Page 32 of Faking It
“I asked who the guy is?”
“No one.”
“Oh, so you were planning on hooking up with someone during this trip then?” I start to refute him and he talks right over me. “How exactly were you thinking of doing that when you’re supposed to be with me?”
The rejection is on my tongue but you know what? Screw him. He had every intention of playing the same game during this trip . . . why is it okay for him and not for me?
Turn about’s fair play.
“Maybe the same way I’m more than certain you were planning on doing it.”
“And how’s that?” He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Anywhere but this bus. How about that? Can we at least agree that the bus shall remain a skank-free zone?”
“Skank-free? Should I take offense to the fact that you assume any woman I’d take to my bed is a skank?”
“I call it like I see it,” I challenge.
He takes a step closer so that his stomach hits against my hands and only the ball of clothes in my arms between us. “First of all, Harlow . . . skanks aren’t my style. I like to work for what I get. Easy isn’t fun at all. Not for a guy like me.” His eyes flick down to my lips and then back up and I hate how that simple glance does things to my insides that I don’t want it to do. “And second, you seem to be the one holding a box of condoms . . . so either you like to be prepared . . . or you’re the easy one.”
“Screw you.” The words are out before I think properly and my body vibrates with anger.
He leans in and my breath hitches when for the slightest of seconds, I think he’s going to kiss me. I can smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the warmth of it on my face, and remember all too vividly the adeptness of his kiss the other night. I tell myself I’ll push him away if he even tries . . . and then wonder if I really would.
“No worries there,” he whispers. “That’s not part of this deal.”
“Good.”
“Good?” he murmurs.
“Yes. Good.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem for you to stay on your side of the bed and I’ll stay on mine.”
“Fine.” I don’t know why my feelings are hurt when I’m getting exactly what I want from him. Space. But . . . what exactly is his side and what is my side?
He remains inches from my face. My body reacting irrationally at that undertone of desire that any normal woman would feel when being stared down by a pair of emerald eyes and a body of cut perfection.
“And yet you’re still standing here.”
“It’s my space too, isn’t it?”
“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug before stepping back, eyes locked on mine, and unbuckles the belt on his slacks.
Walk away, Low.
And before I attempt to move, his pants drop to the ground. He’s standing there in a pair of black boxer briefs snug in all the right places, framed by a pair of strong thighs, and my eyes dip momentarily to the slight happy trail that dips beneath their waistband.
Who wouldn’t glance?
When I look back up, arrogance is etched in that handsome face of his, almost as if he’s asking if I like what I see, and a smile plays on his lips.
“If talking about condoms makes your cheeks flush, Harlow . . . then it’s going to be a long eight weeks for you.”
“For your information, it takes a lot more than condoms to make my cheeks red.”
“What does make you flush, then?”
