Page 53 of Faking All the Way
The spell I’ve been lost in shatters, and I press a hand to my mouth, stiff and mortified. I just came. I actually came when it was all supposed to be pretend, when we were just putting on a show for my ex. What the fuck is wrong with me?
When Asher gets up and strides into the bathroom a second later, I take the opportunity to fan myself with the covers, trying to cool down. My panties are soaked, my thighs sticky with it, and my body is still humming in the aftermath of one of the most powerful orgasms I’ve ever had.
And he never even touched me.
I’m so distracted by my attempts to tamp down the lingering arousal and make sure I’ll look natural when Asher comes back into the room that I almost miss it—a soft sound from the bathroom. It’s just a little noise, barely audible, but it makes my cheeks flame hot.
Holy shit. Is Asher…?
I shake my head, telling myself I’m crazy. He’s not in there taking care of himself. There’s no way he was that affected by what we just did.
I got too caught up in the fantasy because I’ve never had a guy talk to me that way and it’s been longer than I’d like to admit since I had sex. My body was probably so primed, so pent up after months without any release, that it didn’t stand a chance.
But for him? I’m sure he has beautiful women in his bed all the time, so it’s not like a little fake sex would mean that much to him.
I strain to hear anything else, holding my breath, but I can’t pick up any other sounds. Just the faint rush of water in the pipes that run through the walls and a few creaks as the oldhouse settles around us. A couple of minutes later, the toilet flushes, and Asher runs the faucet before coming back out.
He crawls into bed beside me, giving me a tight smile, and I nod back. Then he pulls the covers back over us, enclosing us beneath their weight.
I try not to move, hyper aware of him beside me even though I’m trying not to be. But every inhale draws his scent into my nostrils, every tiny shift of my weight reminds me of the places where we’re almost touching, and the space between us feel both too large and way too small.
Chapter Twenty
Kat
I gaze up at the ceiling, my body still humming with leftover tension that refuses to fade. Neither of us speaks, and the silence stretches so long that I start to think Asher must’ve fallen asleep. His breathing has evened out, becoming deeper and more regular.
But I can’t get myself to drift off. I’m too wound up, my heart still hammering away like I just raced up several flights of stairs. My body feels hot all over, flushed with the memory of everything he said while we were putting on our little show. The images his voice conjured up in my head are playing on repeat, and I can’t seem to shut them off.
I focus on breathing steadily, trying to slow my racing pulse.In for four counts, out for four counts. It’s a technique I learned from a meditation app I downloaded last year and never really used. But right now I need something, anything, to calm down.
It’s starting to work, my heart rate finally coming down from its frantic pace, when Asher moves beside me.
The mattress shifts under his weight, the old springs creaking slightly, and I realize he’s not asleep after all. My body stiffens up again, and I tentatively glance over at him. “Are you not tired?”
He gazes at me in the darkness, and I can see his face clearly in the snow-reflected light filtering through the curtains. His eyes are open and alert, definitely not sleepy looking. He shakes his head slowly.
“Yeah, me neither,” I admit, trying to keep my voice casual. “Too wound up, I guess.”
The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately want to take them back. They feel too suggestive, too revealing. What if he figures out that I actually came back there? That the whole thing affected me way more than it should have? That I’m lying here still thinking about it, my body refusing to let go of the fantasy we created?
I scramble for something else to say, anything to fill the awkward silence and move past what I just admitted.
“This used to be my room,” I blurt quietly. “Whenever I’d do sleepovers here as a kid, this is where I’d stay.”
“Yeah?” He rolls over onto his side to face me properly, and I can feel the weight of his attention.
“Yup. Grandma Beverly would make it up special for me. Sometimes she’d even put fresh flowers on the dresser or leave a little chocolate on the pillow.” I smile at the memory, then jerk my chin toward the ceiling. “See that crack up there?”
I point to the jagged line in the plaster, running from the light fixture toward the window. It’s more visible now than it was when I was a kid, the crack having widened over the years as the old house has aged.
“I used to be terrified of it,” I continue in a whisper. “I was convinced that monsters or bugs could slip through and get me at night. I’d lie here staring at it, working myself up until I wasscared to even close my eyes. One night when I was eight or so, I cried about it. Full-on sobbing because I was so sure something was going to come through.”
“Oh, shit. What did your grandmother do?”
“She came in and sat right here on the edge of the bed. She didn’t tell me I was being silly or that I needed to grow up. She just sat and told me stories.” I smile fondly at the memory of her rubbing circles on my back. “About how old houses settle over time, how the wood shifts and the foundation moves. How cracks are just the building getting comfortable. She said it was like when you stretch in bed first thing in the morning and hear your joints pop. Nothing scary, just natural.”
My gaze traces the length of the jagged black mark, familiar even after all these years. “After that, I wasn’t so scared of it anymore. I’d look up at it before falling asleep and think of the house settling in for the night, just like me. Making itself comfortable.”
