Page 81 of The Fake Dating War

The road gets rougher and I’m ready to die, because her back presses against my chest. Guess we’ve reached the gravel portion of this outback adventure. The driver is taking us deep into the woods, pushing this structurally unsound vehicle to reach some perfect location for wedding shots.

There better be a fucking waterfall at the end of this.

Not that I’ll make it.Patel is sitting on my lap.

The bus hits more bumps.

“Stop bouncing on me,” I snap, forcing my eyes to look up at the ceiling. Better to be horrified by run-down metal than stare at the cleavage by my face, or the dips of her collarbone, or the curve of her waist my hands crave to span…

Her outfit today is not helping the situation. It’s fucking fitted, and not the baggier style she prefers.

Patel bounces again. “It’s not my fault,” she hisses.

It’s not, but her wriggling is going to kill me. Looking at the dense trees outside, I should be grateful it’s scenic here. At least I’ll be buried somewhere nice.

Someone hands her booze in a can. It’s not beer, but a hard seltzer. She hastens to open it and starts downing it like she’s parched. There’s a glug sound with the speed she’s going.

I’d like to give her mouth something else to glug on.

Andmy cock just twitched in my trousers. It’s my fault completely. I forget to stay focused on loose body parts littered across the road.Fuck.It’s getting hot in here. I need to loosen my tie and unbutton the top of my shirt. If I trusted myself to move, I’d at least take the suit jacket off, but I don’t. The plan is to stay frozen until this hazy, wonderful nightmare ends.

She angles herself sideways on my lap and holds up the can. “You want some?”

“Is there any left?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes or no?”

“My hands are busy at the moment,” I say. It’s true. They are gripping on the edges of the seat. You would think I’m making up for the lack of a seatbelt, but it’s to stop myself from holding her. If I do, I’m confident it will be my worst mistake, compounding all the other ones I’ve already made. How I’ve seen, heard, and felt too much of her this week. That since that first kiss, I’ve developed a craving that tortures me into the night. Her taste is a drug I shouldn’t have taken. I get that now. And yet, I was so fucking close to taking her mouth in the washroom earlier today. When she’d felt better and laughed after the crying, all I could think about was pushing her against me. To convince her that if my words weren’t enough, I had no problem proving it with action. In what reality was she ever not fucking beautiful?

I know now I’ve ignored that fact for years, locking it somewhere in a box. But that box has cracked open, and I don’t know how to seal it back up.

“Tip your head back,” she says.

My eyes snap open. At some point, they’d closed. Her fingers rest on my chin. We maintain eye-contact as she very carefully pours alcohol into my mouth. I can’t help but swipe the rim of the can with my tongue, because it’s a spot where her lips were. Yes, it’s fucking pathetic. I’m aware.

She does it again, feeding me more alcohol.

When the bus swerves, a drop escapes down my chin. She catches it with her thumb and brings it to her mouth so as not to waste it.

Women on their knees begging to taste your cock are sexy. Having them climb you until they sit on your face is sexy. Edging them over and over again until they’re literally shaking with the force of their orgasm is sexy.

And somehow, despite all those incredible options, the sexiest thing I’ve now seen to-date is Patel taking a drop of alcohol that spilled out of my mouth and putting it in hers. If she leans back further, there’s going to be a wool-clothed bulge pushing against her middle back as proof of that.

I let go of the seats and anchor my hands onto her hips to keep her away.

She makes a noise at the contact. A muffled whimper?

Now she is looking anywhere but back at me. Distantly, I register that guests are talking about how they can’t wait to party at the reception tomorrow. To me, it feels as if we’ve been partying all week, but apparently tomorrow is about to get madder. The reception is the big finale.

A relative lobs a question in my direction, but I’m not sure if it was for me specifically to answer. Opinions are getting surveyed. People are wondering what experience everyone has liked the best so far. Patel’s sister is stoking the conversation eagerly. My answer doesn’t seem coherent to me, but I say enough about the food and hospitality that people are nodding along.

Ever the stubborn mule for truth, Patel has decided my answer is too vague. She angles to face me again and repeats the question in a lower voice, so it’s a conversation between the two of us. “Whathaveyou thought so far? Is it a big hardship being here?”

If she looks down, she’ll see the Biggest Hardship thus far. Thankfully, my jacket has shifted to hide most of that.

She waits, and it seems like she wants a serious answer. Her mouth has flattened. This morning after I saw her cry, I had a dangerous thought. That I’d give her anything she asked for her to never cry like that again. That thought is back again.

Blood slowly routes back to my brain. “It’s not been torture.”

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