Falling for My Dirty Uncle

I lean forward and meet Owen right in front of his lips. He still has bedhead from last night, and it’s really turning me on.

Well really, everything about this moment, and him, makes me hot and needy.

All things considered, he’s handling this situation like a true gentleman. I’d like to find some way to thank him. And I know just where to start.

I close my eyes and wait for the feel of his lips on mine.

After a few seconds, I’m still puckering up to the air. I open my eyes again and see Owen glaring at me, unmoved by my advances.

“Let’s not get into this right now,” he mutters, looking over his shoulder.

I’m surprised by his sudden prudishness.

What happened to the guy who liked to leave the door open?

There’s nothing for him to worry about. Owen’s body is completely blocking the open door.

From all other angles, we’re completely hidden behind the tinted windows of the limo.

No one will notice if we steal a kiss before I go.

But the idea that someone might see us together has me salivating for another slice of that man cake.

Now that I’ve gotten a taste of his musky and sweet spice, I never want to go back to vanilla.

“Get into what, exactly?” I ask in an innocent tone.

One by one, I open the buttons on the shirt he gave me.

“I’m just saying goodnight. Or good morning.”

Owen looks pained.

“I wasn’t planning on saying this to you right now, but you’ve left me with no other option. This, right here, is where we say goodbye.”

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. He can’t be serious.

“We’ll still have to see each other on holidays, you know. Thanksgiving happens every year. Then there’s New Year’s Eve, Arbor Day, Flag Day…”

“I’m sure we can manage to work around that. Take care of yourself.”

I feel like such an idiot.

This is what I get for trusting a man I first saw having sex with another woman on top of a wedding cake.

And now I’m stuck with him for life.

“I’ll see you later, Uncle Owen,” I spit out, slightly pissed.

Without another word, he backs away from me and shuts the limo door. He raps on the hood of the car, and the driver pulls forward, away from the photographers, away from Owen’s building, and away from the curb where Owen just turned his back on me.

I rebutton Owen’s shirt, cursing the way his cologne clings to the collar and teases me with the seductive scent of what could have been.

“What a hypocrite,” I tell the driver, who is now involved in this relationship whether he wants to be or not.

“All this talk about letting go of inhibitions and living for the moment, and the minute he has to stand in front of the world and admit who he really is, he can’t handle it.”

The driver peers at me in the rearview mirror.