every opportunity to be shirtless around her after that.

But by the end of our few days at the resort, she caught on to my scheme.

And now she’s torturing me right back, prancing around her apartment—our apartment—in nothing more than skimpy tank tops and barely-there booty shorts. She puts on more clothes when she leaves the house, but since she has no scheduled performances or meetings or appearances anywhere, that’s really only to go to the grocery store and the gym.

I will admit that drooling over my scantily-clad wife is a nice distraction from the phone calls and texted demands to call them from my brothers that I’ve been ignoring for the last few days. They already know what’s going on. If Mom didn’t call them immediately after I got off the phone with her, I’d be shocked, but even if she didn’t, they follow the entertainment news, so they’d have seen the pics that Delores put out. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with their judgment. As though either of them have any right to tell me how to handle my life and my career. I’ve asked for their help a million times, and they’ve barely lifted a finger. They’ve made it clear I’m on my own, so I’m doing what I think is best.

And it just so happens that the best thing includes eloping with the nearly-naked woman lounging on the couch.

She’s back on her starvation diet, and no matter how often I try to convince her to add a few more calories to her daily allowance, she’s determined to cut much harder than seems healthy.

I’ve been doing our weekly meal prep, the way I always do when I’m on my own, but doubling everything to include her, and most days she just has black coffee for breakfast and doesn’t eat anything until well after noon.

When I ask her about it, she shrugs and says, “Keeping my eating window small makes it easier to not overeat.”

It also makes it easy to develop an eating disorder, but I keep that thought to myself. I’m all for staying in shape, and I workout and control my diet pretty well, but she’s restricting harder than normal to make up for our splurge on our “honeymoon.”

Even as I worry about her lack of calories, I’m not immune to her skimpy outfits and the way she arranges herself as provocatively as possible when she knows I’m looking.

At first I tried to hide the boners, but as days turned into weeks, I stopped bothering, wearing nothing besides sweatpants or athletic shorts while I lounge around the house. The only time either of us get dressed is for working out, going to the grocery store, and our weekly date night organized by Delores. But the rest of the time, it’s like we’re playing a game of chicken to see who’ll flinch first.

I’d been banking on her, but so far, no dice.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

Especially when we finish singing a song together that she picked out for us, and she bounces on the couch, clapping her hands, directly across from where I’m perched on the edge of the coffee table. I can’t tear my eyes away from the sway of her tits under that flimsy excuse for a top.

“Oh!” She grabs my arm, which finally has me looking at her face, my dick twitching and growing from the combination of the sight of her and now her actually touching me. Because while we might be playing this see-who-can-show-as-much-skin-as-possible-without-getting-naked game, we have an unspoken no-touching rule. So having her hands on me, even somewhere as innocuous as my forearm is … almost too much.

I want her hands in so many other places that I don’t know if I could decide where I’d want her to start.

But I finally clue in to the fact that she’s not touching me to be sexy. She’s doing it because she’s excited. And did she say something about scheduling a performance?

“What do you think?”

She blinks up at me, her face so open and vulnerable that I feel like a complete ass when I have to say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch all of that.”

One corner of her mouth hitches up in a sly smile. “Uh-huh. I see.” She removes her hand from my arm and points at her face. “Can you listen to me now?”

Clearing my throat, I nod. “Yes. I’m listening. Did you say something about a performance?”

“Yes.” She crosses her legs, her hands layered on top of her knee, her posture almost prim and such a contrast to her nearly-naked form. “We’ve been singing all these duets together. I think we have enough of those for a full set. If we include solo stuff of each of us, we could put on a full concert. Don’t you think? It would be small, but we could book a venue and test some stuff out. See what people think of the new ideas.”

She turns and picks up the notebook she always has with her when we’re jamming, tapping it with her pen. “I could even turn a couple of these songs into duets too.” That hopeful look is back on her face when she looks up. “I think it would be a lot of fun. What do you think?”

Performing together? Like soon? A grin stretches across my face. “You think people would want to hear us?”

She shrugs. “I still have my social accounts. We were building a good following. While not everyone will want to hear me as a soloist, I think enough of them would. Plus, we were based here. So we had a pretty good local following. I think we could get enough people to make it worthwhile. I don’t know much about booking venues, though, or how that all works. Mia’s boyfriend took over our booking once we got a big enough following from bar gigs, and then we got a contract and a manager, so I wasn’t ever involved

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