Page 76 of Faking It
“You don’t look fine.”
“How’s it going up there you guys?” Tuck’s calls from the ground.
He sounds so far away.
“Jesus Christ. He wants us to move,” Zane grits out.
He takes a tiny step farther and I follow.
“Well, that’s kind of the point. Moving across the rope.”
His glare is deserved but I don’t think he finds any amusement in my humor. “This is all your fault you know.” Feeling brave with his accusation, Zane moves another step and then makes the mistake of looking down. “Christ.”
I swear to God his pallor just turned from gray to green.
“My fault?”
“If you hadn’t lied about me giving you the job, I wouldn’t have to be here right now and then—”
“You’re going to put the blame on me? Didn’t you start this when you lied to Robert and told him you found love? Didn’t—”
“Will you just shut up?”
Nothing gets my back up more than being told that and just when I’m about to unload on him—in the middle of the air, being held up by ropes—I see it clear as day. His need to argue is to distract him from his fear. One snarky comment after another.
So for the first time ever, I abide by the request. I hold my tongue and take another shaky step to try and encourage him to do the same. A quick glance down shows the reflection of the camera following our every move, and I realize this is part of Zane’s macho maleness. His need to act manly because he’s on camera.
“Does this not terrify you?” he asks as I take another step and he stays rooted in place as the ropes wobble when a small breeze whips through the space we’re in. “Shit.” He closes his eyes again to wait for the ropes to steady.
“Hey?”
“Not now, Cinder.”
“Look at me. C’mon, you can—you need—to trust me.”
“Why?” He chuckles. “It’s not like you’d be able to catch me if I fall.”
“You’re right. The ropes will catch you, but I’m still here. I’m the one who can work with you so you can get across this rope.”
He shakes his head in rejection but doesn’t speak. Another close of his eyes. Another slide of his feet along the rope. Another yelp of despair given under his breath.
“Remember the other night?” I ask.
“Fuck,” he mutters as the rope wobbles again.
“When you bent me over the edge of the bed?”
He stills, steadies his body with the help of mine. “Mmm-hmm.”
“I keep thinking about that thing you did.”
Distract. Divert.
Step.
“What’s that?”
“The grind. Your fingers. You slapping your cock against my pussy,” I say in terms he’ll hear, and by the flash of his emerald green eyes up to mine, I’d say it worked.
