Page 42 of Faking It
The scent of his shower.
Him.
His long drawn out sigh.
Out.
His ‘Night Harlow’ is murmured so softly I almost think I’ve imagined it.
And as the coach rumbles to life and Mick steers us to the next city, no matter how hard I try, I’m not quite sure shutting him out is possible anymore.
SHE’S GOING TO BE THE death of me.
Plain and fucking simple.
The Texas heat begins to seep into the early morning air and yet I push myself farther. Harder. Faster.
Just like I woke up wanting to do to Harlow lying in the bed beside me. Lay her down and fuck her hard and fast.
Damn Miles Finlay. The slimy bastard who tries too hard to be everything he’s not. I’ve dealt with him in business. I’ve watched him on the social scene. The creep is known for trying to look the part so people think he is the part. And last night he had his sights set on Harlow.
Just thinking of the bastard talking to her had my blood boiling and every part of me wanting to mark her. Claim her. Let her know it’s me she should want and not him. Make her realize that I’m so much better than him when she never even looked interested to begin with.
Even when I keep telling myself I don’t want her in the first place.
And of course I took the fucking bait and kissed her.
Was it a dick move on my part?
Hell, yes.
Would I do it again?
In a goddamn heartbeat.
I check both ways on the road, cross it, then push myself down the straight, flat trail that parallels the highway. I should be looking at the lush green trees around me. I should stop and stare at the armadillo waddling a few feet away from me. I should use the exercise to clear my damn mind but no matter how hard I try, it keeps veering back to the one person I don’t want to be thinking about.
The one person I shouldn’t want, but still fucking do. I mean look at her. She’s gorgeous when she’s dressed to the hilt—class and subtle sex appeal that’s like a damn Siren’s song to a man like me . . . but it’s the woman when we’re alone on the tour bus who fucking does me in.
No make-up. Hair thrown up. Her body beneath a simple tank top and shorts. Simple yet devastating to my libido.
I couldn’t handle another morning of walking out to see her sitting on the couch, cup of coffee in her hand, lips bare, eyes naked, body still warm from being snuggled in the bed beside me.
I’m used to fake. I’m not blinded by the frills but they’re typically what I get, day-in, day-out. A woman trying to please me at every chance she gets for whatever it is she wants out of being seen with me. My reputation is out there. I’m a serial dater. No shame in that. But give me real and vulnerable like Harlow is when she looks at me when we’re out of the public eye and fuck if I’m not wanting to take advantage of it and her in every which way possible.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Like not at all.
I shouldn’t be on this tour. I shouldn’t be stuck with her. I shouldn’t want her like I do.
It’s one thing to have her in a sleek dress where I’m dying to know what’s beneath it . . . but actually knowing is somehow worse. To see her in that little cami and tight shorts and want to taste and lick and fuck.
This is my hell. My torture for being a man. For wanting a woman. My penance for lying to Robert and my punishment for being who I am.
I’m so fucked.
Like double-edged fucked without an end or pleasure in sight.
