Page 64 of The Match Faker

“Did Grandma and Tilly set up a series of booby traps for you?” I ask. “Do you need me to escort you?”

“No.” Tinkling laughter escapes her. “But I’m sure that could still happen.” The fidgeting starts again. She shifts on the lounger, checks the collar of her dress, pulls at her sleeves.

“Jasmine, I swear to god…”

“I like things to be fair,” she says, her voice echoing. She starts again, quieter. “I don’t like owing anyone.”

I wrack my brain. What could she possibly owe me? “You’re staying. You’re helping me. My hang-ups about lying to my parents aren’t your problem. Trust me. I’m as surprised as you are.”

She closes her eyes. “That’s not what I mean,” she says, her shoulders slumping. With a deep breath in, she zeroes in on me, like she’s preparing herself. “I’d like to give you a hand job.”

Other than the pool cleaner, there’s no sound. Still, I’m not sure I heard her correctly. “Come again?”

“Yes. Exactly,” she says.

“Ha ha,” I say, deadpan. “No. I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I want,” she says slower. “To give you.” Her expression grows serious, her voice steady. “A hand job.”

I glance around for the bottle of champagne I discarded. Maybe someone spiked it? “A hand job?”

“Yes.”

Even as my blood pulses and my pants get tight, I narrow my eyes. Maybe she’s confused. Maybe I’m confused. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

“Please don’t paraphrase kids movies to me right now.”

“You’re serious.”

“Yes,” she says, slapping her thighs in frustration.

I laugh. Even though it will piss her off, I can’t help it.

“Stop laughing,” she snaps.

I try to. I really do. “What,” I say between gasped breaths. “Were you going.” I wipe at my eyes. “To do?” I have to actively stop myself from keeling over. “Just…” I make a fist with my hand and move it up and down. “Dry?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and despite trying to look offended, the corners of her mouth curl up. “If you didn’t have lube, I figured I could just use spit or something.”

Holy shit. Are we seriously negotiating the terms of my hand job? What the fuck am I doing?

“So just use your spit here.” Now that I’ve wrung all of the humor from this situation, my cock has taken over, anticipating what’s next.

“I can’t do that here,” she squeaks, scanning the room as if we’re surrounded by all the party attendants. “This isn’t a bedding ceremony at the French court.”

“You have to know I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Someone could see.”

My damn heart stutters. Holy shit, she’s considering it. I fall back on the lounger, resting my hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling, at the reflections from the water moving across the glossy surface. “No one’s even out here.”

“We are,” she says, likeduh.

“Trust me, the only person in my family who’d consider coming here for a nighttime swim is me. And I’m already here.” I’m half-hard already from this teasing and arguing. I’m not too proud to accept an IOU handie, and Jasmine wouldn’t offer unless she wanted to.

“I can’t do something like that,” she says, almost to herself.

If I focus hard enough, I can feel where her hip is just inches from mine. “Why not?”

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