Page 66 of Faking All the Way
And Kat deserves someone who can give her what she really wants. Someone who believes in love and forever and all the things I swore off after Alexis.
Someone better than me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kat
I wake up with my heart racing, the remnants of whatever dreams I was having fading. But my body remembersexactlywhat happened last night—every detail, every sensation. The sheets are twisted around my legs like I’ve been tossing and turning all night, and my skin feels flushed even though the room isn’t particularly warm.
I’m pretty sure my dreams picked up right where Asher and I left off, because I’m still buzzing with a flush of arousal. My skin tingles beneath the soft cotton of my tank top, goosebumps forming as the sheets brush against me. Heat pools low in my belly as I think about the way Asher looked at me through the window, about all the things he texted me, filthy and encouraging. The way it felt when I came, knowing he could see me.
I glance over at the guest house through my bedroom window, my stomach flip-flopping. We didn’t even close the curtains last night. The realization hits me again, making mycheeks go hot. Looking across the distance now in the morning light, I can see that the curtains are still open on his side too.
I’ve never done anything like that before. Never been that bold, that uninhibited with anyone. I bury my face in my hands as a thrill of embarrassment mixed with excitement rushes through me.
Who even am I? When did I get so bold?
But for once, I wasn’t overthinking, getting lost in my head or trapped by self-consciousness. All I was thinking about was how much I wanted him, how much I needed some kind of release from this tension that’s been building between us for days.
I thought the fake sex thing the other night was one of the hottest moments of my life—which is honestly kind of sad since it wasn’t even real. But holy fuck, this dwarfed that in every way. Last night was the most erotic moment of my life by a long shot, and we weren’t even in the same room.
A knock at the back door makes me jolt upright, my heart leaping into my throat. Without even looking outside, I know it’s him. Our morning coffee routine has become a regular thing between us, a daily ritual I’ve come to look forward to as we both get our first caffeine fix of the day.
Now I just need to figure out how to act normal after last night. How to look him in the eye without thinking about what we did.
I get up quickly, my legs a bit shaky, and run my hand through my messy hair as I check my appearance in the mirror over my dresser. I look rumpled and flushed, my hair tangled from sleep. But there’s not much I can do about it without taking time to shower and change, and he’s already at the door. So I head downstairs in my sleep shorts and tank top, trying to look composed even though my pulse is racing.
When I open the door, Asher stands there like he does every morning, so fucking gorgeous that it makes my stomach flip. Hisdark hair is messy, making me think he just woke up too, and his blue-grey eyes match the wintery scene around him perfectly. He hasn’t shaved yet, and there’s a hint of stubble on his jaw that I can’t help but imagine feeling against my skin.
I can still remember the way his forearm flexed as he stroked himself last night, the corded muscles tight, or the way his abs tensed when he got close. The memory sends my pulse racing all over again, heat pouring through me.
He shoots me a crooked grin that makes my knees a little weak. “Coffee?”
I laugh, some of the tension breaking at the familiar greeting. “Coffee. Always coffee.”
I open the door wider and he comes in. As we head to the kitchen, I ask, “How did you sleep?”
“Like a baby.” There’s something in his tone, a hint of satisfaction or amusement, that makes me wonder if he had dreams like mine. “You?”
“Good. Yeah, good.” I’m definitely not telling him about the dreams that had us picking up where we left off.
In the kitchen, I’m incredibly aware of him as we go about what’s become our usual routine. Every movement he makes, every breath, feels magnified. I put the coffee on, measuring out the grounds with slightly shaking hands, and he grabs my caramel creamer out of the fridge without being asked, leaving it out on the counter where I’ll need it.
It all feels normal. Familiar. These small gestures we’ve developed over the past week, the easy rhythm we’ve fallen into—except for how carefully we’re each acting casual, as if we’re both working a little too hard to seem relaxed. Moving around each other with deliberate politeness, making sure not to get too close.
When the coffee is ready, I pour each of us a cup. Steam rises from my mug, carrying that rich smell, and I add in mycreamer and then wrap my hands around the ceramic just to have something to hold on to.
“So…” I start, then trail off because I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
“So,” he echoes, and I can hear in his voice that he’s just as lost for the next words as I am.
Last night over text was so easy. The words just flowed without thinking, the distance making me braver. But last night I was caught up in the moment, riding a wave of arousal and boldness. And there was still that little buffer between us, that physical distance. Each of us in our own space, our own rooms. Safe in our separate buildings.
Face to face like this, in the morning light with coffee and the mundane routine, it’s harder to figure out how to act.
I want to ask him what this means. If it changes anything about our arrangement. If he wants it to happen again. But I can’t seem to make myself voice any of those questions.
What if he regrets it? What if he thinks it was a mistake?
