Page 41 of Faking with Three

“Marcus,” she says, my name barely a whisper.

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s her. But the next thing I know, her lips are on mine, soft and insistent.

It’s not tentative. It’s not slow. It’s fire and desperation and weeks of tension unraveling all at once.

My other hand finds her waist, pulling her closer. The brick wall presses against her back as our bodies collide, and I feel her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, tugging me closer. She’s warm, soft, and everything I shouldn’t want right now but can’t seem to resist.

She tilts her head, deepening the kiss, and I groan softly against her lips. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted someone the way I want her in this moment. Her scent surrounds me, intoxicating, and when I feel her nails drag lightly down my chest, it’s all I can do to keep myself grounded.

“Olivia,” I murmur against her mouth, my hands sliding down to her hips.

She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair slightly tousled, and damn if she doesn’t look absolutely stunning.

“This is... probably not a good idea,” she says, though her fingers don’t stop gripping my shirt.

“Terrible idea,” I agree, leaning in to kiss her again.

I don’t know what possesses me to say it—maybe the way her lips are still parted, the faint tremble in her breathing, or the heat in her gaze that she tries so hard to mask—but the words are out before I can stop them.

“Do you want to get out of here?” I ask, my voice low, my hand brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

She blinks up at me, surprised, maybe a little unsure. “Where?”

“My apartment’s just a block down,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, casual. “We can... get away from all this noise.”

Her hesitation is palpable, the kind that stretches time too thin. But then she nods, almost imperceptibly at first, and I swear my chest loosens as if I’d been holding my breath. “Okay,” she says softly, her voice nearly drowned out by the night air.

We don’t say much as we walk to my car.

My hand rests on her knee—not too high, not too low, just there. Her skin is warm under my palm, and I can feel the tension in her posture. But she doesn’t move away. In fact, she leans into it, just a fraction, and that’s all the permission I need.

When we reach my place, I park the car and step out, moving to her side before she even reaches for the door handle. She looks at me, her lips slightly parted, like she’s about to say something, but then she doesn’t. I help her out, my hand on her elbow, steadying her. She’s not drunk, not really, but there’s a sway to her step that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

The elevator ride up is pure torture.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, and she’s staring straight ahead, her lips pressed together in what I can only guess is an attempt to seem calm.

We step out into the hallway when the doors open, and I lead her to my door. As soon as it clicks shut behind us, I turn to her, unable to wait another second.

I kiss her.

It’s not tentative this time, not hesitant. It’s deliberate, my hands framing her face as I press my lips to hers. She makes a soft sound of surprise against my mouth, and for a moment, I think she might pull away. But then she doesn’t. Instead, she melts into me, her hands gripping the front of my shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

Her fingers are still tangled in the front of my shirt, and when she tugs just slightly, I feel that pull everywhere. I let my hands slip from her waist, sliding down to her hips, pressing her closer until there’s no space left between us.

I kiss her again, deeper this time, like I’m trying to memorize the shape of her mouth. She moans softly against my lips, and it sends a rush of heat through me. My hands wander, sliding up her back, under her shirt, feeling the soft, warm skin beneath. She shivers, and I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the way my fingers trail along her spine.

Her hands move too, slipping under my jacket and pushing it off my shoulders. It falls to the floor, forgotten. When she reaches for the buttons on my shirt, her fingers fumble slightly, and she lets out a frustrated little huff. I chuckle against her lips, pulling back just enough to look at her.

“Need some help?” I tease, my voice low and rough.

She glares at me playfully. “Shut up.”

I grin but don’t say anything as I shrug out of my shirt, letting it join the jacket on the floor. Her eyes roam over me, and the way she bites her lip almost undoes me. I don’t give her a chance to overthink; my hands find the hem of her top, and I lift it slowly, giving her time to stop me if she wants to.

She doesn’t.

The shirt slips over her head, and she stands there in front of me, flushed and beautiful. Her bra is simple, a soft gray that contrasts against her alabaster skin. Her freckles stand out more now, scattered across her chest and shoulders like stars, and I can’t resist leaning down to press my lips to them, one by one.

---