Page 90 of The Fine Art of Faking It
Davis using her body for his pleasure was the most intimate thing Eden had ever experienced.
She went pliable under him, letting him draw her hips back to bottom out on every thrust. A movement against the wall caught her eye. Eden’s old vanity mirror captured the two of them in their passion, framing them dead center. Their gazes met in the mirror, a new terrible kind of intimacy that there was no escaping. She wanted to look away, wanted to pretend that what was happening right now meant nothing. But she couldn’t.
His gaze held her prisoner, just as his body made her a captive. She saw the cords of his neck stand out as he let out a soft grunt and another. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the building pleasure she saw in his face.
He grabbed her, more roughly than he probably meant and pulled her up so her back was to his chest. Still watching their reflection, Davis cupped one breast and dipped his free hand between her legs to stroke between her folds. He hooked his chin over her shoulder, and Eden gave herself over to him.
She felt him swell impossibly thicker inside her, knew he was close. That knowledge danced her own pleasure closer to the precipice. His fingers worked her, insistently taking her higher.
“Davis,” she whispered.
His breath came out in a growl. His thrusts came faster, shallower. His arm banded her to him, thumb brushing her swollen nipple. No escape.
“Come, Eden. Come with me.”
As if their bodies had been waiting for that command, Eden felt her release build dangerously fast. His fingers were magic between her legs as his cock worked its own kind of miracles within her. She never had a chance. She was with him. And when he buried himself inside her on one more brutal thrust, she closed around him, gripping him like a vice. Their orgasms erupted together. She felt the pulse of his pumps as her own walls closed around him again and again. Until they were both empty and spent. It was sweat in her eyes, she told herself.
Certainly not tears.
34
“Iused to walk down the alley to see if your light was on.” Davis found his voice rusty, his throat raw. They were wrapped around each other in her tiny bed. Adding to the intimacy, he was still semi-hard inside her. He couldn’t bring himself to pull out and sever their connection.
“Until the fire,” she said dryly. He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the sadness in her voice.
He shook his head. “Even after.”
She was silent for a long moment, and he wondered if she’d dozed off.
“I didn’t set the fire, Davis,” Eden said finally.
He guided his fingers over her stomach, up over a breast. “I know.”
“You do?”
“Moon Beam confessed to me about a week after it happened. She told me about the toilet paper, the cigarette. That you took the rap so she wouldn’t get sent off to the commune.”
“Some good it did. Her mom sent her away a year and a half later for getting caught in the backseat of a Volkswagen with no pants and Beckett Pierce.
Davis laughed softly against her shoulder. “But she got that extra year because of you.”
Eden moved against him restlessly. “I’ve spent all this time thinking you thought I was a crazy arsonist. Iagonizedover that, Davis. You could have put me out of my misery. Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
“How was I supposed to? You wouldn’t talk to me.”
“Because you devastated me. Did you tell your parents it wasn’t my fault?”
“I tried. They weren’t in a very open-minded mood.”
“My parents didn’t believe me either. They were so proud of my commitment to the feud I didn’t even get grounded.”
“But you did have to go through a semester of Impulse Control.”
“That was horrible. Mr. Reynolds spent the first three weeks offering up alternatives to setting a fire so I could consult a list next time I had my feelings hurt.”
“Mmm,” he sighed. “What were some of your alternatives?”
“Knit a scarf, using the needle and yarn as weapons of peace.”
