Page 95 of Hard to Fake

Miles kisses me. This time, he’s like a starving man.

My hands stroke upward, fingers lacing around his neck so his damp hair brushes my skin. His fingers loosen the tie on my robe and brush it apart.

He groans and pulls away. We’re both breathing hard.

“I want you,” he whispers, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Then take me.” I shove my robe off my shoulders, tossing it onto the floor. My nipples are hard, pushing against my bikini top. He grabs my waist again, pulling me toward him. His mouth goes to my neck, kissing me, his hands moving to my hair.

His body is tan and toned. I’ve imagined touching him the way I want to so many times. Moving my hands to his bare chest, I run my fingers over his skin, needing to feel every inch of him. He groans, the bump of his erection tenting his wet shorts.

“You wanted a fake boyfriend to impress your Kappa friends.” His throat bobs as I rub him through the fabric. “How’s that working out?”

“He’s definitely more opinionated than I expected.”

“Just wait, Princess,” he promises.

He pulls off his trunks, and I bite my lip as I stare at him in awe. He’s huge and thick. The idea of him inside me makes me burn up. I reach for him, wrapping my hand around him, stroking his length. He groans, head falling back in agony or pleasure or both.

If the show we were putting on outside was provocative, what we’re doing in private is hot enough to burn down the entire cabin.

But I only get in a few strokes before he pushes my hand away.

“Don’t pout,” he says with a smirk as he sinks to his knees.

“I’ll express myself however I want.”

Grabbing my bikini bottoms, he yanks them to the side.

“Feel free to do it using my name,” he suggests. “Especially when I make you come.”

His fingers find my clit, and his triumphant smirk has me melting even before he rubs a little circle.

I gasp. His teasing touch continues where I’m the most sensitive before drawing a lazy line back to my slit.

He’s confident and unhurried, as if the only place the most popular player in the NBA would dream of being right now is between my thighs.

My fingers weave themselves into his hair. The strands are unbelievably soft, especially compared to the rest of him.

He presses a finger inside me and groans. “Would this fake boyfriend of yours tell you you’re so fucking wet? That the sounds you make are such a goddamned turn-on?”

Pleasure twists tighter in my core, has me writhing against his hand. I arch against him, his face between my breasts. My nipples are hard, my skin on fire. He takes advantage, yanking down the fabric of my bikini top to bare a breast to him.

He licks the hard peak, sucking it into his mouth. The arousal is unreal. I crave more of the way he’s touching me, needing me.

He pulls away and goes to the bed, pulling me with him.He grabs my knee, kissing the inside of my thigh. I moan. His hands go to my hip as he kisses down one thigh and back up the other. His hands move to my waist, pulling me to him.

“Would he tell you how much he wants to be inside you?” he whispers, his voice husky. “Because it’s all I can fucking think about.”

His mouth finds my wet heat, and it's wicked heaven. I grab his hair and moan. His tongue is on my clit. His hands are on my ass.Every stroke sends me higher, makes me more aware of him and us and less conscious of the world outside.

If there even is a world outside, I think hazily as pleasure rips through me.

“That’s it, Princess,” he murmurs against my skin.

He's holding me in place, his hands on my ass. His tongue takes over, driving me crazy.

Miles looks up at me, his eyes on mine. “Let go.”

---