Page 66 of Pretend for Me

Dipping below her loose top, I skirt my thumbs over her bare breasts. Breasts I’ve studied up close while she was writhing on my lap, with her head thrown back and her chest in my face. Breasts that have the deepest pink nipples I’ve ever seen, like fucking rosebuds I can practically taste on my tongue.

“No fucking bra,” I growl against her lips. “Short shorts and no fucking bra. Do you realize how many people I have to kill now because they saw you like this today? Including Ralph, and I’ve always liked the guy.”

Piper smiles into our kiss. “Caveman.”

She’s fucking right; Iama caveman when it comes to her, and I don’t plan to apologize for it.

I run circles over her rosebud nipples, making her gasp into my mouth. “More, Dev. God, I want more.”

And just like that, gone is the sweet and exploratory kiss from last night.

That gentle dance of lips has been replaced by something more urgent and primal. Soon, we’re a mess of hungry growls, clanking teeth, and grinding bodies. Both ravenous and seeking friction, closeness,anythingto satiate this fucking overwhelming need.

With one hand still playing with her nipple, my otherfinds its way to her silky strands. I use my grip on them to change our angle, desperately plunging into her mouth like she’s my only source of air.

Piper swivels her hips against me and my dick practically weeps.

My heart thunders inside my chest, and I guarantee she can feel it tapping against her own. The intensity of this moment, the weight of it as we stand on the precipice of something we’re both resigned to and destined for makes my head spin. Reality blurs the edges of my focus, until all I can see is her—her taste, her scent, and the feel of her against me.

What am I doing?

What in the actual fuck am I doing, helping her break her rules? Risking her getting attached—the same as me—when that’s the last thing she wants to do.

She clearly has her rules for a reason. They’re her armor, the walls she put up to keep herself away from getting hurt, staying unattached. Just like she told me she wanted to be. So, why am I challenging her to break them like a selfish bastard?

This isn’t a game.

Which is why I have to admit the truth, at least to myself.

I want her. Not temporarily, not in some sham agreement for my mother or the world. I want her in ways I’ve never wanted anyone. I want her more than temporarily.

Her fingernails bite down on my skin. She runs them down my abs, making them dance under her touch, before she hooks her fingers into the waistband of my jeans.

We pull out of the kiss, breathless and panting, but so fucking ready for more.

“Tell me this is actually happening, Dev,” she says, shuddering against me. “Tell me this isn’t just some residual magic left over from that place full of fairies, pixies, and godmothers.”

I trail kisses along the moles on her neck, the way I’ve beenwanting to do. “Pretty sure godmothers by themselves aren’t magical.”

She gives me an irritated squint. “Don’t distract me with your sense and sensibility, Mr. Darcy?—”

“Also pretty sure you’ve placed him in the wrong book?—”

“Because I’ll sue Mickey and Cinderella, and everyone else in that godforsaken place, for emotional distress.”

I chuckle, lifting my palms to her face, and sliding my thumbs over the tops of her cheeks. This fucking girl, with her way of making me laugh no matter how bleak the outlook.

I know she’s playing dumb about Mr. Darcy, just like I know she’s the one who solves my crossword puzzles almost every night. The ones I purposely leave on the coffee table for her because I’m coming up with blanks.

She’s wickedly smart, but she’d rather not show it if it means she can get a laugh from those around her, even if it’s at her own expense.

It’s both frustrating and endearing all at once. A part of me wants to shake her and tell her not to pretend to be ignorant when she’s usually the smartest person in the room. But the other admires her for always being able to lighten the mood, for never taking herself too seriously.

But I do wonder where it comes from—her need to self-deprecate and take the attention away from herself without revealing her insecurities. Who made her feel like she needed to do that? Because whoever it is, I swear, I want to wrangle their neck.

I merge our mouths together once again, demanding more. More than I deserve. More because I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill.

The second our tongues touch again, I exhale against her skin, while she inhales against mine, fisting my shirt and swallowing mygroan.

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