Page 7 of Forever Fake

This time, as I slide my hands up, she whimpers a soft moan. I take in her flushed cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of her chest, liking the way my touch affects her.

When I release her, she reaches for my upper arms to steady herself. Our gazes remain locked as I take her hips, then explore the dip of her waist and the underside of her luscious breasts. I get a sudden, vivid mental image of her tits shaking with each of my powerful thrusts as I fuck her.

No.Not happening.Ever.

I’m well aware of her reputation as a party girl, an easy lay, she’s probably slept with half the city’s bachelors. I’m sure she’s keeping her options open until she comes across the man with the right figure for his net worth.

The very thought makes me want to punish her for being such a little gold-digger. I learned to loathe women like that after my father’s second and third marriages, before he settled down with Yve–the worst of them all.

I consciously shift my hips backward, putting some space between us, so she can’t feel my raging erection. When all I really want to do is tie her up and fuck her until she confesses to hercrime–all of her crimes. Too bad that’s not an option. I won’t fall for the temptation.

Her hold on me tightens as I search every inch of her breasts through the thin fabric, but she never protests. Her nipples pebble beneath my thumbs, making my mouth water with the need to suck on her delicious peaks. An urge that I, thankfully, resist.

I run my hand between her cleavage. The actual feel of her soft flesh lights a fire deep in my stomach. We’re so close, our breaths mingle. I inhale the sweet scent of her perfume.

I’ve been with plenty of women, but not one of them has ever affected me the way Ginevra is right now. I’m mesmerized by her shining, glassy eyes. It’s taking every shred of self-control I have to resist biting her parted, pouty lips, the curve of her smooth neck, and her heaving breasts. I want to lick every inch of this woman–then punish her for making me lose control.

The need is visceral. And rather unsettling.

Is it because I’ve told myself she’s forbidden fruit? Too young. Too innocent. Too… tempting.

Or is it?—?

My fingers touch the distinct hardness of clustered diamonds. From her breasts, I pluck the magpie figurine and hold it between us.

“Found it.” My voice comes out strong and surprisingly steady. It belies the whirling of my thoughts, and the twisted, pulsing sensation in my gut. “What do you have to say for yourself? Are you ready to confess your sins?”

She licks her lips. “I—I wasn’t expecting you to be so thorough.”

“I’m always thorough. You can count on that.” My mind fills with all kinds of dirty thoughts involving other ways I could be quite thorough with her tonight.

We continue to stand much too close together. The figurine sits on my open palm between us, my other hand resting on her waist. Her hold has moved to the crook at my elbows. She should be pushing me away, but she’s not. She’s holding on for dear life, like she’s drowning in a fathomless sea and I’m her life line—her only hope.

The next words out of my mouth have me questioning my sanity, because I certainly haven’t thought this through. And Ialwaysthink things through.

“We both know that you tried to steal from me.” Against my better judgment, I lean closer, noting the floral scent of her shampoo. “No one steals from me and gets away with it. So I’m going to give you a choice, Ginevra, you can either go to jail for your crime—that’s at least two years locked up once I’m done with you in court—or you can agree to be my wife.”

CHAPTER 4

Ginevra

“Myfakewife,” he clarifies, but the damage to my malfunctioning brain is already done. “Marry me and be my fake wife for one year. Then I’ll say you’ve done your time and are free to go.”

All I can do is gape at him. I’ve never been more speechless in my life. He can’t be serious. But I’m having trouble getting a read on him because he’s too close. His body heat, his spicy masculine scent, his mere presence is too much.

Overwhelming.

Overpowering.

I’ve never felt like this around a man before. He radiates raw, primalpredatorenergy,but my anxiety has yet to rear its head. This proves that I’m beyond broken. The guys I’m drawn to and I think are nice end up being psychos, but when I’m in the clutches of anobviously dangerous man, my alarm bells fail to ring.

No red flags here.

No big flashing red lights.

Nothing at all—except this insane need to hold onto him, to draw him closer. Do I have a death wish? Iknowthis man is bad news. He’s the devil himself.

I inwardly sigh at myself.

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