Page 105 of Faking the Pass
I had a feeling he wouldn’t mind extending our fake-marriage-with-benefits arrangement beyond the honeymoon—at least for a while until he got tired of me.
But I couldn’t allow it. Not when I felt likethisabout him.
Which was why as soon as we touched ground in Rhode Island, this was over. We’d go back to separate beds and mostly separate lives.
No matter how difficult it would be to fight the pull I felt toward him—sexually and emotionally—Ihadto do it.
That way when the inevitable end arrived, I’d at least have achanceof surviving it.
Presley didn’t make it easy.
When we landed at the airport in Eastport Bay and walked from the terminal to his car, he slung his arm around me and planted a kiss on the top of my head the way he’d done so many times on the island .
It was a warm, affectionate gesture that would have been natural between a real newlywed couple returning from their honeymoon.
But that wasn’t us.
I shrugged away from the now-familiar and far too tempting physical contact. Presley slid me a sideways glance, his brows drawing together, but he said nothing.
When we arrived at his house, the paparazzi were waiting, once again lining the street, though in fewer numbers than before.
“Damn,” I breathed. “Someone at the airport must have tipped them off.”
“Don’t worry about it. This is a good thing,” Presley said.
He smiled at the cameras crowding invasively close to his car window.
“This time wewantthem hanging around, right?” he said. “To support the story.”
As we waited for the automatic gate to open completely so we could pull into the drive, I made an effort to smile and look like a happy newlywed for the cameras on my side of the car.
“I guess you’re right. I just have this automatic visceral reaction whenever I see them. Every muscle in my body tenses up.”
“I know a cure for that.”
Presley’s tone was dirty, and it set off a sweet heat curling low in my abdomen.
Though the gate had opened, he didn’t drive forward. Instead, he slid a hand around the back of my neck and pulled me in for a kiss.
It was completely unexpected, but my traitorous body got right with the program.
As usual, my insides turned molten, and that heat in my abdomen was now an inferno. The ache between my legs longed for his touch, throbbing in demand.
I should have stopped him.
We were home now. We couldn’t keep acting like we were still on our honeymoon.
But I couldn’t exactly push him away with the paparazzi watching.
He ended the kiss and drove down the crushed seashell drive and into the garage while my heart rate—and my girl parts—attempted to settle enough for me to think straight again.
Once we got inside the house, I said, “We need to talk.”
Presley immediately went to the fridge, no doubt ravenous, though we’d eaten on the plane. His appetite was insatiable.
Bothappetites actually.
I probably should have been grateful he hadn’t thrown me over his shoulder and carried me straight to his bedroom the moment we stepped over the threshold.
