Page 42 of That Fake Feeling
“Yup.”Connorpops theP. “Justlike we always do on a regular oldSundaymorning.”
Atleast lying with my back to him meansIdon’t have to look him in the face.Thoughthat didn’t prevent trouble last time.
AsIsettle back against him, he jumps violently.
“Ow.”Hishand flies to his left pec. “Yousquashed my nipple.”
Atitter runs around the room.
Oh, good, now he’s playing for laughs from the crowd.Ineed to get him back for that.
“Isthat the nipple you told me you accidentally stapled when you were four?Theone that’s been overly sensitive ever since?”
Hetilts his head into the pillow, locks eyes with me, and lowers his voice to a whisper. “Nipplestaples?We’redoing nipple staples now?”
Ismile and tap the end of his nose like we’re having a cute private conversation. “Youstarted it, sugar plums.”
Iturn around and get back into position, his broad, welcoming chest warm against my back through my flimsy pajama top.Hedrapes his arm around my shoulder, andIinstinctively reach up and lace my fingers with his, as if he were my real boyfriend.
Hesqueezes them, like a real boyfriend would.Whywould he do that?It’scompletely unnecessary for the pictures.
“Okay, people,” the photographer says. “Relaxedsleepy smiles, please.”
Ifit perfectly underConnor’sarm, like shapes fit into the correct holes in those shape-sorting toys.Ourfingers slot together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.Andmy body sinks into his as if it’s found its natural home.
Maybeit’s okay to wallow in the warm sense of belonging swelling within me just for these few minutes.It’llbe years beforeIallow myself to do this with someone for real, soImight as well let myself enjoy this fantasy whileIcan.
Idrop the full weight of my head ontoConnor’schest and do exactly what the photographer asked—imagine this is my perfectSunday, snuggled up to my perfect man, for a perfect, lazy morning.
It’seasier thanI’dexpected.AsIhalf close my eyes and let a contented smile creep across my face,Connorpulls me a little closer, resting our intertwined fingers on my chest, and hooks his leg under mine.That’scompletely unnecessary too.Onlythe top halves of our bodies are on show.
Hestrokes his toe over the top of my foot, sending a tingle up my leg and straight to my center.
JustasIrealize how hardI’mgrippingConnor’sfingers, the photographer jolts me back to reality.
“Good.Right.Keepit moving.Bringin breakfast.”
Thephotographer’s assistant trots over as fast as he can while holding a rustic wood tray laden with a plate piled with assorted pastries, a platter of fruit cut into heart shapes, aFrenchpress half full of coffee, and two mugs—one with the word “soul” on the side, the other with the word “mate.”
ConnorandIuntangle ourselves and jump to attention.
Iprop the pillows up behind me and sit cross-legged as the assistant lays the tray on the bed in front of us.
Connorpoints at the fruit and looks down at me out of the corner of his eye. “Iwonder if they used the same master carver who did the tomato bouquet?”
Thereminder of him trying to derail this whole thing should make me furious, but the lopsided smirk that accompanies that quip hits me right in the funny bone.
Ishove him in the arm so hard he has to put his hand out on the other side to stop himself from falling over.
“Youare such an ass.”Itry to hold in a laugh, butIcan’t. “Giveme a break.I’mdoing my best here.Youcould even help me out a little if you like.”Istab a piece of heart-shaped pineapple with a fork and hold it up to him. “Here, try some.AndI’musing cutlery this time.Ivalue my fingers too much.”
Hegives me a knowing smile as he slowly wraps his fingers around my fork-holding hand and draws it to his mouth.
Sparksshoot up my arm from his touch and explode in my chest as he grabs the pineapple with his teeth and pulls it from the fork.
Ashe lets go of my hand, his fingers drift partway down my forearm before he pulls them away.
Myheart does a little dance, and my clit joins in.
