Page 152 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispers. “I have condoms in my purse.”

I don’t say anything. Just reach over the side of the bed, snag her purse, and dig through it. She’s prepared, of course she is. I tear the packet open with my teeth, glance at her as I roll it down, and she licks her lips, equal parts hungry and reverent.

I line myself up, but don’t push in yet. Instead, I run a hand up her side, splay my fingers on her stomach, feel her breath stutter. I look at her face, memorize it: the dark, blown pupils, the pink of her mouth, the tension in her jaw that says she’s waiting for me to do something—anything.

“Ready?” I ask.

She grabs my wrist, squeezes. “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to burst with need.”

I believe her.

That is the dangerous part.

Not the wanting. Not the bed. Not the rain pressing against the window or the fact that her hands are on me like she has decided, finally, to stop pretending she doesn’t need anything.

I believe her when she says she doesn’t want me to stop.

So I don’t.

I press in slowly, careful enough to give her time, not careful enough to lie about how badly I want this. Her breath catches, and her hands tighten on my back. For one second, her whole body goes still beneath mine, not from fear. From feeling it. From realizing there is no joke fast enough to outrun this.

“Daisy,” I rasp.

“I know,” she whispers, like she does. Like she knows exactly how close we are to ruining every rule and still wants to watch it happen.

Then she rolls her hips up to meet me.

Fuck.

We both groan.

The sound is too loud for this room, too honest for her childhood bed, too real for a fake relationship built out of ink and panic and bad ideas. Her nails drag down my back, and her mouth finds my jaw, my neck, anywhere she can get to while I try to remember how to be a decent man and not lose myself in how good she feels.

It’s obscene.

Not just the heat of her. Not just the way she takes me, the way her body grips mine like it has been waiting to call my bluff.

It’s the trust.

The way she lets go by degrees. A little gasp. A muttered curse. A breathless laugh that breaks when I move again. Daisy Thorn, who can organize an entire vineyard into obedience, falling apart under me and looking furious that I have noticed.

“You okay?” I ask, because I need to hear it.

Her eyes open. Dazed. Bright. Still Daisy.

“If you stop now,” she says, breathless, “I will write a strongly worded letter to your entire bloodline.”

I kiss her hard and give her more.

Her arms lock around my shoulders, and the rhythm changes. Not rushed. Not careless. Deeper. Rougher because she asks for it without asking, because her body tells me what her pride won’t say out loud. She likes the pressure. Likes being met. Likes when I don’t treat her like glass.

She is not glass.

She is fire with a notebook.

She is a woman who has spent too long being useful, polite, easy to work with, easy to survive, and tonight she doesn’t want easy.

I can give her that.