Page 30 of Fake Shot

When I take another step back, my ass hits my dresser, and there’s nowhere for me to go as he comes closer.

“I thought we agreed that you were going to stay out of my space?” I say, raising an eyebrow as he stops inches from me.

“I’m not so sure I can do that,” he says.

“And why not?”

“Because I’m worried about you.”

His pupils have almost taken over his irises and his eyebrows dip low over his eyes as he gazes down at me. “You don’t look worried.”

He looks like I always envisioned he would if he wanted me.

“Trust me, I’m worried.” And then he takes the last, tiny step so his body is flush with mine, wraps his hands around my hips, and lifts me onto the top of the dresser. Planting his hands on either side of me, he leans down so his face is directly in front of mine, and says, “Now, tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Chapter Twelve

COLT

She stares at me, her teeth clenched so tight that her jaw ticks and her cute little nose flares as she takes a deep breath. The way she doesn’t exhale has me worried she’s going into panic attack mode again.

“When did they start?” I ask.

“When didwhatstart?” Her reply is flippant as she rests the heels of her hands slightly behind her so she can lean back. I wish she wouldn’t have done that, though, because it pushes her chest out toward me and now all I can think about is how stacked she is. God, I need to get my damn attraction to her under control.

“The panic attacks.”

She sighs, deflating backward as her shoulders sag. Bringing her hand up to the necklace she always wears, she rubs the small gold disc between her thumb and forefinger. Audrey has a matching necklace, and I’ve seen her do the same.

“It’s not like it happens a lot, Colt.”

“When did they start?”

Another deep sigh, followed by, “A few months ago.”

“What brings them on?”

“I don’t know, the same thing that always causes panic attacks, I guess”—her voice is all sarcasm and sass—“an overactive limbic system combined with a trigger.”

I bring one hand up to her neck, wanting to feel her pulse, but the way my fingers look wrapped under her jaw has my dick going hard instantly. Beneath my fingertips, her blood pumps faster, and she moves her hand from her necklace to my wrist, resting it there without pulling my hand away.

“And what are your triggers?” If it’s assholes putting their hands on her, I’m going to hunt down that suit from the restaurant and beat him to a bloody pulp.

She swallows, her neck bobbing beneath my hand, and I run my thumb across her jawline. “Feeling scared, or like I’m not in control.”

I run the tip of my nose along the bridge of hers. I can’t stop myself. I know this is a bad idea. Maybe the worst I’ve ever had. She’s my best friend’s little sister. I’ve known her since she was ten, and until now I’ve been able to convince myself that she was like a kid sister to me, too.

But somewhere along the line, Jules grew up, and there is absolutelynothingsibling-like about the way my body craves hers. I know I can’t do anything to act on the way I want her—can’t cross that line again—so I’m just torturing myself by letting our bodies get this close.

And the fact that she’s not pushing me away? That she’s leaning into my touch and gripping my wrist like she’sdesperate for me to keep my hand on her neck? Yeah, I’ll have to think about what that means later.

“Maybe you need to learn some new ways to let off steam,” I suggest. It comes out sounding highly suggestive, which is not my intention.

“Should I follow the ‘Mathieu Coltier method’ and fuck every guy I meet?”

Normally, I’d take this as her teasing me, and I’d make a sarcastic remark about how I never fuck guys, but there’s a hard edge to the question.

Plus, the thought of her fucking anyone who isn’t me? It’s wrong that I hate that idea, but I do. I really, really hate it. I can’t have her, but I don’t want anyone else to, either.

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