Page 79 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

Weeks.Weeksof this torture, and she’d reached her limit.

Calvin’s lips quirked. “Let’s go, Cupcake,” he said, and in Daphne’s addlepated mind, the stupid nickname actually sounded good. His hand traced down every bump of her spine to rest on her lower back, the heat of it blazing through the layers of her clothes.

They walked out of his office, leaving the documents and the computer and all their work behind without a glance. All Daphne’s focus remained on the hand at her lower back, the brush of his chest against her shoulder, the sound of his breath, steady and calm.

The more unruffled Flint was, the more Daphne felt herself unravel. She sat in the passenger seat of his truck and watched him close her door. She followed his unhurried movements as he circled the front of the vehicle and got behind the wheel. His hands, broad, strong hands that Daphne was desperate to feel on her skin, gripped the steering wheel and the keys as he started the truck. Every movement was deliberate and composed.

It was torture. Sweet, awful torture. Her thighs clenched and rubbed together, and other than the flicker of Calvin’s gaze to catch the movement, there was no reaction. They pulled up outside his house and looked at the low roof, the dark windows, the scraggly bushes on either side of the front door. The engine rumbled and turned off.

And Daphne had had enough. She waited long enough for both of them to unclip their seat belts; then she had two handfuls of Calvin’s shirt gripped in her white-knuckled fists, and she was pulling him to her where he belonged. He let out a short sharp grunt of surprise whenher lips collided with his, and then those big hands were cupped around her face as he kissed her back exactly the way she needed.

His tongue slid against hers the moment she opened her mouth to taste him. He traced her cheek with his thumb while his other hand dove into her hair and loosened the bun at the nape of her neck. His groan lit a fuse in her veins. She clawed at his uniform, needed to feel skin. Neededhim.

“Daphne,” he said, kissing her jaw, her neck. His stubble was rough enough to abrade, and she wanted to feel it against her inner thighs. With one hand gripping her nape, Calvin let the other slide down her chest. He squeezed her breast before feeling her waist and stomach, rough and needy as he touched her. When he slid his hand between her legs, Daphne spread her knees and rolled her hips toward him. He squeezed her there, over her pants, and Daphne moaned.

“Now,” she panted. “Right now.”

He huffed, kissing her jaw, her neck. His teeth closed over her earlobe. “All this time, I waited for you. And now you try to rush me?”

Her veins were full of fire. His fingers rubbed against the seam of her pants as Daphne found his lips and kissed him. Her fingers trembled as she slid his buttons free, greedy hands clawing at the expanse of chest she exposed. She’d never felt like this. Out of control. Needy. Desperate.

Something had snapped. Or maybe it had broken, like a dam bursting. All her tightly held control, her careful walls, her responsibilities. They’d rushed out of her, and now she was left with ragged edges and grasping need.

Calvin pulled back. His eyes were dark as midnight, lips wet from her kiss. Between her legs, his fingers teased her clit with far too many layers of fabric between them. “What changed?” he asked, his voice rough.

“When?”

“Why now?”

She huffed. “Do we need to talk about this right now?”

He hummed and squeezed between her legs. A dart of white-hot pleasure streaked through her. “Yes, sweetheart. We do.”

Frustration burned her from the inside. She’d succeeded in unbuttoning Flint’s uniform, and her fingers were sliding through the coarse chest hair between his pecs. His skin was warm, stretched taut over his muscular frame. She wanted more than a slice of chest. She wanted him naked beneath her, so she could enjoy all of him. Never had Daphne felt so ready to reach out and grab her own pleasure.

And, she realized with a start, never had she felt so safe to do it.

She met his gaze and said the only words that could come close to explaining the seismic shift that had happened inside her. “I’m sick of being good.”

Chapter 29

Calvin didn’t think his heart had ever beat this hard. His entire focus narrowed to the feel of her lips on his. The taste of her mouth. The softness of her skin. The blazing heat between her legs. A lust like he’d never experienced burned through his veins. He wanted this woman desperately. Completely.

Another emotion lurked beneath his desire. Something deeper and more complicated that might have been growing ever since the moment she’d glared at him when he’d pulled her over that first night. Maybe the seeds had been planted nineteen years ago, and all it had taken was one bat of dark eyelashes over furious blue eyes to make them take root.

He was hurtling over a cliff with death waiting at the bottom, and he didn’t care because she was finally here, ready, willing, and his.

He should’ve taken her inside. Should’ve looked away from her to make sure none of the neighbors were watching. Should’ve treated her like a gentleman was meant to.

The problem was, he wasn’t feeling like a gentleman at all.

When he popped open the button of her pants and slid down the zipper, Daphne’s chest trembled with anticipation. Her hands slid over his chest and up to his shoulders, pushing his uniform out of the way. He loved the way she touched him. It was soft and sweet and desperate. She touched him like she never wanted to stop. Like there was something about his skin she couldn’t get enough of.

He knew the feeling.

Because the moment he slid his hand into her underwear, Calvin knew they weren’t going to make it inside until she came on his fingers. “You’re so wet,” he marveled, his voice rough as gravel as he touched her. “So wet and hot, Daphne.”

She let out a breath that might have been a laugh, her fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck to pull him closer. Her nails dug into him, drawing a groan from his lips. He loved the way she kissed him, with an edge of wildness, a stubbornness, like she’d demand her pleasure from him if he held back.

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