Page 23 of Fake Out Forever

“Cade…” I moan against his lips.

He slides in and out… gently… slowly… rolling his hips with every stroke. I’ve had plenty of sex before, but nothing like this. Every part of me is alive.

“You feel unbelievable, baby. So perfect.” He rocks faster. “So tight.”

My body starts to tighten, pushing me to the edge, and I hold onto his arms to pivot my hips towards his. “Cade…”

“Open your eyes, duchess.” He commands.

I do as I am told and am rewarded with a magnificent site. His gaze is smoldering. Possessive. The muscles in his arms are straining— the cords of his neck throbbing.

“I’m close.” He growls.

“Me too.” I dig my fingers into his flesh. My cunt quivers around him… pulsing… squeezing. “Oh, god, Cade…”

He throws his head back and roars. Together, we moan… we shudder… and as I throw my legs around his waist to pull him in deeper, I realize this isn’t just sex.

This is the melding of two souls.

And I don’t know how I’m ever going to get over him.

12

CADE

I step out of the shower with a bounce in my step. I dry my feet on the thick bathmat, shimmy the towel over my back, and realize my hips don’t hurt. Maybe it’s the cortisone, perhaps it’s the rest from not playing hockey, or maybe it’s the mind-blowing sex from last night.

I grin at my reflection.

It’s the sex.

I pick up my toothbrush, enjoying flashbacks from last night. Green sparkling eyes. Coppery-red curls. Nails raking down my back. Creamy skin. Soft, round curves.

Maya.

I rinse with mouthwash and splash on some cologne.

As I stuff my legs into my jeans, it hits me… I don’t have a gift for Maya. I can’t go downstairs without a present. It’s Christmas, for crying out loud. I turn on the closet light and start looking around. I have some T-shirts still in the package and some packages of brand-new socks. But that’s a lame gift. I root around and find some hockey memorabilia. No. That won’t work either. I grab a red Henley, pull it over my head, and remember one bag left in the Rover from Hank’s General Store.

I crack the door open, check the hall, and do my best to tiptoe down the stairs. I pass by the trees, plug them in, and head for the garage. I take the bag out of the backseat and pump my fist in the air when I see what’s inside.

A painted angel with emerald eyes and long red hair. The resemblance to Maya is uncanny. I don’t believe in coincidences, but this is a miracle. A damn Christmas miracle. She’s going to love this. I rush to my workbench and dig through a box of pencils and pens. I find a Sharpie and write her a message on the bottom of the statue. Then I go to the kitchen to search for a roll of tape. I don’t have wrapping paper, so I toss the tape back into the drawer and wrap the angel in aluminum foil. After pressing it firmly in place and sealing the ends, I tuck it under the tree. Deciding it looks sad and lonely under the tree all by itself, I dash back into the kitchen to search for something else. My eyes land on a teacup, which gives me a great idea.

I find a small basket in the pantry and a brand-new oversized mug. I grab an unopened box of tea bags, spot a set of placemats with matching napkins, and then hurry to the cookie jar to see if any cookies were left from yesterday. Thrilled to find four, I whip up the makeshift basket, then set it beside the angel.

It’s not enough.

I walk over to the window. The snow has stopped falling. My heart sinks because I know what that means. She’ll be leaving. Refusing to think about her returning to Denver, I make her a Christmas breakfast. With a heavy heart, I wander back into the kitchen and get to work.

She walks into the kitchen dressed in another oversized sweater and yoga pants. I pivot my hips towards the stove to hide the bulge that won’t stop happening around her. This woman is going to kill me.

“Merry Christmas, duchess.”

“Merry Christmas, Cade.”

She wraps her arms around my waist and rests her head on my back. “What are you doing?”

“Making you my specialty.”

---