Page 60 of Faking It
The woman just used and abused me, and hell if I wouldn’t hop back in line for her to do it all over again.
IT SMELLS LIKE SEX IN here.
Mick had to know what we were doing before he climbed on board the coach at midnight to drive us to our next destination.
I close my eyes and breathe in. It definitely smells like sex in here, and I kind of like it. The scent of Zane on my skin. The sweet sting from where his stubble scraped between my breasts as he worked me into a fever pitch. The slight soreness between my thighs from where his dick—god, that heavenly cock of his, so gloriously thick and long—worked its magic and turned me all kinds of inside out.
The man has skills. I’ll give him that. Fingers and tongue and dick. FTD. I smile and shake my head. I know FTD is a flower delivery company but from here on out, every time I hear that acronym I’ll be thinking of Zane and just how adept he is at using them.
The bus jostles along the road as headlights flicker through the small sliver in the blackout blinds. I can hear the deep rumble of Zane’s voice as he says something to Mick.
Zane said he needed to get a drink.
He said he’d be right back.
That was twenty minutes ago.
Does he already think this was a mistake? Is he making the separation here and now so that I know this was just what we said it was—sex only—and nothing more? Or is he simply giving me a bit of space so we can both digest what the hell just happened between us.
Mind blowing sex, that’s what it was. Comfortable. Intimate. Fun.
But how does one do casual sex when you’re forced to live with one another? How exactly does that work? Do you just go back to being like you were before and act like nothing happened when in fact every time they look at you all you can remember is the feel of their fingers and taste of their kiss?
The door opens. Closes. Zane’s sigh fills the small space as the bed dips and he takes his place beside me. I hold my breath, wondering what next. Do I say goodnight? Do I pretend like I’m asleep?
I startle when Zane’s lips press against my bare shoulder.
“Definitely not a mistake,” he murmurs as if he was reading my mind before he slides his hand to my waist and pulls me against him, my back to his front.
Uncertain how to react or what to say or if I should even breathe at this point, I just stay still as the same thoughts keep running through my head.
Spooning is not casual in my world.
But I don’t push him away.
Once was fine . . . but we need to stop at that.
Who am I kidding?
With his body against mine and the heat of his breath against my shoulder, I relive every damn second of tonight. The soft, the sweet, the hard, the fast, the playful, the intense—the everything, and I can’t help but wonder how I already want him again.
I KNOW, I KNOW, I know.
You’re looking at me and asking yourself “What’s wrong with that girl? Why has she been avoiding him?”
And you’re looking across the parking lot where Zane is doing push-ups and jump squats and a whole load of other things to showcase that magnificent body of his, saying “He’s hot, he fucks great, and he’s got all the right lines.”
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
I’m a woman.
Sex always comes with strings, regardless of how many times you tell yourself not to tie those strings in the first place. It means there are feelings. And those little assholes? I’ve been burned by them and men like Zane more times than I care to count.
But damn, will you look at him?
Maybe last night’s mistake is worth making one or two or ten more times.
And maybe I will . . . my thighs ache just thinking about it—about him. But maybe I also want to let him know that he has to work at it with me. That my legs don’t just part when he looks at me with that sexy smile of his that says he wants to eat me alive.
