Page 113 of Faking the Pass
Presley
Just when we were making progress.
Or at least I’d hoped we were. Out on the boat yesterday when I’d pulled off my shirt, there had been somethingtherein Rosie’s eyes.
Something that made me think maybe she wasn’t as ambivalent toward me as she’d been pretending to be.
Thatmaybethe post-honeymoon return to celibacy had been as hard on her as it was on me.
And it had been hard.
Every morning when she emerged from behind that closed guest room door, I braced myself for the sexy-outfit-of-the-day.
Yesterday’s little dress had almost done me in.
I’d been so close to falling at her feet and begging her to let me back into her bed.
Tonight we’d be sleeping together again, but it had literally taken her being sick as a dog to make it happen.
Sort of felt like a game that ended in a tie after overtime. Technically it wasn’t a loss, but it wasn’t a win either.
What I’d said to her was true, though.
After what I’d seen so far, she couldn’t be trusted to make it to and from the bathroom alone, much less shower or make her own meals.
And seeing her like this, so helpless and miserable, there was no way I could stay mad at her.
When Rosie had announced her intention to reinstate the no-sex clause of our ridiculouscontract, I’d felt like a kid who’d made the world’s greatest Halloween candy haul then had it taken away by a mom overly concerned about cavities.
Of course I was aggravated. And horny as hell.
A few days of sex with her had been enough to activate my sweet tooth permanently. That brief taste of Rosie James had apparently been enough to turn me into an addict—and withdrawal was never pretty.
I’d been hoping that once we slept together, she wouldn’t want to stop—as ifIwas some sort of addictive substance or something.
Obviously, that wasn’t the case.
I walked into the bedroom to check on her again, as I’d done countless times since getting her home yesterday afternoon. Even ill, she was gorgeous. With her eyes closed, she couldn’t object to my wandering gaze.
Taking in her shapely legs and the curve of her bottom peeking out from the hem of the t-shirt she’d worn to bed, I felt some inappropriate movement below the belt.
And now I feel like an asshole for checking out the unconscious sick girl.
Lifting the sheet, I drew it up and over her.
Last night, I had lain awake next to Rosie for a long time, studying her beautiful face in the moonlight, pulling the covers up when they had slipped from her shoulders, and reaching out to stroke her hair and cheek when I’d finally lost the battle to keep myself from touching her.
Then I’d slept beside her with one eye open the rest of the night, alert to any movement on her part and worried she might try to go to the bathroom without my support.
I’d been hoping her condition would spontaneously resolve itself today, but she was still dizzy and nauseous and unusually tired.
Worried, I’d left a message for Dr. Byron at around noon. She finally called me back at four.
“Hey, sorry for the delay. I was slammed today. What’s up? You okay?”
“Yeah yeah, I’m good. I’m calling about my wife.”
Hearing those words coming from my mouth filled me with a surprising sense of pleasure.
