He wrapped his arms around her and spoke into the fall of
her hair. "I'm about to fake-boyfriend you."
After a moment, she relaxed against his chest, flashing him
a familiar smirk. "Is that a verb?"
"It is now." He grazed a kiss over her cheekbone. Lips,
skin, pressure. He'd done this a thousand times—not with
her, but then, it shouldn't really matter that it was with her.
And yet, it did. The way the tension slid out of her body,
the way her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, the
way she stared at his mouth when he was done… it all mattered.
"Is this what fake-boyfriending is?" she whispered.
"It's a process," he told her solemnly, and kissed her
forehead. He could hear his own pulse and it was frantic.
She smiled a little. "This isn't bad."
"Glad to hear it. Tell me when to stop."
"You don't need to stop."
The TV screen of his mind glitched, flashing a fantasy he
wasn't prepared for: Rae, under him, begging him not to
stop. Then the glitch vanished, and it was back to his
regular programming.
He swallowed, then kissed her jaw. She gave a soft, helpless
moan that was doomed to live inside him forever. He'd never
forget it. He'd be at the supermarket in fifteen years' time
trying to choose a flavour of ice cream, and out of nowhere
he'd remember Rae moaning because he'd kissed her fucking jaw.
"Oh my God," she muttered, stiffening in his arms, her gaze
skittering away. She was embarrassed. "I'm so sor—"
"Don't." He nudged her chin until she looked him in the
eyes. And then, finally, he kissed her on the mouth.
He hadn't exactly planned to. They hadn't even discussed
this. He'd been waiting for her to bring up Physical Fake
Boyfriend Boundaries, but she never had, and now… here they
were. He started carefully, his lips gliding over hers,
testing, asking—but soon enough, a seething, potent
something spilled out of him, turning the slight
touch intense. He felt as if he'd shoved her against the
nearest wall and hiked up her skirt. Kissing her like this,
barely breathing her in, was making him shake. He just hoped
to God she wouldn't notice, because he didn't know how to
explain it.
The way she kissed him back was dizzying. She was careful,
too, her lips slow and curious, like a question. Is this
what we're doing?
He increased the pressure, his hands tightening around her
hips. Yes. This is what we're doing.
Her tongue barely touched his, sweet and slick and sexy as
fuck. Okay. I like it.
That's when things spiralled out of control.
She was hot, liquid, molten. She pressed herself against
him, and he shocked himself by feeling the opposite of
nothing. He felt everything, all at once, without an ounce
of bloody warning, and wondered how he hadn't seen the
signs. He raised a hand to cradle the back of her neck and
grew rapidly addicted to the feel of holding her in secret,
private places. Places no-one else could touch. He wanted to
run his unworthy palms up her thighs, to trace a finger down
the column of her spine, to sweep his thumb over the dip of
her navel. He settled for pushing his tongue deeper into her
mouth. She tasted of wine in a silver cup, of cool, clever
steel. She kissed like she was starving, and it made his
chest cave in. He'd feed her. Of course he would. Whatever
she wanted. As long as what she wanted was him.
He didn't realise he was hard until delicious pain shot
through his body. His jeans were throttling his cock.
Devouring his fake girlfriend with an audience of Way Too
Many hadn't made him hesitate, but a public erection felt a
little too far and a lot too teenage. He meant to break the
kiss gently, but in the end, they came up for air as if
they'd been drowning. They stared at each other with
matching wide eyes, and he wondered if they had matching
thoughts. Maybe. Because she looked shocked, and he sure as
shit felt shocked.
He was into Rae. Who knew?
