Free The Price of Honor by Emilie Rose Page B

“Anticipate and provide any nonsexual needs.”
    She took another spoonful, this time savoring the rich peanut butter and fluffy marshmallow swirls on her tongue. “The question is, how?”
    What could she do that she wasn’t doing already? She stabbed the spoon into the pint and set aside her comfort food, then pulled the marker from behind her ear and pickedup the pink pad. Pen poised, she stared at the sheet. But her mind went as blank as the page on the implementation. She’d have to come back to that one.
    â€œMoving right along,” she muttered as she dropped the pen and pink pad, retrieved her ice cream and focused on the blue row that stretched five sticky notes long. Plan B. An option she’d rather avoid because it was risky. Scary. It made her vulnerable and therefore opened her to more pain. Even her writing was more rigid on this collection of squares, her tension over this particular course revealed by thicker lines as if she’d pressed the Sharpie a bit too hard on the paper.
    â€œX believes our relationship is only about sex. Prove him wrong by:
    â€œGiving him only sex.
    â€œWithhold all intellectual nonsexual communication.
    â€œNo cuddling, breakfasts in bed or other tender couple activities that he apparently takes for granted.
    â€œNo spontaneous touching or hand-holding.”
    The last one would be tough since she loved sharing all those things with him. But if it was the only way to win the war…
    Agitation built in her stomach. She gobbled a double shovel of ice cream to soothe it before moving on to the yellow row. Plan C was the worst-case scenario and the shortest column—only one forlorn square inscribed with a shaky hand.
    â€œRaise baby alone.”
    Plan C was worse than being disqualified from a show. Heartbreaking. Humiliating. A waste of so much potential.
    A knock on the front door followed by the sound of it opening pierced her concentration. Only Hannah or Xavier would let themselves in without waiting for her to answer.
    â€œMegan!”
    Xavier.
    His voice acted like a starting gun to her heart rate, accelerating it wildly. She couldn’t let him come back here and see this blueprint. She dumped the ice cream and pen on the table and sprinted for the den, then skidded to a halt on the hardwood floor at the sight of him. Her already racing heart hammered faster.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    His eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?”
    â€œNot at all. Why?”
    â€œYou are breathless and…” He tilted his head assessingly. “You look guilty.” He moved forward.
    She gulped but held her ground, blocking the path to the kitchen. He stopped so close she could smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating off his body. Warmth rushed her face. “Guilty? Of what? It’s almost ten o’clock. What could I be doing this late at night?”
    A wicked glint—a sexual spark—entered his eyes, making her blood thicken with desire, then his gaze locked on her mouth and her lungs stalled. Would he kiss her? Could she— should she —resist? He lifted a hand. His thumb skimmed the corner of her mouth, stirring up all kinds of hormonal trouble—the kind that could make her resolutions bite the dust.
    â€œGuilty of satisfying your sweet tooth.” He licked his finger and smiled, and her heart swooped like a barn swallow diving for dinner. “Peanut butter ice cream?”
    â€œYeah, so?”
    â€œDo you have lessons to teach this weekend?”
    She blinked at the abrupt change of subject. “Lessons? No. Most of my students are visiting a small local show. I was going to go with them.”
    â€œGood.” He turned on his heel and grasped the doorknob.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI’ll see you tomorrow, mon amante. Sleep well.”
    â€œBut why—?”
    The door clicked behind him. Frustrated by his non-answer, she debated going after him but decided