Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“If we cross that line—” He stops himself, jaw tight. His fingers dig into the wood of the outdoor shower. “I’m not a good man. Carson said something out there. He said I have a reputation for flexible morality.”
“Why do you care what he thinks?” I whisper.
“Because I’m afraid he’s right.”
I reach up on impulse. I don’t know what I’m doing, but my fingers dig into his chest, my palm against his skin. His heart’s racing—god, it’s hammering so fast. He’s nervous, afraid, excited. All of the above. His pulse matches my own. My anger slowly fades, not forgotten, not by a long shot. But muted.
His skin is so warm under my touch.
“You care about things,” I say. “You have friends. You care about them.”
“I know that.”
“You care about me too. Back in Boston, you kissed me, remember? You told them we were married. That made your life a lot more complicated, but you did it to protect me.”
“It was convenient for me, too. It was a way to save face.”
“Maybe,” I say, tilting my chin up toward him. Raising my lips closer to his. “But you still took the risk to make sure they wouldn’t hurt me.”
“What do you want from me, Fiona? I hate the way Carson looked at you. I hate the way it made me feel. Like I was losing something. Like he might take it from me.”
“Nobody’s taking me from you,” I say, blinking at him. “Is that what you think?”
He shakes his head. “It’s stupid. I’ve just—” He lets out a sharp breath. “I’ve lost before. A long time ago. It—it fucked me up. Made it hard to trust.”
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
“I think so. I know we can do this. We work well together.” His eyes drift again. To my lips. To my chest.
“We do work well together.”
“I can’t handle the thought of wanting you like this but being unable to act on it. Stuck at the same level as those mafia fucking pricks.”
“You don’t have to be stuck,” I whisper. “But you have to stop acting like you’re embarrassed of me. No more asking me to change.”
“I won’t,” he says. I believe him. He still doesn’t move. I’m still staring into his eyes, chin tilted up. Practically begging him to press his lips to mine.
Why won’t he kiss me? Why is he holding back, now of all times? We’re supposed to be faking this the right way—so why not give in?
Whatever we do now, it doesn’t count. None of this is real.
But even fake things can feel good.
God, what am I doing? What am I thinking? If I go further than kissing with Gareth—what will that mean?
It’ll only complicate things.
But I want him. I want him so badly, it’s like a craving I can’t shake.
Every kiss. Every time his hand brushes against my skin. Every time he grips my thigh or grabs my arm.
It makes me want him more.
Now, the way he’s looking at me? It’s like he’s going to break if he can’t taste my lips.
His right hand brushes against my cheek. Knuckles drift down to my chin, down my neck, down to my collarbone. To the tops of my breasts.
“I could claim you,” he whispers. “Leave my mark.” His hand turns, palm flat against my chest. Inches from my bikini. Inches from my tits. His fingers curl, digging into the skin. “Let everyone here know who has you. That way, I won’t be so paranoid. I can still be possessive, but I won’t let it overwhelm me. Knowing you’re mine.”
“Then why don’t you?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine.
And he kisses me.
Chapter 22
Fiona
I melt into his kiss. Finally. His kiss, this kiss, it’s what I’ve been needing since the moment we pulled up to this house.
I’ve been a mess of nerves. I’m so afraid I’m going to say something stupid. Something that’ll ruin the whole game. Something that’ll embarrass him.
So when he told me to get changed, it triggered all that anxiety.
It was like, god, I don’t even have to talk and I’m still somehow a pathetic dork.
Except it’s not like that.
He wants me.
I can see it in his eyes. Taste it in his kiss. He wants me as bad as I want him, maybe even more. His hands move down to cup my breasts. I whimper as his tongue rolls against mine. He pushes my bikini aside, teasing my nipple. I groan, flashes of pleasure bursting into my skin.
He needs me like I need him.
And he knows how wrong it is. He knows this is fucked up. This is stupid. If we keep going, we’re going to make a mistake we can’t turn back from.
We agreed on no sex. So why am I letting him do this?
Why am I moaning as his other hand moves down my tummy, down toward my bikini bottom?