Page 39 of He Falls First

“On a first date, anything more than kissing is generally not advisable,” I continue. “It sets a precedent. Could lead to misinterpretations.”

“Of course,” she agrees. There’s another question on her lips, but she’s not letting it out.

That doesn’t mean I won’t answer.

“Like this,” I say, unable to resist any longer. I close the distance between us, gently cupping her face in my hands as our lips meet.

The kiss starts gentle, tentative. Her full lips are impossibly soft. She responds hesitantly at first, then melts against me. My heart pounds wildly. I slide my tongue along her bottom lip and she grants access with a sigh.

Elizabeth’s hands find their way to my chest, gripping my shirt. Her body presses into mine, the heat between us intensifying.

My thoughts swirl around in a chaotic mess: the softness of her lips, the warmth of her body, the way my heart races as if trying to escape my chest. The urge to pull her closer, to possess her completely, is almost overwhelming.

My hands find the small of her back, pulling her flush against me, and I feel every curve of her body as if it’s imprinted on my skin. Elizabeth’s fingers thread through my hair, sending shivers down my spine that scream for me to forget all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

Her lips move against mine with an eagerness that tells me she’s not just playing along for some lesson; she’s right here with me, lost in the taste and the heat and the undeniable truth that this is anything but pretend.

And for one reckless heartbeat, I allow myself to drown in the sensation, in the fantasy of what it would mean if this were real—if she were mine.

At last we break apart, breathless. The look in her eyes mirrors my own dazed longing.

I take a step back, my voice hoarse. “I just… wanted to give you an idea,” I offer as explanation. “For practice.”

It’s a lie, of course—one that I hope she doesn’t see through. Because if she knew how much that kiss affected me, how desperately I want her, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep up this charade for much longer.

“Right.” She nods, clearly flustered. “Practice.”

Turning on my heel, I stride away from her, away from the temptation, away from the truth I’m not ready to face. With each step, I will the mask of indifference to settle back over my features, hoping it’s enough to hide the storm raging inside.

“Good night, Elizabeth,” I call without looking back, leaving her standing there as I disappear into the shadows of my home, trying desperately to ignore the lingering taste of her still on my lips.

Chapter 16

Elizabeth

It seems a little silly that we’re still pretending, even in moments like these, sitting down for dinner in Hendrix’s luxurious dining room. Only his home staff are present, and we’re still going through the motions of our fake relationship. But it’s become such a habit now that it doesn’t feel strange when Hendrix takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze while the chef presents our meals.

“For you, Ms. Summers,” Chef Sheehan announces as he sets a plate of seared scallops in front of me. They’re drizzled with lemon butter sauce. My mouth waters—scallops are one of my favorites.

“Thank you. This looks delicious!” I beam at the chef before turning to Hendrix. The corners of his mouth curl in one of those smiles he gives when he knows something you don’t know. He must have set this up for me.

I squeeze his hand, a silent ‘thank you’ for remembering. He squeezes back, and it feels so natural. Almost like hand-squeezing isn’t usually his thing, but he feels like doing it for me.

When we’re alone, I say, “You know, you can drop the act now. Your staff already thinks we’re together.”

“Does this bother you?” His thumb traces a slow circle against the back of my hand.

A shiver runs through me. I stare at my plate, at the gleaming shellfish waiting to be devoured, and swallow hard. “No. But it’s just not necessary.”

Liar. I ache for his touch, crave it like an addiction. Since our kiss last night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about his lips on mine, about the possessive heat of his body. I spent all night alone in my room remembering the taste of him, wondering if he thought of me, too.

My cheeks flush at the memory of how my body reacted to his. I shift in my seat. My damn clit is actually aching. What the hell is wrong with me? This is only supposed to be an act for the public, but things are happening to me in very private places.

I risk another glance at Hendrix. He’s watching me again, eyes hooded, lips curved into a smirk.

Like he can read my thoughts. See my arousal plain as day. The man claims that reading social cues is not his thing, but I get the feeling he’s made it his mission to learn to read me like a book.

Heat pools low in my belly and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ignore the slow throb building there. This feels dangerous. Thrilling and terrifying all at once.

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