Page 62 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

Daphne was lost. She hadn’t planned this, hadn’t foreseen what would happen if she cracked open the door to this. It felt so much bigger than fooling around against his kitchen counter. It felt like turningaway from the well-lit path of what Daphne should do and taking the first step into unexplored territory.

This man could destroy her. And Daphne didn’t care.

He groaned as his kiss moved from her breast to her neck and over her jaw. Daphne turned her head and kissed him back, her hands dropping to the bulge in his pants. She was spinning out of control, and she wanted to wring every bit of pleasure from the moment that she could before her brain started working again. She wanted tofeel.

Calvin leaned back and watched her palm his cock over his jeans, his lids low. “I used to dream of you doing this,” he said, voice a bare rasp. His lips drifted over her shoulder as he pushed the strap of her bra until it fell over her arm. “Used to come home from school hating the way you made me feel, but I wanted you, Daphne.”

“You—what?” Daphne asked, blinking.

The man whose body was pinning her to the cabinets let out a laugh that was little more than a sharp exhale of breath. “That surprises you?”

He reached between them to touch her the way she was touching him. The heat of his palm burned her through her work pants, the rasp of her panties almost too rough against her sensitive flesh.

“Yes, that surprises me,” Daphne answered, licking her lips. “What do you mean, ‘the way I made you feel’? You were the one who almost”—her breath caught when the heel of his palm ground into her clit.

“Long time ago,” Flint replied, lids low as his gaze roamed from the movement of his hand to her bare stomach and all the way up to her disheveled bra. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I think ...” Daphne swallowed convulsively. The truth was, it was getting more and more difficult to think at all. Flint—Calvin—was sending heat spiraling through her core. All Daphne really wanted was to forget about the past—and the future—and see what happened next.

When his lips crushed hers, she didn’t resist. She wrapped her arms around his neck, hooked her injured leg higher on his waist, and groundher hips against the movement of his hand. Her palms moved to his shoulders, then lower. She clawed at his shirt, tugging it up until she could feel warm skin and the hard pack of muscle under her touch. She traced the sides of his stomach, feeling the notches between his muscles. In the center of his stomach, hair rasped against her fingers. She followed it up to his chest, spreading her palms against his skin.

He groaned and pulled away, one hand reaching behind his head to pull his shirt off. Once it fell to the linoleum floor beside them, he flicked open her pants and pulled her zipper down with a harsh tug. His fingertips were warm as they pressed into her stomach and slid beneath the hem of her panties.

“White lace,” he said, snapping the elastic.

“Uh-huh,” Daphne agreed.

And that’s when the doorbell rang.

They froze. Daphne looked in the direction of the front door, breaths jagged, blood on fire. Flint turned her head back to face him with the tips of his fingers and brought his lips to hers.

“Ignore it.” He pressed little kisses on her lips, his hand moving lower. He was so close. So close itached. She shifted, rolling her hips, needing—

The doorbell rang again. And again. And again.

Daphne groaned, her forehead falling to rest on his shoulder.

“They’ll go away,” he insisted, and his fingertips slid through her arousal to roll over her clit. They both hissed. Daphne’s head jerked back up, her body bowing toward his touch. Flint’s pupils were blown out, his irises the thinnest ring of honey surrounding them. “Fuck,” he gasped. “Yes—”

“Daphne!” Grandma Mabel’s voice called from outside the front door. “Daphne! We’re all here! We brought dinner!”

Horror iced her veins. Daphne’s head shot toward the sound of her grandmother’s voice, and she shoved Flint’s hand away. She scrambled to put her bra back on properly.

“They won’t,” she told Flint when he just frowned at her. “They won’t go away. In fact, they might break down the door any minute, so I need to get some clothes on or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Flint picked her shirt up and handed it to her, his jaw tight. He readjusted himself in his pants before facing the hallway that led to the front door, a muscle feathering in his cheek. “I’ll tell them we’re busy,” he said.

“No!” Daphne said, despairing at the state of her mangled buttons. She’d need a fresh shirt. “No, they’ll ask questions.”

“I’ll say you’re in the shower,” he said, glaring at her.

“They’ll just come in and wait.”

“This ismyhouse, Davis.”

“You don’t know them like I do.”

His jaw worked as he ground his teeth, but Flint finally dropped his shoulders. After picking his shirt up off the floor, he took one step toward the front door, then turned back to face Daphne. His finger came up to point at her. “This isn’t over, Cupcake.”

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