Page 85 of The Match Faker

“And what about this?” he pets me there, through cotton already soaked with my arousal. I lean into him, spread my legs as he settles against the bar counter behind us.

“What about it?”

He brushes his lips against the shell of my ear, scarcely breathing the words when he says, “You were bare last time.” He slips his finger beneath the fabric, rubs gently across my still-bare skin. “Did you keep it that way for him, too?”

My chest shudders with each breath. I’m desperate for more, his touch, the barest pressure, relief. Even if I don’t deserve it, not after what I did to him. “No.”

I ache between my legs, my nipples throb, the anticipation of pleasure almost painful.

“For who then?” he asks. “Me?” Still his fingertips skirt the edges of my panties, my slit.

I reach for him behind me, my hand tangling in his hair. “Me.”

He takes his hand away, pulls my hem of my dress back down in one swift motion. I cry out, biting off the sound with my fist in my teeth. In the reflection his face is hard, but his eyes shine.

I stumble away from him, grip the counter while I try to catch my breath. “First of all,” I say, in my best impression of unphased. “It’s forwhom,not forwho.”

Even his answering laugh, husky and low, turns me on; the sound moves through me like an electrical current. I hate him.

I hate him.

I wish that were true.

He’s still pressed close to me. Despite his egregious orgasm denial, part of me wants to push him away and walk out, my head held high. Most of me would rather turn in the circle of his arms, pull the sweaterdress over my head, and let him live out his next fantasy all over me.

“Second.” I take a deep breath to collect myself. “I’m sorry. For coming here tonight with him. And for what happened between us.” His face softens at my words, but that only makes me feel worse. I press my thumbnail into the wood counter, stare at the crescent shape as I say, my voice cracking, “It’s my fault you won’t be able to buy your bar.”

“Whoa.” Nick cups my face, his fingers gentle on my cheeks. “Whoa. What? Jasmine, no.”

Mortifying tears fill my eyes. “If I hadn’t left,” I say, doing my best not to let emotion bleed into my voice but failing, “you’d still be able to take the loan.”

He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he heard. “Why do you think that?”

“You’re obviously pissed at me.” I’m embarrassed to even say it, more so by the fact that it only makes me want to cry harder. I never should have come here. “And I understand why. I’ve been…” I shake my head. “A jerk.”

His eyes go wide, shocked. “Baby, no.” He kisses me, his lips spreading mine open, like if tries hard enough he’ll be able to kiss those words right out of my mouth. His stubble is a familiar tickle and scratch, and I moan from the reminder of it, leaning into the abrasion. I want his kisses to have their desired effect, to feel magically absolved of my guilt, but that’s not what happens, no matter how hard I kiss him back.

If anything, they make me more guilty. I push him away again. “I have to go.”

A perfectly nice man dropped me off at home earlier tonight. He was understanding when I told him I’d felt overwhelmed by the crowd, when I lied that I’d love to sing karaoke with him one day, in front of a smaller crowd.

Seemingly reading my mind, Nick scowls. He refills his glass with more whiskey.

He does not offer me any.

“Is he waiting for you?” he asks.

“What are you going to do then?” I ask, ignoring him and his flashy argument bait. “If the bar’s closing, what will you do?”

He sighs, setting his glass down to run his hands through his hair, suddenly nervous. “I don’t know. Maybe go back to school?”

While I know it’s unfair, my immediate reaction is anger. “You’re just going to give up then?”

He’s worked hard for the last decade and now he’s going to do the thing his father always wanted him to, anyway.

“It’s not giving up, Jasmine,” he says quietly. “It’s growing up. That’s what you’d call it, right?”

I flush, not embarrassed because I think security and stability are important qualities for partners to have, but because my words so clearly hurt him. No matter the terrible things we’ve said to each other, I don’t want to hurt Nick. And I don’t think he’s ever really wanted to hurt me, either.

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