Page 48 of Maybe We Can Fake It

“Youwannachange?”Brendenasks, holding out a pair of my sweatpants that he grabbed from his dresser drawer. Apparently, he made room for my clothes and put them away for me, even though I assured him it wasn’t necessary.

The gesture is sweet, but it’s also made the line between real and fake look a bit blurrier. The more days we spend pretending to date, the more the line blurs. And that’s how I end up doing silly things like kissing his fingertips because I want to, not because I’m trying to sell this.

It’s been way too easy fitting myself into his life. Although maybe that shouldn’t surprise me. We’ve fit so easily into each other’s lives in a platonic way for years. I know what he likes and dislikes, his strengths and his weaknesses, how to make him happy with simple things. Is adding some handholding really all it takes to tip the appearance of our relationship from platonic over to romantic?

He shakes the sweats at me, snapping me out of my brief daze. “Sorry you had to stay up for the movie” he says when I takethem from him. “You must be exhausted from all the jumping back and forth between the diner, the inn, and here.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty much ready to crash.”

Honestly, I almost dozed off a few times during the movie. But having Brenden’s body tucked against mine kept me awake. It was comfortable in a way that could have lulled me to sleep—if it weren’t for the fact that I wasn’t willing to miss a moment of the closeness.

That should scare me. Itdoesscare me. He is not mine to keep, and I need to remember that.

I go into the bathroom to change, and since Brenden was already wearing clothes he could sleep in, I find him lying in bed when I come back out. I set my folded jeans and flannel on top of his dresser before going over there. It looks like he’s a little more in the middle of it than he should be. So far, we’ve both stayed as much on our respective sides as possible. That is, until we inevitably migrate closer in our sleep.

At least this morning when I woke up, Brenden was lying on his stomach about a foot away from me. Only his hand had crept closer, his fingers curled around my hipbone. That was less dangerous and awkward than waking up with his ass pressed against my dick.

Deciding it would be rude to ask him to move over in his own bed, I slide in and do my best to keep some semblance of space between us. But he immediately rolls on his side to face me, closing the distance, and he gives me a look like he’s considering something.

Is it something about me?

Even though I have no idea what type of answers he’s searching for on my face, I hold perfectly still, like that will make some kind of difference.

And then right when I’m about to break and ask him what he’s thinking, he says, “I think we should kiss again.”

My eyes grow wide.

“We only practiced once,” he adds quickly. As if once wasn’t enough to sear the feel of his lips into my brain.“And I kind of freaked out a little when it happened tonight in front of Elise. We need it to look more natural.”

“Uh,” I say, his proposition rendering me dumb. Somehow, it’s even more surprising this time than the first time he said it. Maybe because it almost made sense the first time. To practice. But now?

We don’t need more practice. When he kissed me tonight—becausehekissedme, it didn’t just “happen”—it certainlyfeltnatural. At least until he flailed around trying to get away from me.

“I just think it would be helpful,” he says. His face has shuttered his emotions, leaving me unable to read him. And I don’t like that. He’s usually so expressive. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Oh, Idowant to. That’s the problem.

My whole reason for being here, though, is to help him out. So if he needs to kiss me more to get himself comfortable with it, then I can do that for him. I can keep my desire for him in check. I’ve been doing it for years.

I scratch at my jaw as I say, “All right, we can... Do you want...”

Ignoring my inability to finish a sentence, he scoots closer and practically flings himself at me. Even with his uncoordinated movements, our lips instantly come together like they’re magnetized. And he seems to settle as soon as we’re kissing.

His fingers curl into my shirt, and I can feel the warm press of them through the fabric. I’m on my back, and he’s propped himself up so that his face is slightly above mine, allowing him the easiest control of the kiss.

Andfuck, I’m fine with letting him control it. Because his mouth is hot and exploring, his tongue sneaking out to lickacross the seam of my lips, urging me to part them for him. As soon as I do, that wicked tongue meets mine, and it sends sparks of want shooting up my spine.

One of my arms is trapped between our bodies, his chest pressed tightly against it. But I manage to roll myself onto my side to mirror him, and I use my free hand to cup the back of his head. He moans softly when my nails scratch along his scalp. And then he freezes, like he didn’t mean for the sound to escape him. But it did, and I can’t unhear it.

So I use my hold on his head to guide him back into kissing me. I shouldn’t be doing this, but the flames are growing hotter, and it’s like his tongue is both stoking the fire and putting it out at the same time.

I need him.

Need his tongue and his lips and his body against mine.

I kiss him like I want to devour him. Because I do.

It’s not until he bites my lip gently, then pulls back a bit, that I come to my senses and relinquish my hold on him. His fingers remain tangled in my shirt. It feels like an act of possessiveness, though I’m sure it’s not.

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