Page 125 of Puck Prince

I try to find it in myself to push him away and stand up, but try as I might, I don’t have that kind of restraint.

“Real answer? Not a chance.”

“That’s what I thought.” He pulls my underwear aside and covers me with his mouth.

One flick of his tongue, and I cry out. My hips tilt forward. Wanting more. Needing more. Owen runs his tongue up and down me, slowly at first. Then he starts to suck, his tongue exploring and swirling in a circle.

I swear to God he’s going to suck the soul from my body.

“Oh my—” I bite down on a moan, pulling at his hair.

“God, you’re so wet for me.” He licks his lips. “And so sweet.”

“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Owen bands one arm under my hips, lifting me to his mouth at a new angle that pulls a sinful moan out of me. I don’t even live here yet and the neighbors are going to have noise complaints.

With his other hand, he slides two fingers into my wetness. He hooks them inside of me, beckoning. That, plus his lips still kissing and suckling my clit, has me seeing stars within the spanof a couple of minutes, if that. My back bows off the floor as I arch up and up and up and thenboom,O-Town, population: me.

He eases me back down to Earth with more kisses to the slick insides of my thighs. I exhale a soft, fluttering sigh that takes some of the heaviness away with it.

He sits up and licks his lips with a grin. “So what do you think?”

“Shut up, Sharpe. You know you’re good.”

“Obviously. I meant the apartment.”

I laugh, propping myself up on my elbows to toss him a sassy smile. “Where do I sign?”

36

OWEN

“I can’t believe I might have found my own apartment,” she gushes. “And it’s perfect. Like, perfect perfect.”

I’m having a hard time remembering anything except the floor of the walk-in closet. But the way Callie looked spread out in front of me, writhing against my face? Perfect perfect.

The drive back to my complex is much lighter than the drive there. For one, I’m not so high and tight about Callie moving anymore. I don’t love the idea of her being farther away, considering everything that has happened recently. But I do feel good about the place we toured.

Especially the closet. It can’t be overstated: the closet was great.

I also know that at some point, this whole charade is going to end. Regardless of how I feel about it—which remains an unenthusiastic, hazy “unclear”—our so-called relationship wasn’t, isn’t, and probably never will be real.

Undesirable circumstances got us into this situation. Paparazzi backed us against the wall. The only way out was to pull the fire alarm and run together.

That’s not the kind of thing everlasting love is built on. Not that I’m capable of anything like that, anyway. Not with my genetics.

In short, this is a means to an end. The end being: Callie is safe, Summer is out of the public eye, and I am taking care of everyone I promised to take care of.

And yet.

And fucking yet.

I can’t stop forgetting that this is fake. When I’m with her, it’s different than anything I’ve ever felt before. Callie is different from anyone I’ve ever been with before.

I’ve spent most of my life wanting to protect the people who matter most to me. But with Callie, it’s more than just checking the “Duty to Others” box. Iwantto make her happy.

Taking care of her—seeing her smiling and happy—feels like one of the most selfish things I’ve ever done.

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