Page 48 of Lessons in Faking
My brain was scrambled, my thoughts messed up. I was sure I imagined his words. It was hard to think straight, with his all-consuming presence underneath me, his hands roaming my body, and his lips inches from mine. How was I supposed to know anything that way?
His hand trailed down my bare leg, and it was instinctual—the way my hips rolled against him. His next breath was sharp. “Athalia,” he snapped. The sound of my name passed through me like a bolt of lightning. “Fast,” he reminded me. “Please.”
“What was it again? What—I mean—what did you ask?” God, I was a mess.
“Pearson product-moment correlation.”
“Okay.” I tried my best to focus. “Okay.” I’d gotten that one right the last time. Minutes before his lips had been on mine, his hands on me, and his body between my thighs, similar to how it was now. I groaned, frustrated.
“Pearson product-moment correlation,” I repeated. “It measures the direction... and strength of associationbetween two variables.” I’d never been more eager to get something right.
And it was. I could tell by the way McCarthy placed tender, open-mouthed kisses in the crook of my neck, sucking just enough to make my head fall back with a desperate moan. He brought his lips up to my ear.
“What about the null hypothesis?” he muttered against my skin, his voice just as desperate for me to get it right. “Can you tell me about it, Princess?”
I racked my brain for the answer, ignoring the flashes of him showing up around every corner of my mind, and the way my heartbeat picked up at that godforsaken nickname.
“It’s a hypothesis.”Duh, I thought. But McCarthy nodded and, for emphasis, gave my ass a squeeze. A moan slipped out of me, my hips moved against him, and his breath hitched in sync with mine.
“That’s right,” he said, encouraging and sweet. “And what kind?” He kissed my neck again, tongue rolling against my skin.
“It’s—” I moaned when he found a particularly sensitive spot on my neck. “It’s the one we’re trying to disprove,” I choked out. “The one that says there’s no significance between two variables.”
McCarthy bucked his hips upward—his way of telling me I was right again. His pupils were blown so wide, the brown of his eyes was almost nonexistent. He let his head fall against my chest in exasperation, landing right between my breasts. “And the alternative hypothesis?”
“It’s the opposite.” It shot out of me. “Of the nullhypothesis. So”—I sighed once more—“it says that thereisa statistical significance.”
“Good girl.”
It was enough to send another wave of heat between my legs, and it seemed to have the same effect on him. I felt it. His kisses traveled farther up my neck—sucking and nibbling my skin—before his face hovered in front of mine, lust and desire and a thousand other things in his eyes.
“This was by far my worst idea,” he breathed out, his voice just above a whisper. “And to think I had so many more questions to ask you.” A strangled whine escaped my lips at the prospect.
I wanted him.Needed him.There was no other way to explain it. The way his mouth crushed mine probably meant he felt the same way. It was like we’d each been molded for the other, like we’d been supposed to do this from the moment we met. That’s how right it felt.
Panting against my lips, with the sound of his strangled moans when I rocked my hips against his hard cock, I was surprised I noticed anything around me other than him. Somehow, I was conscious enough to hear the sound of the elevator doors opening outside, though. It could’ve been the neighbors across the hall, sure, but—
My body tensed enough for McCarthy to bring distance between us. “What’s wrong?” Worry flooded his previously hungry eyes, his brows drawing together.
Then a key rattled in the door. And a second later, I flew off his lap and onto the floor beside him.
We couldn’t have looked more suspicious if we’d tried. Wren stood in the doorway, my cheeks burned feverishly, and McCarthy tried to casually cover the obvious bulge in his pants. There was nothing casual about the wince that slipped past his lips when he tried to move.
Wren’s eyes darted between us, clearly surprised. She was probably as pleased to see him as she was pleased to see me. So not at all. But her expression was as unreadable as always. After a few seconds of silent observation—which was the most attention she’d given me since our argument—Wren moved into the kitchen. Even as she rushed to unpack her groceries, I could feel her eyes burning into me from behind the island.
Act normal, Athalia.
I tried. Ireallytried.
But when I looked back at McCarthy, it seemed almost useless. His tousled hair was painfully obvious, but if Wren had somehow missed that, she probably still clocked how rapidly his chest was rising and falling. I prayed I didn’t look half as bad.
Not that he lookedbad. If anything, this McCarthy was my favorite one so far: flustered, quiet, turned on.
You good?I mouthed, eyes flicking to his little problem. Although, from what I could tell, it wasn’t all that little.
McCarthy grimaced with an exaggerated smile before he mouthed back,What do you think?His gaze swept over my body. “I’ve been struggling since the second you opened that door in nothing but a hoodie, Athalia.” His voice was raspy and low, meant just for me. It was hard to ignorethe way my heart fell through the pit of my stomach and between my thighs, beating steadily at the way he utteredmy fucking name.
“I’m wearing underwear. And socks.” The ones I usually wore for early summer tennis games.
