Page 69 of Play Pretend

The pillow muffled my grunts as I barreled closer to my release. My lower stomach tightened, and my spine tingled. It wasrightthere—she was right there.

My hips lifted in time with my hand, thrusting hard and fast. Unrelenting. With each stroke of my hand, a new image flashed through my mind of Willow. The last thing I saw was her head thrown back in ecstasy, her mouth open and eyes closed as she came.

Hot ropes of cum shot from me, soaking into my jeans. My fingers dug into the pillow as I pressed it harder against my face, forcing myself to be quiet.

I panted, trying to catch my breath. Reality settled around me, and I pulled the pillow away. Everything was too bright, too silent, but the fantasy still burned brightly in my head.

That life was at my fingertips; all I had to do was push my fear aside and go for it.

I didn’t know when it happened, but my feelings for her I’d always hidden had come out in full force, and there was no shoving them back again. Willow could be my everything. I could behereverything.

And that thought didn’t entirely terrify me the way I thought it should have.

willow

Ispent too long trying to find the perfect thing to cook for Ronan. He’d looked so devastated that I hadn’t invited him to stay for dinner last night, so I decided I wanted to do something nice for him.

He felt like a comfort food kind of man, and I’d spent hours trying to find the perfect recipe for homemade chicken pot pie. Gracie ended up giving me a family recipe that sounded incredible. I stopped by the store after work to pick everything up, and was now covered in flour and burns while I cleaned the kitchen.

The pie was in the oven, so I had about an hour to make myself look decent before Ronan got home.

I’d been too nervous to text him earlier, but now that I was in the homestretch, I pulled my phone out and sent him a quick message.

ME:

Do you have plans for dinner?

My stomach twisted with each passing minute that he didn’t reply. I knew he was always busy during work, but he also always made a point of replying quickly, even if it was just to tell me that he couldn’t talk right then.

I busied myself around the house, picking up random things that had somehow fallen on the floor since I’d tidied up last night. It felt never-ending. Things always seemed to find their way to the ground, and I was starting to think that maybe that was just where they wanted to live. And who was I to deprive them of their comfort?

My lip slid between my teeth as I braced my hands on my hips. Still no text.

I slowly crept toward my phone like I was sneaking up on it. Maybe I hadn’t heard it go off? But when I opened my messages, only my most recent one stared back at me.

With a deep breath, I sent another.

ME:

Hopefully not. I made pot pie and have extra. Want me to bring you some?

My phone clattered against the countertop as I dropped it. I didn’t want to see his response—what if he rejected me? What if I’d been reading too much into his expression last night? What if he’d been in a hurry to get the hell out of here?

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him to help me. Maybe that was a line I blurred and made him feel uncomfortable?

I groaned as I scrubbed my hands over my face. This was so hard to navigate, so hard to know what the right thing to do was. I’d never had to do anything like this before. Even when I was young and had situationships, I still knew what the boundaries were. But with Ronan, everything was so messy and blurred.

And my feelings for him were the same.

It would be stupid to not acknowledge I’d had a crush on him the entire time we’d been neighbors, but he was always so grumpy. We bickered, yeah, but we were cordial. He wasn’t a total asshole all the time, but he certainly wasn’t as kind or attentive as he had been the last few days.

And with the way he’d been acting, my walls were dropping. Maybe it was just pure loneliness riding me, telling me I was desperate for any kind of connection. Or maybe he truly made me feel safe enough to let them fall.

But I had to remind myself that in two short weeks, we were going back to what we werebefore.

I shoved the thought from my mind as I moved through my small house, pulling a clip out of my hair. My hair tumbled down my back in loose waves, and I ran my fingers into the roots, jostling the strands.

The next hour was a blur of makeup and hairspray, of dresses flying through the air, and jewelry glittering in the light. I wanted to look good for him. I paused and stared at my reflection in the floor-length mirror.

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