don’t need her prancing around barely covered by a sexy maid’s outfit while cleaning my place.

Maybe I should just find a new cleaning service. I’m not sure what I’ll tell her to convince her that her secrets are safe regardless, but I think I need to put an end to all of this. For both our sakes.

I need to let her go.

Which sucks, because I never had her to begin with.

With a soft grunt, I turn off the lights, leaving on a lamp in the far corner so she doesn’t wake up alone in the dark and freak out about being in a strange place. Hopefully if she wakes up in the middle of the night, she’ll make her way to the guest room. I know she knows where it is, after all.

But staying out here and watching her sleep any longer has me veering into creeper territory.

I head back to my room, stripping off my shirt as I go and tossing it in the hamper. I’m too keyed up to sleep, though, painfully aware of Charity’s presence in my apartment.

That’s the effect she has on me. My whole being is tuned in to her presence, her movements, like a compass always pointing north. I’m the compass, and she’s my north.

God, I’m sappy and ridiculous tonight. I’d blame it on the movies, but nothing we watched was particularly sappy or romantic, though I’m sure Charity would’ve enjoyed that more.

Heading into my bathroom, I turn on the shower, making sure it’ll be nearly scalding. I need something to distract me, but I’m not a cold shower kind of guy, even if that’s the usual remedy for the chub growing between my legs the longer I think about Charity.

Her smile. Her laugh. The way her eyes light up when something sparks her interest. Her soft, pink lips parting in wonder or surprise.

Dammit, now I’m all the way hard.

The hot water hits my chest, but does nothing to calm down my body’s reaction.

There’s really only one thing for it. Taking myself in hand, I replay all my favorite moments from tonight. Her sleeping, her smiling, her laughing at my jokes. Touching her. Hugging her.

Kissing her.

I’d half expected her to flinch away, but she didn’t. She actually responded, though I doubt she’d ever admit it.

I focus on that sense memory, though, using my imagination to extend it to what it might be like to have her alone, in my room, getting undressed. I don’t have to use too much imagination to fill in the curves of her body since I’ve seen her in that barely there “uniform” so many times now. I love the way her waist nips in, followed by the flare of her hips. The perfect spot to rest my hands.

But if I had my wish, she’d be responsive, smiling at me as I undress her, helping me undress as well, sighing with pleasure when I touch her, kissing me enthusiastically …

My hand speeds up, my hips jerking into my own touch as I imagine it as her hand, her mouth, her tight little pussy squeezing me—and I don’t care what she said about the pencil dick she lost her V card to, she’s gotta be tight as a virgin even if she technically isn’t one. And that sends me over the edge, my cock jerking in my hand as I empty myself down the drain.

I finish washing quickly, feeling entirely hollow. The knowledge that my fantasies will always remain only fantasies makes the release less satisfying than it should be.

More frustrated and grumpy now, I towel off and head to bed, unable to pull my mind away from the fact that Charity has been in my room, touched my sheets, yet never been in my bed. Would rather sleep on my couch than share a bed with me.

It shouldn’t bother me. I shouldn’t want anything to do with her.

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