Page 52 of Lessons in Faking
Wren stiffened. So did I.
“Anyway...” She scrambled, balancing her cup and bowl in one hand, phone in the other. “Thanks for... this.” She raised the pasta in McCarthy’s direction clumsily, almost losing a single rigatoni. Our eyes met, and I almost fooled myself into seeing the hint of an apologetic smile on her lips before she passed me without a word, then disappeared into her room.
“Did I just—” My eyes trailed after Wren again, then back to him. “Did you—” I shook my head. “She talked to you. Voluntarily,” I added.
“I don’t know how voluntary it is when I’m standing in her kitchen, but yes, I guess.” He passed me my bowl from the island when I was close enough. “You tried getting along with my best friend. The least I can do is...” Trailing off, he nodded toward her closed door.
Only that it wasn’t just McCarthy she had a problem with. This brief encounter was the longest we’d spent in the same room since our fight.
My head fell against his chest with a sigh. “I’m ready for a glass of wine now.”
Chapter 24
“I think I’ve been doing well today.”
“Not well enough.”
“Well enough to deserve a little credit.” Brow raised, I stared McCarthy down across his desk. A break was justified after a correct-answer streak of seventeen, right?
“Ihavebeen giving you credit,” he pointed out, almost offended that I’d suggest otherwise. “What more do you want me to do? Call you a good girl whenever your answer is correct?”
Tempting.
It looked as though he didn’t mean to say that, given our history of... Incidents. Immediately on high alert, his attention slipped from my eyes to my lips, then back up to my eyes. Twice. If I hadn’t been so focused on him, I might’ve missed it.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’m sure there would be a clause in that contract of yours that forbids it.” Never mind that he’d said it before. Just last week.
“Now you’re not giving yourself enough credit, Pressley.” His eyes gleamed and he shifted in his seat to lean his forearms on the desk. “Most of the rules in there were your suggestions. Including, but not limited to, the one you’re so eager to break.”
The sound of his chair scraping across the wooden floors sent a chill down my spine, and my heartbeat picked up as he made his way around the desk. Leaning against my side of it, his height was as intimidating as it was attractive. I stood in a matter of seconds.
Rolling my shoulders back and fanning my hair out, I cleared my throat. “You didn’t have to agree to every single one of my suggestions.” I could admit when a comeback was half-assed. My voice hardly carried any of the conviction it usually did. How could I waste any time thinking of a hilarious comeback when he was right there? Looking at me like that?
“I didn’t?” His fingers brushed mine, and he interlaced them to pull me closer. I stumbled, bracing myself against his chest before my hands found their place behind his neck. His other hand came up to my cheek, brushing whatever hair was in his way behind my ear, his touch so gentle, you’d wonder if we still disliked each other at all. “I think that’s a lie,” he whispered. “And I think you know it.”
“Careful now, McCarthy.” I sighed against him. “You might lose whatever it is that you started.” Not long ago. In this exact room. “You’re the one who wanted to play, remember? All you have to do is say the words.”
McCarthy swallowed thickly, his gaze following myfinger as it absentmindedly traveled down his chest, his stomach. His eyes flicked back up to mine.
“Five minutes.” They weren’t the words I’d expected, but I could work with the way his lips landed on mine, all the gentle touches and lingering looks forgotten. Because the force with which we collided was far from delicate and sweet.
He turned us quickly, effortlessly, helping me get on top of his desk and fitting perfectly between my legs when I spread them.
“Ten minutes,” he corrected himself—so eager that half of it was mumbled into my skin. His head dipped somewhere between my neck and shoulder, nibbling, sucking, kissing my skin as if he might never get to do it again. My head fell back with a low moan, hands pressing on the desk behind me. “Ten minutes, and we get back to what we’re here to do,” he panted before his lips were on mine again.
My restraint snapped. Any thoughts ofcan’t,shouldn’t, or that contract neither of us seemed to care about anymore left my mind to make more room for him. And how much I wanted this.
His hands fell to my waist, one of them dipping lower, to my thigh, caressing and teasing in little circles. The dark tights I wore were thinner than they should’ve been in November, though I’d never been happier with my seasonally inappropriate choice. It felt as though there was no barrier separating my bare skin from his touch at all.
His low groans were enough to make me feel the heat pooling between my legs. Combined with the way his handinched up my thigh until it disappeared underneath my skirt—I didn’t know how I was still sitting upright. It was only when he reached where I needed him most that he hesitated.
My breath was heavy and I squirmed underneath the missing friction, trying my best not to look too desperate and failing miserably. His eyes flicked to the clock in the room.
“Eight minutes,” he muttered when his gaze fell on me again. One brow rose challengingly. “We can do that. Can’t we?” Instead of waiting for an answer, his finger brushed across my panties, the motion so unexpected, my already parted lips released a moan that was entirely too loud. “That’s all I needed to hear, Princess.”
Somersaults were an understatement for what happened in my stomach. The nickname, his hand between my thighs, and the prospect of what was to follow felt electric.
His lips were on mine again a second later, his finger gently—why was he opting for thatnow, of all times?—sliding along my covered entrance. Down and back up once before he put a sliver of distance between us again. His fingers were still so teasingly close that I could almost feel them.
