Page 93 of The Fake Husband Play
I shake my head, pulse picking up as his forest-in-summer cologne floods my senses. Even with a hint of Trash Panda breath, he smells delicious.
Hell, considering how much I love this nasty drink, that might even be a plus.
“Not yet,” I purr, “but you’re a contender, kid.”
“Thanks. That’s good to hear.”
His mouth is so close to mine, I can’t help letting my gaze drift down to his lips as I add, “But there’s one thing I need to figure out first.”
“What’s that?” he murmurs, leaning even closer, until I can feel the heat of his mouth on mine, and thechances of a Bar Make Out Event enter threat level orange.
“How we know each other.” My breath catches as his big hand settles on my knee, making things low in my belly tighten. My panties are in imminent danger as I add in a breathier voice, “Because I didn’t hang out with sixth graders when I was a senior in high school.” I roll my eyes. “I mean, well, except this kid I used to?—”
I jerk my head back so fast, I nearly tip my stool over as I blurt out, “Parker?”
He grabs the arms of my chair, guiding me safely onto four legs as he grins again. “There you go. I knew you’d figure it out eventually.”
“Leo Parker.” I blink. “From Rose Hip Lane?” I blink again. “With the Pokémon card collection, who liked to have the crusts cut off his grilled cheese?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but I mean, I don’t live there anymore. And I donated my Pokémon cards to charity before high school and got way less picky about sandwich crust… But yeah. That’s me,” he says, like this isn’t a disaster.
“I used to be yourbabysitter,” I say, horrified that I nearly developed a wet-panty situation for sweet Leo Parker, my little buddy with the chaotic parents and love of watching sweet cartoons long after other boys his age were all about violent video games.
“Yes, you sure did,” he says again, in a tone that suggests he’s concerned that I might have had too much to drink.
“I’m not drunk,” I shoot back as I grip his wrist, moving his hand from my knee to his. Once the dangerous, tingle-inducing hand is back where it belongs, Iassure him, “I’m simply shocked and appalled and not about to kiss a sweet little boy I used to?—”
Before I can finish, Parker’s mouth is on mine.
And…the world is no longer the same.
Have you ever had a truly perfect dream? I’m talking a once-a-year, all-the-stars-have-aligned-to-bless-you kind of dream where everyone you’ve lost is still with you, you’re having a fantastic time, and the entire world feels fresh and new, with no mistakes in it? Then you wake up, remember that you live alone in a shithole, and all the mistakes you’ve made come rushing back, assuring you that you’ll never be fresh and new again?
Well, Parker’s kiss is the exactoppositeof that.
His mouth fits mine like the sweetest dream, and his tongue slips between my lips like a key in a lock. His taste is instantly warm and familiar. Easy and sweet. Electric and safe and hot as fucking hell becausedamnthis boy cankiss.
Before I make a conscious decision to give in to this bad idea, my arms are around his shoulders, threading into his hair at the nape of his neck as I kiss him back with all the enthusiasm of a feral raccoon in a dumpster full of hot wings. And as our tongues thrust and parry and his fingers curl into my hips through my jeans, I realize this is the best kiss of my life.
Better than Tanner.
Better than the awful, but legitimately sexy man I married.
And way,waybetter than Chuck.
Chuck is decaf. Parker is a triple espresso. Chuck is a galaxy screensaver. Parker is a live feed direct from outer space. Chuck is plain toast. Parker is crème brûlée set ablaze by a shirtless Frenchman.
“Shirt off,” I mumble against his lips. “I wouldreallylike to see you with your shirt off.”
“I would really like to see you with everything off,” he rumbles back, “spread open for me on my bed, soaking wet and begging me to fuck you.”
“Woah! Dude!” I pull back again, sucking in a breath as I lift both hands in the universal sign for “stop the crazy.”
“Too much too soon?” he asks, his electric blue eyes locked on my mouth, which is a lot to handle. But not nearly as bad as if he were looking at, say, my rock-hard nipples that are no doubt straining through the fabric of my shirt.
Seriously, I can’t remember the last time my nipples were this hard.
“Yes,” I breathe, though I’m honestly not sure. “You don’t go from kid I used to babysit to filthy bedroom talk in less than a minute.”
