I turn to find her softly snoring, blissfully unaware that a raging boner lays only a foot from her.

Fuck. I’ve never been this hard. I slide my hand into my boxer briefs, giving myself a few strokes. Chloe shifts next to me. The gap in the covers reveals where her t-shirt has slid up her front, exposing the smooth, tempting skin of her belly.

I stare at her bare skin and give myself another stroke.

I recall the moment at dinner this week when she laughed after I told her I wanted to eat her. It was not the reaction I had anticipated. How she disappeared from the study the night of the gala after we kissed, when I was moments away from finding out if her arousal matched mine. I can still feel the softness of her thigh under my palm. It’s clear, I’m the only one suffering with the tension between us.

What the hell am I doing? I can’t touch myself here with her sleeping beside me no matter how optimal it is for visual stimulation.

With Chloe still softly snoring, I throw back the covers. Another run, that’s what I need. To rid myself of this pent-up energy. It’s likely the only way I’m going to make it through the weekend. Physical exertion that doesn’t involve touching Chloe.

From his spot on the dog bed, Baxter’s head pops up, the tags around his collar jingling. I grab a pair of shorts and stalk into the bathroom. When I head down the stairs, Baxter follows.

“You want to go?” I ask.

He wags his tail.

“Okay, but here are the rules. We’re running. You have to be able to keep up. No stopping to sniff things every five seconds.”

He lets out a bark, which I believe to be a verbal agreement to our contract. I grab his leash off the bench by the front door and we head out.

Gray clouds hang in the sky and the air is muggy. I take the same path as yesterday, down Main Street, running past the shops and bars. Baxter hangs with me for the first few miles, all floppy tongue and bouncing stride, but he gets distracted by the dog treat bowl that is out front of Tate’s Bake Shop. It’s all downhill from there.

The sky opens up on our way home. We’re already going at a snail’s pace, so when Baxter all but stops, I scoop him up and carry him the rest of the way.

“You smell like wet dog,” I tell him.

He pants in my face, then licks my cheek.

“We had a deal. This was not part of it.”

By the time we return to the house, we’re soaked.