Page 61 of Lessons in Faking
“No.” I shook my head. “No, it’s okay. I can sleep in the guest room or on the couch—the floor is fine too. Really.”
“Suddenly so humble. What happened, Pressley?” His lips broke into a smirk, a casual hand brushing a strand of brown hair behind my ear before his finger hooked underneath my chin to connect our eyes.
Although I rolled mine at the statement, I answered honestly. “I don’t want to take more from you. You’re already doing all this.” I gestured around his room to emphasize. “And sacrificing time with your family. I really don’t want to intrude any more than I already am.” I wish I could turn away from his gaze; humility had never been my strong suit, admitting it even less so. But his hand on my cheek wouldn’t let me, even if I’d tried.
“Athalia.” He dragged my name out playfully, sounding whiny. “I’m not sacrificing anything. You’re not intruding.” He snickered. “You’re not taking from me—I’m giving you the things I want to give you. Willingly. Because I want to.”
Fuck. I’m in so much trouble.“And where will you sleep?”
“This is a big house,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll sleep in the guest room.”
“Ican sleep in the guest room.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“I don’t wantyouto.”
“It’s a shame I’m, like, ten inches taller, seventy pounds heavier.” I was about to disagree strongly with the ten inches, because it was more like six or seven, when he went on. “Which means you don’t stand a chance—”
A surprised squeal was ripped out of me. “McCarthy!” I gasped, laughing loudly, suddenly hanging over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Completely and utterly helpless. His hands held me steadily by my waist and thigh, fingers digging into the skin.
Before I really knew what hit me, he maneuvered me onto his bed. Still laughing, squealing, and playfully hitting him on my way down. My fingers clung to the neckline of his pine-green sweater, dragging him with me.
McCarthy’s chest rose unsteadily above mine as my laughter slowed. The corners of my lips lowered as our situation dawned on me—him, on top of me, the wide smile I’d caused, and his twinkling eyes not wavering from mine even once.
And I kissed him. Because I didn’t know what else to do, and this—laughing and enjoying each other’s company, my fluttering stomach—felt more intimate than any physical touch could be. I wasn’t used to it, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be. Butthis—his lips on mine, bodies flush—had become familiar.
Somewhere between fake kisses and statistics books,hehad become familiar.
I liked the way my body fit his, how we moved against each other so effortlessly. I loved what my touch did to him. And I loved what his did to me.
“I’m going to hate myself for this,” he groaned against me, putting an inch of distance between us. The sound that escaped me was pathetic. “But I need to go—”
“Where?” My lips trailed along his neck, placing gentle, open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, feeling his pulse beating against me.
“The guest room,” he reminded me, sounding strangled. I emerged from the crook of his neck to look at him, amusement glinting in my eyes.
“You can stay here.” The suggestion felt natural. “With me.”
McCarthy snorted as he shook his head. “No,” he huffed. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Why?” His head fell back, repeating the word as if the answer was obvious. “Because you’re here.”
“And?”
“And.” He sighed, wetting his lips. The word lingered as he looked at me with pleading eyes.
“And?”
“And you’re you, Athalia,” he finally said. “You’re you, and I’m me.” His lips moved to my ear, my eyes closing at the proximity before he spoke gently. “And I don’t havethe willpower it would take to keep myself away from you. Because I really, really,reallywant you too.”
It wasn’t lost on me that he’d added anotherreallyto my earlier statement.
His voice had dropped to a whisper, his warm breath tickling my ear with every soft word he murmured. I couldn’t take it. The sweet, masculine scent of him, the way I could feel the outline of his body hovering directly above mine—some parts touching, while the most important ones were not. The overwhelming urge to kiss him, needing him to touch me.Needing to touch him back.
“So have me.” My heartbeat felt louder than the words themselves. For a moment, I wondered if I had said them at all. But then he groaned, and it was confirmation enough. His head fell into the crook of my neck, defeated, done—muttering a “Fuck” as he went down.
