Page 20 of The Fake Husband
Every anniversary they celebrate, every wedding photo they look at, every time someone asks about their special day—this moment will be there. River and I, living rent-free in their heads forever.
They invited me to make me feel small.
Instead, they gave me the best weekend of my life.
Goosebumps rise on my bare arms as River heads straight for the stairs. The elevator's too slow, and we both know it. Going up, tension builds with every step. His thumb strokes circles over my knuckles.
My free hand finds his waist, fingers curling into his jacket. We're touching everywhere we can while still climbing.
The hallway to our room stretches forever, but not long enough at the same time. River fumbles the key card. His hands aren't steady.
Standing behind him, I slide my hands around his waist. Rest my chin on his shoulder blade. Feel his heart pounding under my palm.
The door swings open and closes behind us, and we turn to face each other.
Everything from this weekend led here.
"Come here, Nad."
Oh God, yes.
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6
RIVER
Nine years. Nine fucking years I've waited for this woman. Nine years of keeping my hands to myself because Rachel made me swear not to complicate things. But she had a change of heart and gave me this opportunity.
That's her saying, "Have at it. Go for it."
With fucking pleasure.
Every second of those nine years disappears the moment Nadine's close enough to touch.
Her eyes lock with mine—blue and deep and certain. No hesitation. No flicker of doubt. Just that steady, blazing look that pins me in place and dares me to do something about it.
My hands rise without permission, framing her face. Her skin is warm beneath my palms, soft, and she leans into the touch like she’s been waiting for it. I tilt her chin up, slow enough to give her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
My mouth crashes into hers. The impact steals the air from both of us. She opens instantly, like she knew exactly how this would go, her fingers pulling my shirt with a sharp tug that jerks me closer.
Her body presses against mine, heat through heat, heartbeat slamming against heartbeat. My grip tightens at her jaw, sliding back into her hair, anchoring her there as I deepen the kiss. She makes this low sound that only makes me harder.
I hate every layer between us. The drag of cotton against skin feels like an insult. My hands trail down, mapping the curve of her sides, memorizing, as she arches into me.
The taste of her floods my senses—sweet, sharp, intoxicating. It’s dizzying. Addictive.
I don’t want gentle.
I want closer.
Her body presses against mine, soft curves fitting perfectly against hard angles. The little sound she makes in the back of her throat shoots straight to my cock, already painfully hard.
Her fingers make quick work of my shirt, impatient, slipping between buttons instead of waiting for them. One pops free. Then another. Her knuckles brush my skin each time.
I answer in kind.
