All Chapters of The Boyfriend Contract : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

CalebI shouldn’t be doing this. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that it’s wrong for a whole lot of reasons. There’s someone else I claim to love. We’re crossing a line that until now, I pretended didn’t exist. But when Ryan’s hands slide under my shirt, warm palms spread over my back and his arms are around my neck, I forget all about my guilt and the many reasons. I kiss him like I’m drowning, my tongue sliding against his, swallowing his throaty moan and giving him one of my own.I’m hard enough that it aches and every shift of my hips presses my cock against the growing bulge in his pants, the friction making both of us shudder.“You’re an asshole,” he whispers against my lips, nipping the lower one hard enough to sting. “But I’m terrible at lying. I didn’t come back because I forgot something. I was thinking about you—I’ve been thinking about you, Caleb.” Something in my chest cracks open at that. Knowing that I’m not the only one who was suffering all evening, mak

Ryan “Ahem.”A smile forms on my face as I take a break from the golden retriever puppy licking my face, put it down, and turn to Amy, my boss. “You should get him,” she comments. “He’s gotten attached to you. He doesn’t let anybody else come close to him.”I laugh, shaking my head. “He’s scared, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll come around very soon. Nobody can win against the infamous “Amy’s touch.”She rolls her eyes, but her smile widens. “You’re the only person who works here that doesn’t have a pet. You have the entire office taking bets to see how long it’ll last before you cave in.”As if he can understand the conversation, the puppy scrambles into my arms, licking my cheek earnestly. I shake my head fondly as I pick him up, letting him have full reign over one side of my face. “Can I join the bet?”“Or you can just agree to take the little fella right now,” she comments. “If you do, I’ll win the bet and the two of us can split the winnings. I’ll even throw in a bunch of stuff so y

CalebI press the end call button on my phone, cutting off Richard’s endless stream of recap about the blind date he went on during the weekend. My gaze is on the car parked in front of the apartment building. Black. Expensive. I don’t recognize it, but the chill down my spine and the uncomfortable feeling that sits in the middle of my chest tell me already. Christian Thompson. Owner and CEO of CT. Industries, a billion-dollar company primarily involved in manufacturing automobiles. The back windows are tinted, but I can feel my father’s gaze from where I stand, frigid and disapproving. My phone slowly comes down from my ear, slipping into my pocket. My jaw clenches and my breathing sharpens. It’s the first time my father has visited me since I showed up at the house and told him I was dating a man. A boy. He didn’t say much to me back then. His mouth was in its perpetual look of displeasure and disappointment, but he shook his head. “We tell you not to marry a girl that comes

Caleb I’ve been staring at the envelope on the coffee table, right next to a jug of milk, for the past thirty minutes. I spent all day at the hospital thinking about it. It feels like a bomb, with the trigger attached to the seal I need to break to open it. But it also feels like if I decide not to trigger it, I won’t be able to move on. What if there were other bombs waiting? How would I defuse them in time? My father’s presence was a warning. And not a subtle one, either. If I didn’t do as he asked—I knew he was going to do something rash to force my hand. He had the connections. People. Means. I was a medical resident in my early twenties, living in an apartment with the boy he was supposedly dating—and a girlfriend who my father didn’t approve of. There were a few people I could reach out to, for feelers on what my father was planning……but if he ever found out they were helping me out, they’d suffer consequences. Either that, or he’d force them to double-cross me. I ha

RyanThe dinner table feels like someone placed a bomb on the table. And instead of it having a remote or some kind of switch to detonate, it's rigged to the temperature.If it gets warm, it'll explode.I stare at the plate in front of me. At the food that our chef made. He went all out, making some of my favorites. But I don't have an appetite. It's impossible to eat when I can feel my father's disapproval raining down on me like hail in summer. Rachel, on the other hand, is wolfing every bite down.She glances at me, at the fork between my fingers, and then at my plate. "You're going to eat that?" she asks.I start to push it to her, but my father's head snaps to us.Rachel eases back, both hands raised in the air. "He's just going to let it get cold," she mumbles. "You're the one who says we shouldn't waste food."He shakes his head at her, but says nothing. Then he turns to me. His cold grey eyes, a feature that neither of his children inherited, stare hard at me. "Was he feedin