Page 26 of Fauxmance in the City

“I was watching you two from the back patio. You were getting a bit too cozy for someone happily married.”

I shift on my feet, but my backside hits the door and I bounce forward, my hips banging into his pelvis. His cock is rock hard.

“Again?” I gasp, a surprised laugh popping out.

“It’s what you do to me, baby.” His voice is gruff, like it’s been raked over gravel.

His palms sweep under my ass, and he lifts me, turning until he sets me on the dryer. His fingers dig into my fleshy thighs, and he slides me against him. My sex pulses against the length of his erection.

“You’re mine,” he says, and I tense immediately. He scrapes his teeth along my jaw and stops right at my bottom lip. “Until this is over.”

“The special?” I ask and flick my hips forward, grinding against his hardness. He’s not the only one who can stir the sexual pot.

“Fuck, Catie.” He groans and tightens his grip.

I wedge my hand between our stomachs and slide it over his pants until it rests over his arousal. My fingers wrap around the girth, and I tug upward.

His eyes, which were sure a moment ago, falter now that I’ve taken control.

“Do you like that?” My voice is husky, someone else’s. I move my hand up and down him, his forehead resting against mine, and he groans.

“Yes, baby,” he breathes out, his voice strangled. “Fuck. Oh, fuck me.”

The way his face scrunches like he’s holding on for dear life, I know it won’t take much, and a little demon whispers in my ear to do it. It’s time we get this out of our systems and move on so we can focus on the special.

I lift my palm, lick it, and shove it down his pants, fisting his warm cock. His hips jerk, and he hollers.

“Oh God. I can’t stop. Oh, fuck! Oh, Catie.” His eyes fly open, and his gaze is swinging around desperately. I don’t know what he’s doing until he yanks a towel from a shelf behind my head and shoves his pants down, holding the towel at the tip of his cock.

My hand continues to run up and down the length of him, and his hips convulse as he comes into the towel, grunting through gritted teeth. When he collapses against the door, still holding the towel to his cock, I lift my hand and lean back.

“What was that?” His gaze is glassy, confused.

“Me scratching that itch. Do you think you can act like a normal human and not go all alpha male on me again? It doesn’t fit with the whole ‘perfect couple’ image.” I slide from the dryer and tuck beside him, elbowing the door open.

“I’ll see you out there…baby.”

In the kitchen, I walk to the sink and wash my hands. Max tilts his head, studying me. “Everything okay?”

“Just needed to have a little chat with my husband. It’s all good now.” I shrug, hoping he can’t smell the pheromones that are surely permeating the air.

Max has settled into the built-in eating nook in the corner, going nowhere fast. Sam walks in, his hand raking through his disheveled hair, his gaze bemused. I hover near the table, then sit next to Max, a smug smile on my lips.

On the outside, I’m calm and cool, but inside I’m a hotbox. My hand twitches, still feeling Sam’s silky hardness. I clear my throat, trying to pretend all is normal, but I am definitely not immune to what just happened in there. I really need to go upstairs and go to bed. Or take an ice-cold shower. But that means being alone with Sam. All night. In one bed. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not after the last five minutes.

Max gestures to the seat at the end of the table. “Sit, man. It’s been a while since I’ve hung out with people my age and just talked.”

Sam crosses his arms and slowly lowers himself into the chair, glaring at me. I roll my eyes, but the encounter in the laundry room has thrown me.

Why can’t Sam and I be alone these days without wanting to tear each other’s clothes off? It’s like once the gate to Lustland opened, every cell in my body wants to take a ride on the Sam roller coaster. Reason leaves me, and my primal urges consume my rational mind.

Max relaxes back into the bench seat and turns his attention to me, oblivious to my turmoil. “It must take real talent to cook like that.”

“My mother is the true genius. She could give Julia Child a run for her money,” I say, welcoming the distraction. I’m looking at Max, but every nerve in my body is aware of Sam. “After our father died, Mom would do whatever it took to keep her mind busy. Cooking became her drug of choice. But she loved it too. Natalie and I spent most of our adolescence in the kitchen with Mom and our grandmother.”

That story is true, but it was only Natalie who hung out with Mom in the kitchen. I was usually redecorating my dollhouse or flipping through design magazines and creating mood boards.

“Natalie’s your sister?”

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