Page 50 of The Fake Out

For a beat, he was silent. All I could hear was the hammering of my heart.

The pounding lost its rhythm as he moved closer and brushed his thumb under my chin, forcing it up.

Green eyes burning into mine, he whispered, “I hate that you don’t see what I see.”

I glared. It was better than crying, which I was concerned I would do if I didn’t rein in my emotions. “I love myself, but I know I weigh as much as two small women combined.”

“Why does that matter? You. Are. Beautiful.” His green eyes flashed. “Every inch of you is fucking perfect. And I’m more than capable of helping you over a wall. Or tossing you over my shoulder. Or picking you up and throwing you onto my bed.” That last phrase came out as a growl I never would have expected from him.

My breath caught, and my stomach flipped at the image he’d painted.

“So trust me, trust yourself. And don’t look at me like I’m suddenly going to say something awful.”

I froze and forced a neutral expression to my face. Was that what I was doing? Maybe I was. Maybe I expected him to help me up and then throw in a comment like “damn, you weigh a ton.” Or worse, maybe he’d drop me. Or hurt himself and then harp on how I’d injured him.

He was still standing close, watching me with an intent expression on his face. He’d lifted me once before, and he’d acted like it was no big deal.

Being afraid got me nowhere. So I relaxed my shoulders and dipped my chin once.

“So get over here and jump on three.” He snaked a hand around my waist and pulled me to him.

My stomach flipped as I stumbled into him, my chest brushing his. The cedar scent of his cologne hit my nose, and suddenly, all I wanted to do was bury my face in his neck.

“Three.”

I hopped a bit, and once again, he lifted me without much effort. Once I was settled on the wall, he pulled himself up and over to the other side.

With his feet planted shoulder-width apart, he held his hands to me.

Once again, I hesitated, nerves coursing through me at the thought of him having such intimate knowledge of my weight.

“I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it, Mariposa,” Emerson assured.

His expression was so earnest. But having to constantly reassure someone could very easily get frustrating. He was right. I needed to trust him. And more importantly, I had to trust myself. I was worthy of the respect and care of another person. I was worthy of affection and desire. And there was a man out there who could enjoy being with me. Emerson enjoyed me. And at this point, I knew him well enough to know he’d be honest about what he could and couldn’t do.

So I shifted toward him, and with minimal effort and not a single word, he helped me down.

The black Mercedes was waiting on the road just past the wall. Once we were settled in the back seat, we rode home quietly. Though the car was silent, my thoughts ran wild.

He pressed his leg against mine, and from hip to knee, I could feel the heat of him. His hand rested on my thigh near my knee. Silently, I begged him to slip it lower and move it up my dress. Slip under and touch me.

His words on the breakwater played in my mind. I got it. He wasn’t wrong. I was normally a relationship girl. I didn’t fling. But what had that gotten me, other than a slew of boyfriends who treated me as if I was barely worth their time or energy?

In my periphery, I studied Emerson.

What if I wanted to try a fling?

Would he feel differently?

The idea of asking was scary. It was possible he’d said those things in order to let me down easy.

His eyes drifted my way, and he gave my leg a light squeeze.

But what if he did mean it?

My breath came faster. What if I asked for one night, and he gave it to me? The idea of his strong hands roaming over me even for one night created an ache that throbbed almost violently between my thighs. All I had to do was be brave.

I swallowed. “Em.”

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