Page 12 of How To Fake A Fiancé

Suddenly, memories of the night before flood back into the forefront of my mind.

Blissful kisses, an overwhelming pleasure, multiple orgasms, and those hypnotic hazel eyes. All of which are now branded into my memory.

I quickly blink my eyes open. The first thing I see is a man’s bare chest slowly rising and falling with each deep breath he takes.

Shit, I stayed the night. All I had to do was hit it and quit it. But no. I just had to let a man and his magical penis put me to sleep. Ugh. How could I let this man convince me to take one orgasm after the next?

Because he’s good at it?

I’ve always had a strict set of rules when it comes to one-night stands. If the sex is somewhere between good and amazing, I stay for a second round and then leave. Anything below good and decent, and I’m gone the second he finishes. But most importantly, a one-night stand should only remain a one-night stand. At least in my book.

My gaze slowly travels past his collarbones. Up to his Adam’s apple. Past his square jaw, and finally to his beautiful face.

I instantly recognize it as Ian’s face.

The drowsiness from waking up is quickly replaced with fear and panic.

It was just sex.

No. A night with Henry Cavill is just sex. Amazing celebrity sex but still just sex. What happened last night? That’s something different entirely. Something I don’t have the words to describe. Something unexpected. Ian caught me off guard. Opened me up in a way no one has ever done before. I can’t ignore how exposed I feel, and that he’s made me start questioning everything I’ve known about love and sex.

No. You’re reading too much into it.

Right. I need to stop dwelling on this ridiculous lapse of judgment. He’s just a guy that happened to be great at sex, and now it’s over. That’s it. Scolding myself isn’t going to get me out of this hotel room.

Taking my focus back to the sleeping man beside me, I notice his soft snoring. The warmth radiating from his body. The mere inches away my lips are from his. How tempting it would be to melt into those kisses and let him heap the pleasure on my body all over again.But I can’t.I’d be opening myself to more unnecessary heartbreak. Been there and done that.

Slowly, I inch my way to the edge of the mattress, watching his face for any signs of waking. The last thing I need is for him to wake up in the middle of my escape and for things to get awkward.

A few moments later, I feel my back almost hanging off the edge of the bed, and his arm is no longer around my waist.

I silently exhale a sigh of relief. Mission accomplished. Now, where are my clothes?

I start to rise from the mattress when I feel my legs buckling from under me and immediately sit back down. Extreme soreness travels all over my body. This feeling is worse than walking out of the gym after a HIIT class. I barely have any control of my legs.

I used to not believe the girls, much less the high-ponytailed pop singer, who would say they’d sometimes walk funny after some mind-blowing sex. Now, as I struggle to put one foot in front of the other without grunting in pain, I feel like such a bitch for not believing them.

I hear sheets rustling behind me. Shit, is he waking up? Crap, not yet. Not until I’ve gotten the hell out of Dodge. Not until I’ve forced myself to stop thinking about staying.

I turn my head back to him to see his eyes are still closed, and he’s grabbed with both arms onto the pillow I laid my head. If he’s starting to toss and turn now, it’ll only be a matter of time before he opens his eyes.

Mustering up the courage to work through the pain and the shakiness of my unsteady legs, I look around the room and quickly don my bra, thong, and dress.

Once I zip my dress back into place, I spot my clutch on the nightstand adjacent to the bed. The hotel’s clock beside it, I notice, says the time is half-past seven in the morning. Yep, definitely got to go. My bestie’s engagement party is today, and I need to start getting things, and people, squared away.

After grabbing the clutch and eventually finding my shoes, I don’t waste any more time and put the cute heels in the crook of my arm.

I’m walking up to the door to make my escape when I realize if I’m going to do the walk of shame, I should at least look halfway decent.

I instantly regret turning on the lights in the bathroom as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My eyes are smeared with mascara, making me look like a racoon. The color of my red lipstick is everywhere else but on my now-swollen lips. My hair is as messy as a bird’s nest. I cringe at the fact that I slept with my makeup on. This definitely needs damage control.

Finding some individually packaged makeup remover wipes provided by the hotel, I make quick work of the mess on my face. Not a miracle, but definitely something I can live with when walking back to my car. I’m barefaced and my hair is in a messy bun, but it’ll have to do.

Gently, quickly, and quietly closing the bathroom door behind me, I open the main door beside it.

I’m about to walk through the threshold when I stop myself and turn back to the naked, gorgeous man still asleep in the bed.

This man, logically, is a hookup. But emotionally…could there be more, or is that wishful thinking? I don’t want there to be, but I can’t deny that I’m hesitating at leaving so soon. Why should I feel guilty in the first place? This is a stranger, not the love of my life. Which part of me should I choose to listen to? The part that has always kept me safe from harm and heartbreak, or the one that feels natural yet terrifying and unfamiliar?

---